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He looks surprised at my dismissal. “Oh. All right.”
I turn my back to him, lift my phone and pretend to do something.
He’s gone.
Pressing my forehead to the desk, I let out a heavy sigh. That was probably me giving him a taste of his own medicine. And it doesn’t feel good that I’ve sunk to this.
I keep my head down for at least five minutes before I get up and close the door, then drag myself to the little sofa bed in my office that we figured would work well for overnight guests. I’m thinking I’ll sleep here tonight.
I wrote a text to Alannah this morning after a sleepless Saturday night, telling her I couldn’t talk about what I did, that I need space to process. She’d sent a bunch of texts and called several times. After I finally messaged her, she wrote back telling me she had a feeling I was in GuiltyVille, that I have nothing to feel bad about, and to let her know when I’m ready to talk. I responded with a simple OK because I knew I had to in order to get her to give me time before messaging, calling, or showing up here.
Thirty-odd hours hasn’t brought me any perspective. I don’t know how much time it’ll take for me to come to grips with my night with Derek Steele.
“Chloe?” The door opens and light from the hall illuminates Adam’s face. “Why are you sleeping in here?”
I haven’t slept yet. It’s after midnight and I’m lying on the pull-out bed in the dark, staring at nothing.
“I’m not feeling great so no point in disrupting your sleep,” I say.
He doesn’t answer right away, but then he moves his chair and stops close to the bed.
“You okay?” he asks, voice laced with concern. “You sick or… what happened?”
What happened? What happened?
My dam bursts and I crumble into a heap of emotion, covering my eyes, unable to swallow the ugly sob that comes from the depths of me.
I feel weight on the bed. He’s pulled himself onto it. He pulls me close, wrapping his arms tight around me.
“Chloe, hey… talk to me,” he requests softly, and this makes things worse, because he sounds like the old Adam. He feels like the old Adam.
He’s holding me tight, whispering into my hair. He actually gives a shit. And he hasn’t had the capacity to give a shit about me lately. I’ve missed it.
“I’m not built this way and I don’t think I…” I start to cry even harder, making it hard to speak.
He presses his lips to my forehead and squeezes me tighter. “God, I’m sorry.”
I weep into his chest, wrapping my arms tight around him, too.
It should feel right that he’s holding me like this, but instead, it feels strange. I don’t know how we move forward from here, if we even can move forward, but getting this reaction from him, it feels… hopeful?
I let it out. I cling to him and let it all just pour out of me. All the pain, the embarrassment, the missing him I’ve been doing for months because as hard as it is to miss someone who’s gone, which I know from losing my brother, it’s also really hard to miss someone who’s right there with you.
“You did it or you couldn’t go through with it?” he finally asks.
It takes a while for me to manage to say, “I did.”
He goes rigid and silent for a minute.
I’m about to pull away, feeling like it’s what he wants, but his grip on me tightens.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he says gruffly into my hair, “Please, please forgive me. I’m so sorry I pushed you.”
I reach for his face. It’s wet. Adam’s crying with me.
And this rocks my entire foundation. Because through all the anger and frustration he’s dealt with these past seven months, he hasn’t shed a tear, not in front of me at least. In the eighteen months we’ve been together, I’ve never seen him cry. He doesn’t cry during sad movies. He once told me he felt bad that he didn’t cry at his grandfather’s funeral despite that they were close, but said he just wasn’t a crier.
But he’s crying with me while he holds me.
