I nod, thankful for the direction when normally I’d take a swipe at him for it. But right now my brain is so crowded that this is one decision too many.
After I do as he says, he guides me toward the family room where I spend most of my time when I’m home. I curl up in a corner of the couch, and he snags the quilt off a nearby chair to cover me before settling down on the opposite side of the sofa. And then he just waits.
I know I need to start this conversation, but for the first time in forever, I don’t have a clue what to say. I don’t know what to do to make what just happened here any better. I’m lost, confused, more afraid than I’ve been since I was a child. All the media training in the world can’t make this better. Which is why I spend the next few minutes picking at a stray thread on the quilt, taking quiet sips of my brandy, and looking anywhere and everywhere but at the man whose focus is so unwaveringly fixed on me.
But at some point it gets ridiculous to just sit here with a giant elephant in the room, no matter how exposed—how vulnerable—I feel. So I bite the bullet. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have freaked out like that. I certainly shouldn’t have lost it on you like that when you had no idea what was going on. I shouldn’t have—I’m just sorry, just really, very, very sorry.”
Out of the corner of my eye—since I’m still not looking at him—I watch Ian lean over and put his brandy on the end table. Then he reaches for me, pulling me close, quilt and all. “Is that what you think I’m looking for here? An apology?”
“Whether you’re looking for one or not, I still owe it to you.” He’s got me settled on his lap now, facing him with my knees straddling his thighs. And still I refuse to look at him, choosing to stare at a spot over his shoulder instead.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he tells me. Then his fingers are on my chin and he’s turning my head so that I have no choice but to look at him. “I want to know what happened because I’m worried about you and I want to make sure you’re okay. But you don’t owe me anything—not an apology or an explanation. You can tell me to get out right now and I will. You’re in control of this situation, Veronica, not me. You decide what happens here.”
My stomach sinks a little at that, at the weight and the responsibility of what he said. It’s a strange feeling, considering I’ve always wanted to be the one in control. Always wanted to be the one who made the decisions because I couldn’t trust anyone else to make them for me. And now, with him, I’m just not sure if that’s true anymore. “What if I don’t know what I want?” I finally ask. “What if I don’t know where I’m supposed to start?”
“Is that a hypothetical question or is that really how you feel?” His eyes sharpen, grow darker still as they search my face. “Do you want me to ask the questions?”
“Like you did last night?” Despite everything that’s happened today, a little spurt of heat works its way down my spine.
“No!” He pulls me closer. “God no. Not like last night at all.”
“Then…what? I don’t understand.”
“Wow. I’ve really fucked up with you, haven’t I?” He shakes his head, gives an appalled laugh. “I’ve been a real fucking asshole almost from the beginning.”
“No, you haven’t! Not at all—”
“Don’t defend what I’ve done.” He shoves a frustrated hand through his hair, then wraps his arms around me and pulls me even closer. “Look, can we try just having a conversation, maybe? I ask some questions, you answer them if you want, don’t answer if you don’t want. No power exchange, no dominance issues. Just two people keeping everything amicable. I know it’s a new concept for us, but maybe we can give it a try?”
Tears bloom in my eyes at the tenderness in his voice, at the hand that strokes my tangled, messed up hair away from my face. At the way he blames himself for what happened and how he’s obviously trying to fix things even after I made a total and complete fool of myself.
I look away quickly, blinking my eyes a couple times as I pray he doesn’t notice. There’s something about this conversation—this moment—that leaves me feeling more exposed than I ever have, more exposed even than I was in his hotel room last night, standing against the window with all the lights on.
Maybe it’s because that was play.
Maybe it’s because so much of our time together has been a battle of wills.
Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because I’m not used to the people in my life trying so hard to meet me halfway. Or, in Ian’s case, more like three-quarters of the way.
I don’t know. I just know that staying right here with him after everything that’s happened is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Especially when I want nothing more than to shed my skin and crawl away from this mess I’ve created. If I could do that, if I could just start over, maybe I’d have a chance at getting him to look at me again the way he looked at me last night.
Like I was strong and powerful and desirable.
Like he wanted me.