“Like riding a bike,” he says. “Only so much scarier. But seriously, what’s up?”
“I don’t even know,” I say, telling him the truth. “Don’t feel like reading, I guess.”
Both of his hands are on my feet now, massaging in deep kneading motions that feel amazing. “Okay. So we’ll talk.”
I give him a wry smile. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Actually, that’s not true. I fully intend to trade conversation for a blow job later.”
I roll my eyes. “The sad thing is, I know you’re only half joking.”
“Less than half, actually. I really like blow jobs.”
“Shocked. I’m completely shocked.”
“Seriously though, Middleton. Say what you need to say, or ask what you need to ask. Your mental anguish is giving me heartburn.”
I start to tell him that he can go back to his reading, and that yeah, I’d love another book recommendation. Preferably one that doesn’t double as a lullaby like that biography.
But I do want to talk. But I won’t ask him about us. Not only because I don’t want to see his wince, but because I’m terrified at the answer I might get. I’m not ready to hear that I’m just a fun fling that helped pull him back from the dark side.
“Tell me what happened,” I blurt out. “In Afghanistan.”
My mind goes blank for a second, as does his face, and I clap a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know why I threw that out there so tackily.”
Paul’s mouth quirks up, the lines from his scars moving too. “You asked because you want to know.”
I open my mouth to tell him it’s none of my business and that he’ll tell me when he’s ready. Then I remember what he said that day he found me Googling him. I remember why he was so upset. He said no one ever asked him, person to person, what had happened.
And I just did that, so…I hold my breath. Please let this be it.
He leans forward slightly, his palms sliding up my calves. We both watch the movement of his hands before he slowly raises his eyes to meet mine.
“I want to tell you. I want it to be you.”
His eyes hold nothing but trust, and my heart squeezes. In that moment, I know.
I love him.
It’s not the easy love I had for Ethan, or the warm, uncomplicated love I felt for Michael as a friend.
I love Paul, the person. I love his darkness and his shadows. I love his smile and the kindness he tries so hard to hide. I love the boyish quarterback beneath the war veteran, and I love the scarred right side of his face even more than the perfection of his left.
I love him.
And because I love him, I do one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I let him tell his story, even though I know the ugliness of what he has to say may very well rip me apart.
I start to pull my feet down so I can sit up straight, but his hands stop me, his fingers continuing to move absently up and down my calves as he turns his head to watch the fire.
“Tell me what you know,” he says quietly.
“Not much. That article…it mentioned that you and your team were taken…that you were tortured. But it didn’t say much.”
His head drops a little. “The lack of information makes it seem worse than it was, actually. As far as those things go, I was lucky.”
My eyes bug out. “Lucky? In no scenario should torture and lucky be uttered in the same sentence.”
“I—”
I lean forward, placing my hands over his, our fingers linking. “Start from the beginning. Say as little or as much as you want.”
He takes a deep breath. And then he talks.
He tells me about how he’d been in Afghanistan for only five months, but that odd as it sounds, things had become almost routine. Life on the base was monotonous but not awful.