I stop right in front of her. “Your face went ghost back there. I want to know why.”
“It’s nothing.” Her gaze moves back to the horizon and I want to shake her to get her to look at me.
“You’re lying.” I hate how easily she can lie to me. “Answer me.” Her eyes snap to mine. “Stop barking orders at me.”
“Where I come from someone’s body language could mean the difference between life and death. One shifty fucking stare could mean you’ve got four seconds before someone strapped with C4 explodes in your face. The second Polly started talking to you it was like you wanted to jump the fuck out of your skin.”
“I don’t like talking about it and you can’t make me. Just because you’re used to bossing around men on the battlefield or wherever you came from. I’m not one of your men.”
I run my hands over my head wishing my hair was longer so I could pull it from my fucking scalp. This woman is infuriating. What the hell is she hiding and why the fuck am I so damn desperate to figure it out?
“I’d like to go home now,” she whispers.
“Celia—”
She cringes and squeezes her eyes closed. “Please, Aden . . . I don’t want to do this anymore.”
I stare at her, her usual stiff spine hunched over, her hands balled up in her lap. Whatever is hurting her is more serious than simply coming back from vacation a different person. I know what it’s like to carry around shit inside that’s not suitable for public consumption and I understand how it feels to have people beg for information you just can’t give.
I know what it feels like to have something living inside that eats away at your sanity. They call it trauma, a deeply distressing experience, but God . . . it’s so much more. It’s alive and breathing, it eats and rarely sleeps, it’s a monster that demands attention and never ever gives in. I understand hurting in a way that feels incurable, and no matter how many times people offer to hear it out, to take some of the burden, the idea that anyone would ever really understand the pain is laughable.
“All right.” I hold out a hand and she takes it so I can help her to her feet.
We walk in silence back to the truck and even though she’s not communicating with words she’s giving off some serious back-off vibes.
I can’t expect her to share with me.
But maybe we can help each other forget. If only for a little while.
SAWYER
Agoraphobic?
What a bunch of bullshit!
Why would Celia share those things about me? Just because I didn’t have the social life she had and spent my weekends at home watching movies doesn’t mean I’m a damn mental case. Sure there was a time where I didn’t leave often but Celia was halfway across the world while I was suffering. And I worked through it eventually—thanks to therapy.
I’m so sick of feeling like just because I’m not as free and uncomplicated as Celia there’s something wrong with me.
Did your sister finally snap and lock herself in her house like you predicted?
We hadn’t spoken much at all before she came home and yet she’s making predictions about my life. I rub the center of my chest hoping to push back the weight of betrayal.
This is what she thinks of me, and I’m giving up my vacation time, my pride, my freakin’ identity to help her out! And I’m lying to someone who I’m starting to care about, all for my sister who spoke about me like I’m some Howard Hughes freak show.
No, I’m not doing this! I won’t. It’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to Aden.
I’m telling him. Tonight. I’m going to confess and tell him who I really am.
He deserves to know. This charade has gone on long enough, and why I thought I would be able to pull this off, to live wild and unburdened for even a short amount of time was a joke.
This is the most burdened I’ve ever felt, and pushing against all my fears, smothering all my instincts is exhausting. I don’t have it in me to lie. It’s only been days and the guilt is smothering.
And Aden . . . he’s been so good to me. Sure he’s moody, but that hasn’t bothered me much. I’ve been flat-out lying to his face since the day we met, and something tells me he’s not the kind of guy who’ll forgive that kind of thing easily.
He pulls his truck up to the cottages and figuring he was just going to drop me off, I’m surprised when he shuts off the engine.
“You don’t have to walk me—”
He turns to me, the intensity of his eyes silencing me immediately. “I think we can help each other out.”
“What does that mean?” My voice sounds breathy even in my own ears and I can’t control the quickening rise and fall of my chest.
“That thing . . . whatever it is that you don’t think I’ll understand . . . I know what it feels like.”
“How could you—”
“I have it too.”
To anyone else what he said would sound ridiculous, but for me it’s as if he’s reading my soul and understands the words. “You do?”
There’s no way a man like Aden could understand what it’s like to struggle between who he is and who he’s trying to be. That every day I spend as Celia only makes me more frustrated at being Sawyer. But I can’t change who I am, no matter how much I want to. The guilt and the self-hatred is crippling and I’m so lost in who I am and who I wish I could be that somewhere along the way, I’ve lost my way.
His gaze turns tortured and pleading. “Let me help you.”
“How?” I force myself to breathe, feeling light-headed at the way he’s staring at me, as if I’m the key to something he’s desperate to unlock.
I’m frozen, tangled and consumed by his penetrating presence. He leans in and as if we’re magnetized I mirror his movement. His hand cups my jaw so gently, his fingers sift into my hair and I press into his palm, fitting into his hand as if I were made to be there.
“I know the struggle,” he whispers, his gaze locked on mine in an unbreakable bond. “I can help you let it go.” He slides the quarter I gave him earlier into my palm. “If you’ll let me.”
I want that, I want to release all the back and forth, throw my hands up and succumb to every desire I’ve managed to suppress.
I don’t have to flip the coin to know I want to get lost in Aden’s touch without a single thought to the consequences. That’s what I want.
But there’s something I need to do, he needs to know the truth. He deserves—
“Don’t. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.” Our breath mingles as the way our eyes are locked together robs me of coherent thought. He flashes a tiny smile before he kisses me.
My eyes shut as the heat of his mouth invades mine. I’m caught in the power of his lips as they draw me in. Consumed, dominated, all the reasons why I should pull away dissolve with every slide of his tongue. My thoughts scramble and sink, leaving nothing but my desire for more. Every nip of his teeth and brush of his callused thumb against my sensitive skin is like a soothing balm to my overactive thoughts.