Page 68 of Wedge

Why is he yelling ’baby’ at me? I’m not his baby. She is. That gorgeous woman. Not me, ugly, stupid little me.

“Adrian!” He isn’t yelling anymore. “Adrian, please! She was drunk. I didn’t want her. Don’t want her… dammit. Adrian please unlock the door, baby.” Shadows pace back and forth across the strip of light under the bathroom door. Like he’s walking, pacing like a lion.

No, no, no, no, can’t open the door, he’ll find me. I’m sobbing. Shit, I’m loud, he’ll hear me. I grab a towel from the rack and smash my face into it.

“Oh, god, please, Adrian, please, love, open the door? Please?”

’Love’ is new, my mind surfaces, but I smash it down. Hurts. Hide. He yelled.

A bigger shadow appears under the door, like he’s sitting on the floor in front of it. Voice softer, like he’s talking to himself, “Goddamn her. God, what do I say?” Then, louder, not yelling, just talking, “Baby, that was my ex, Vanessa.” He spits her name out like it tastes bad. “From seventeen goddamn years ago. Drunk as usual.” A thump on the door, like he banged his head on it. “I promise you, I want nothing to do with her. I want you. Only you. Please, baby. Open the door?”

My head is shaking, no, no, no. Can’t. Hurts. Hurts so bad.

“Dammit,” he mutters. “Do you want me to break it down to get to you, baby?”

I raise my head, eyes wide.

“I will, if that’s what it takes. If that’s what you want me to do, I’ll break more than a damned door to get to you.” He pauses. “Jesus. Wow. What a time to do this, but here goes. Adrian. Baby. I love you. So damned in love with you, and this is killing me. Please, baby, please open the door? I need to hold you so bad right now.” His voice is cracking. I’ve never heard that in his voice before. “Dammit, I hate her,” he says in that cracking voice. “God, this shirt smells like her, damn her. Gonna burn it.”

Another thump.

Talking to himself again. “Okay, Stephen, no caveman breaking down doors. Man needs you to wait. Just bloody wait.” Then louder. “I’ll wait, Adrian. I love you, and you are worth the wait. I’m scared, Adrian. Out loud, like I said I would. I’m afraid. Please talk to me.”

He’s doing it. The list. Scared, in words, and asking me to talk.

“Should I sit here like a stalker or move? Jesus, Stephen, you are talking to a door.” Another thump. And another.

That actually makes me giggle. And I realize I’m not scared anymore. I uncurl from the bathtub and lean over to flick the lock on the door. The click is loud in the silence. I don’t open it. He’s leaning against it and will fall in if I do. He isn’t cornering me. He’s waiting.

So I wait. I see the shadow move and the doorknob turns. I cringe as he opens it. I shouldn’t have hidden, shouldn’t have unlocked it. Oh, fuck, he’s going to be so mad! Oh, shit, he’s opening it. No, no, no, hide! I press my face into the towel, hands over my head, not looking.

“Baby? Adrian?”

I peek at him. Just a peek.

Stephen’s on his knees in the doorway, the light from the room spilling in around him. Not mad, nothing close to mad. His whole face crumpling the moment he sees me peeking at him, curled against the tub, tear-streaked and shaking.

“Oh, baby.” His voice comes out wrecked, barely above a whisper, but he doesn’t rush at me, doesn’t grab, just lowers himself slow onto the bathroom floor a few feet away, legs outstretched, giving me room, the way he’s always given me room. “Hey. Hey, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I can’t answer. My throat’s too tight, my whole body still shuddering with my sobs, and he just waits, patient, hands open and empty in his lap like he’s showing me there’s nothing to fear from them.

“Can I come closer?” he asks so softly. “Only if you want. I’ll stay right here if you need that instead. I’ll wait. I’ll always wait for you. I’d never hurt you, baby, never. Can I get closer?”

I nod, small, barely a movement at all, and he shifts forward slowly, inch by inch, until he’s close enough that I can smell him, that cologne I like from this morning. His chest is bare. He must have taken off the shirt.

“I want to hold your hand,” he murmurs. “Just your hand, okay? Tell me if that’s too much.”

It isn’t. His fingers close over mine, warm and careful, and I am cracking open at how gentle he’s being, like I’m something that might shatter if he moves wrong. He’s right about that. I might still.

“I heard some of what you said,” he says, still quiet, still slow, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb. “About being alone. About being damaged. About being… ugly.”

I said that aloud? I thought that was just in my head. My fucked up, stupid, ugly head.

His jaw works, and I watch him fight to keep his voice even. “Baby, none of that is true. You’re not ugly. You’re fierce.”

“She was in your lap,” I manage, voice cracking.

“She put herself there. Forced her way there. Drunk and uninvited, she shoved me down, and I was trying to get her off me from the moment it happened.” His hand tightens slightly around mine, grounding instead of grasping. “I know what it looked like. I know exactly what it looked like, and I am so sorry you saw that before you got to see me pushing her away.”