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I couldn't even speak, my eyes closed. I remembered too much.
It filled my whole being, the remembering.
Eventually I nodded, but not before rogue tears were seeping past my eyelids.
"I can be ruthless." His voice was quiet but vehement. "I can be mean. I can be jealous, and wrathful. I have a hellish temper." Whisper soft, his fingers traced over my tears. "We both know this too well. There have been times where I was so angry with you that I didn't think I ever wanted to set eyes on you again."
He paused, just stroking and stroking my hair, his touch tender and steady, and it seemed he wanted some response from me.
Finally I nodded.
He continued. "I can be manipulative, and I know I've done some things you don't agree with, things you don't understand. Things that sorry does not, and will not, cover. I know that at times your faith in me has been lost."
For some reason one tiny, hapless sob escaped me at his last sentence, and he paused for a moment, comforting me, before he continued. "But search your heart, angel, and tell me, and yourself, if you believe that any of my actions, no matter how messed up, or misguided, no matter how unforgivable they may have been . . . Ask yourself, do you truly believe that any of the things I did weren't for you? We can disagree on my methods, but do you have any doubts that what I did, I did to protect you?"
I didn't answer, just let him rock me, and stroke me, wipe my tears, and comfort me. All the while, I was doing as he said, searching through my ravaged heart.
"Find the answer to that question, and you'll find your faith again."
I'd had my eyes closed for a long time, but when I opened them, I found him doing something that helped me to see the truth.
He was rubbing the chain around his neck, rolling the key and rings between his fingers—Gram's ring had been added—over and over, like it was a very old habit. For the first time in years, I let my hand cover his, let the pad of my index finger trace over the objects, let it linger on them, remembering them.
His shoulder jerked as he shook off a shudder. "You get it. I know you do."
"You never took them off. Even at the worst of it, you kept them on as reminders."
"Touchstones, yes. They help to calm me. And they help me remember what we are. What we're supposed to be. That no matter what, we'll find our way back to each other."
I was crying, but so was he. "No matter what," I agreed quietly.
I'd been so blinded by my own hurt and fear for so long where he was concerned, but when I let go of my doubt, my pain, my insecurity, I really did know him.
His soul was mine and always had been. I couldn't deny that if I tried now that the truth was out.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger."
~Emily Brontë
PAST
SCARLETT
Hollywood parties were the worst. I hated them, had relegated them to one of the more miserable parts of networking in tinsel town. A necessary evil that had to be borne with a big fake smile and plenty of liquor.
This one was being thrown in one of the trendy new clubs in Hollywood. It was a big space, surprisingly well-lit for a den of iniquity, and it was full to the brim with people I needed to meet.
I was still taking it all in, scoping out the best place to mingle/network. My bored eyes swept across the room for maybe the third time as I tried decide where I wanted to spend my energy and charm, when they landed on a pair of cold eyes that I had not expected to see again.
Eyes that were more familiar even than my own.
I froze, drink halfway to my parted lips.
No. Oh no, please. Not now. I haven't had a moment to pull myself together. It's not fair. He's not allowed to see me first, to catch my initial reaction.
