Stumbling into Love
Page 32
She drops her still-full cup in the sink before she starts back toward the bedroom.
Grabbing her hand, I stop her before she can make it. Then I spin her around to face me. “I’m sorry. It was a long time ago, and I don’t like talking about it.”
“Why haven’t you unpacked?” she asks, pointing at the boxes in the living room. I frown.
“What?”
“You still haven’t unpacked. This place looks like it’s not even lived in. There is nothing here that says an actual person lives here. A person with friends and family. A person who has a life and adventures. Why is that?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, looking at the stack of boxes that holds my old life in them.
“You don’t know, or you just don’t want to tell me or talk to me about it?” she asks.
I see her chin wobble.
“I didn’t say that, baby . . .” I soften my voice.
She shakes her head. “I know you didn’t, but you also didn’t have to. Anytime that I have touched that scar on your shoulder, you’ve closed down on me. Every time I’ve asked you what happened to you before you moved here, you’ve avoided answering. You tell me that you want to get married, but you won’t even talk to me about things that are important. The things that have made you the person that you are today.”
“None of that matters. All that matters is us. The person I am when I’m with you. The person that I am now.”
“To you it doesn’t matter, but to me it does.” She pokes herself in the chest. “Whatever happened to you affects us. It affects you.”
I jerk my hand thought my hair as my stomach clenches.
“My mom and dad are best friends. They talk about everything. They know everything about each other. The good and the bad stuff.” Her jaw clenches. “I want that with the man I marry.”
“I can’t tell you about cases I’m working.”
“I’m not asking you to tell me about cases that you are working, or even the cases that you have worked. I’m asking you to talk to me. I know that there is a story behind those scars you wear. And I’m not just talking about the scars that I can see, Wesley. I’m talking about the ones you keep hidden in there.” She places her hand over my heart. “You say you want to marry me, but you don’t even want to talk to me. You don’t trust me with the things that are still hurting you.”
“I trust you!” I roar.
She closes her eyes and takes a step back. That one step may as well be as big as the Grand Canyon between us. I know I should stop, that I should take this opportunity to open up to her about my past, but I can’t. “Just drop it. None of that matters,” I tell her.
She takes another step away from me. Like an accident happening in slow motion, I see her slipping further and further away.
“Never mind. You’re not going to see things from my perspective. You are so determined to protect yourself that you’re blind.” She turns and heads for the bedroom.
“Where the fuck are you going?” I ask, following after her but stopping in the doorway.
“I need some time alone. I think you do, too,” she whispers, putting on a pair of sweats from the bag that she brought over weeks ago. She grabs a sweatshirt out of the same bag and pulls it over her head before going to the corner of the room for her sneakers.
“You’re running.” I let out a humorless laugh.
She looks at me, shaking her head. I notice tears filling her eyes as she takes a seat on the side of the bed to put on her shoes.
“I’m not running,” she finally says, lifting her head to look at me briefly.
“If you’re not running, then what do you call it?”
“I call it giving us both time to think,” she says quietly, dropping her gaze from mine.
“I call it being a coward,” I snarl.
She flinches.
“When things get a little complicated or when you hear something you don’t want to hear, you take off.”
“That’s not fair.” She rubs her hands down her thighs as she stands. Then she wipes the tears from under her eyes.
I ignore the pang of regret that hits me. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
She picks up her bag from the floor and places it over her shoulder.
“Fuck this. Just go,” I mutter, turning my back on her. I go into the bathroom and slam the door closed behind me. After turning on the water, I rest my hands on the basin and drop my head between my shoulders. I try to get my breath to even out. My heart feels about ready to pound out of my chest. Closing my eyes, I pull in a few deep breaths and let them out slowly. When I leave the bathroom a little while later, Mackenzie is gone.
She’s taken my heart with her, just like I knew she would.
Chapter 12
BROKEN
MAC
Lifting my cell phone off my lap, I look at the screen when it starts to buzz. I close my eyes when I see that it’s Wesley calling.
“Have you spoken to him yet?” Libby asks, taking a seat next to me on the couch.
I shake my head no as pain fills my chest.
“You really should talk to him.”
She rests her head on my shoulder and places a hand over my stomach, which makes me want to cry. Then again, I have been doing a lot of crying this last week. A lot of crying, a lot of puking, and a whole lot of sleeping. Being pregnant is way more exhausting than I thought it would be. And it’s not helping that things between Wesley and me are in such turmoil. We haven’t spoken in a week.
Not since the moment he turned his back on me and left me standing in his room, crying.
He’s called, left messages, and even stopped by more than once, but I can’t talk to him or see him yet. I need a little more time. I need to make myself stronger before I face him. The minute I see him, I’m going to want to run right back into his arms and pretend like everything is okay when it’s not. I didn’t lie when I told him I didn’t want to be with someone who couldn’t talk to me. And the idea of marrying him and living our life under the same roof while being psychological miles apart isn’t appealing at all. I want a partner—someone to share the good and bad with—and it hurts that he doesn’t see me as someone he can confide in.
Amazing chemistry alone isn’t going to get us through this issue, that’s for darn sure.
“I miss him,” I say after a moment while rubbing the small baby bump that seemed to have popped up overnight. It’s not huge or noticeable—unless I’m naked—but it is there. “I miss him, but I’m also really mad at him for not doing what I need him to do.” I swallow down over the gravel lodged in my throat.
“Sometimes men are idiots,” Libby says, sounding like she knows from experience. If I wasn’t so caught up in my own personal drama, I would ask her about it because I know there is a story behind that statement. “He loves you.”
“He might love me, but I want more than love. Maybe I’m being selfish, but I want all of him—not just the pieces that he’s choosing to show me, not just the pieces of him that he can tie up in a neat little package for me.”
“You’re right. You deserve to have all of that—but so does he. He deserves to have someone to share his burdens with,” she says.
Those stupid tears I’ve been trying to fight come back.
“Do you think I’m overreacting about this?” I ask after a few minutes of listening to the television play in the background.
“Do you?”
“No . . . ? But I’m also pregnant and overly emotional right now, so I’m not sure I’m the best judge.”
“Each woman has to decide for herself what she will and will not put up with in a relationship. If he won’t talk to you about things that you can see are causing him pain, is that something you can deal with?”
“It isn’t.” I close my eyes and rest my cheek on the top of her head.
It isn’t because I know that eventually, the pain he’s carrying around is going to manifest itself in another way, and I won’t watch him destroy himself—or put our child through seeing that firsthand, either. Pain has to be dealt with.
Grabbing her hand, I stop her before she can make it. Then I spin her around to face me. “I’m sorry. It was a long time ago, and I don’t like talking about it.”
“Why haven’t you unpacked?” she asks, pointing at the boxes in the living room. I frown.
“What?”
“You still haven’t unpacked. This place looks like it’s not even lived in. There is nothing here that says an actual person lives here. A person with friends and family. A person who has a life and adventures. Why is that?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug, looking at the stack of boxes that holds my old life in them.
“You don’t know, or you just don’t want to tell me or talk to me about it?” she asks.
I see her chin wobble.
“I didn’t say that, baby . . .” I soften my voice.
She shakes her head. “I know you didn’t, but you also didn’t have to. Anytime that I have touched that scar on your shoulder, you’ve closed down on me. Every time I’ve asked you what happened to you before you moved here, you’ve avoided answering. You tell me that you want to get married, but you won’t even talk to me about things that are important. The things that have made you the person that you are today.”
“None of that matters. All that matters is us. The person I am when I’m with you. The person that I am now.”
“To you it doesn’t matter, but to me it does.” She pokes herself in the chest. “Whatever happened to you affects us. It affects you.”
I jerk my hand thought my hair as my stomach clenches.
“My mom and dad are best friends. They talk about everything. They know everything about each other. The good and the bad stuff.” Her jaw clenches. “I want that with the man I marry.”
“I can’t tell you about cases I’m working.”
“I’m not asking you to tell me about cases that you are working, or even the cases that you have worked. I’m asking you to talk to me. I know that there is a story behind those scars you wear. And I’m not just talking about the scars that I can see, Wesley. I’m talking about the ones you keep hidden in there.” She places her hand over my heart. “You say you want to marry me, but you don’t even want to talk to me. You don’t trust me with the things that are still hurting you.”
“I trust you!” I roar.
She closes her eyes and takes a step back. That one step may as well be as big as the Grand Canyon between us. I know I should stop, that I should take this opportunity to open up to her about my past, but I can’t. “Just drop it. None of that matters,” I tell her.
She takes another step away from me. Like an accident happening in slow motion, I see her slipping further and further away.
“Never mind. You’re not going to see things from my perspective. You are so determined to protect yourself that you’re blind.” She turns and heads for the bedroom.
“Where the fuck are you going?” I ask, following after her but stopping in the doorway.
“I need some time alone. I think you do, too,” she whispers, putting on a pair of sweats from the bag that she brought over weeks ago. She grabs a sweatshirt out of the same bag and pulls it over her head before going to the corner of the room for her sneakers.
“You’re running.” I let out a humorless laugh.
She looks at me, shaking her head. I notice tears filling her eyes as she takes a seat on the side of the bed to put on her shoes.
“I’m not running,” she finally says, lifting her head to look at me briefly.
“If you’re not running, then what do you call it?”
“I call it giving us both time to think,” she says quietly, dropping her gaze from mine.
“I call it being a coward,” I snarl.
She flinches.
“When things get a little complicated or when you hear something you don’t want to hear, you take off.”
“That’s not fair.” She rubs her hands down her thighs as she stands. Then she wipes the tears from under her eyes.
I ignore the pang of regret that hits me. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
She picks up her bag from the floor and places it over her shoulder.
“Fuck this. Just go,” I mutter, turning my back on her. I go into the bathroom and slam the door closed behind me. After turning on the water, I rest my hands on the basin and drop my head between my shoulders. I try to get my breath to even out. My heart feels about ready to pound out of my chest. Closing my eyes, I pull in a few deep breaths and let them out slowly. When I leave the bathroom a little while later, Mackenzie is gone.
She’s taken my heart with her, just like I knew she would.
Chapter 12
BROKEN
MAC
Lifting my cell phone off my lap, I look at the screen when it starts to buzz. I close my eyes when I see that it’s Wesley calling.
“Have you spoken to him yet?” Libby asks, taking a seat next to me on the couch.
I shake my head no as pain fills my chest.
“You really should talk to him.”
She rests her head on my shoulder and places a hand over my stomach, which makes me want to cry. Then again, I have been doing a lot of crying this last week. A lot of crying, a lot of puking, and a whole lot of sleeping. Being pregnant is way more exhausting than I thought it would be. And it’s not helping that things between Wesley and me are in such turmoil. We haven’t spoken in a week.
Not since the moment he turned his back on me and left me standing in his room, crying.
He’s called, left messages, and even stopped by more than once, but I can’t talk to him or see him yet. I need a little more time. I need to make myself stronger before I face him. The minute I see him, I’m going to want to run right back into his arms and pretend like everything is okay when it’s not. I didn’t lie when I told him I didn’t want to be with someone who couldn’t talk to me. And the idea of marrying him and living our life under the same roof while being psychological miles apart isn’t appealing at all. I want a partner—someone to share the good and bad with—and it hurts that he doesn’t see me as someone he can confide in.
Amazing chemistry alone isn’t going to get us through this issue, that’s for darn sure.
“I miss him,” I say after a moment while rubbing the small baby bump that seemed to have popped up overnight. It’s not huge or noticeable—unless I’m naked—but it is there. “I miss him, but I’m also really mad at him for not doing what I need him to do.” I swallow down over the gravel lodged in my throat.
“Sometimes men are idiots,” Libby says, sounding like she knows from experience. If I wasn’t so caught up in my own personal drama, I would ask her about it because I know there is a story behind that statement. “He loves you.”
“He might love me, but I want more than love. Maybe I’m being selfish, but I want all of him—not just the pieces that he’s choosing to show me, not just the pieces of him that he can tie up in a neat little package for me.”
“You’re right. You deserve to have all of that—but so does he. He deserves to have someone to share his burdens with,” she says.
Those stupid tears I’ve been trying to fight come back.
“Do you think I’m overreacting about this?” I ask after a few minutes of listening to the television play in the background.
“Do you?”
“No . . . ? But I’m also pregnant and overly emotional right now, so I’m not sure I’m the best judge.”
“Each woman has to decide for herself what she will and will not put up with in a relationship. If he won’t talk to you about things that you can see are causing him pain, is that something you can deal with?”
“It isn’t.” I close my eyes and rest my cheek on the top of her head.
It isn’t because I know that eventually, the pain he’s carrying around is going to manifest itself in another way, and I won’t watch him destroy himself—or put our child through seeing that firsthand, either. Pain has to be dealt with.
