Page 20 of My Boyfriend's Protective Daddy
“Surprised?” he asks.
“I didn’t think you were afraid of anything.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Talking about your feelings, sharing and letting yourself be vulnerable… it terrifies you.”
He scoffs, his nervous laugh betraying him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t I?” I reply. “Look at you. Just thinking about talking about your feelings has you crawling out of your skin.”
He pours himself a short glass of beer and swallows it down then refills the glass with a little more this time. He’s antsy and fidgety. Basically, he’s proving me right, and given the fact that he can’t seem to meet my eyes, he seems to know it. He drains his glass again and sets it in my tub, finally meeting my gaze with a soft smile.
“It’s just not how I was raised,” he says. “We didn’t talk about feelings when I was growing up. It was seen as a sign of weakness. We learned to simply stuff it down and bear it. That was kind of reinforced in the Army.”
“I hate that for you because it’s so unhealthy.”
He shrugs. “Let’s not forget the fact that I also come from a generation where that was the norm. We weren’t as enlightened about emotions and mental health as your generation.”
It’s the first time either of us has ever acknowledged the elephant in every room we’re ever in—the age difference between us. He’s almost twenty years older than me, but honestly, we get along so well and have so much in common, it’s not something we’ve ever really stopped to consider before. But I suppose he’s right in that our generations do tend to view mental health and emotional awareness differently. It’s not something I think is a deal breaker for us. Not by any stretch. At least, I hope it isn’t.
“Well, it’s a good thing you have me to teach you how to practice a little self-care,” I offer.
“I guess it is,” he says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “The truth is, I don’t talk about things because I’ve never trusted anybody enough to listen. Nor have I ever wanted to burden anyone with my crap.”
“Yeah, well, you’ve got me now. And talking to you is hardly a burden.”
“Yeah, I suppose I do have you,” he replies, looking at me with an expression of genuine affection. “And I wake up every morning wondering how this happened, but I’m entirely grateful for it.”
“So am I. More than you know,” I tell him. “But this thing that’s gripping you, this heaviness in your brain and your heart, it’s never going to go away until you confront the issue. It’s not a lot different from when you were in the Army.”
“How so?”
“In the Army, when there was an enemy, you attacked them head-on, right?”
Cash laughs. “It was a bit more complicated than that, but I take your point.”
“Good. Because I think you need to attack this situation the way you’d attack an enemy—directly and head-on. If you do that, one of two things will happen.”
“Which are?”
“You and Zane will either be able to get past this and continue building your relationship together or you won’t,” I tell him. “Either way, the situation will be resolved, and you won’t keep torturing yourself by existing in limbo like you are right now. You won’t be surrounded by uncertainty and asking all the what-ifs. Certainty and finality, even if the answer isn’t one we like, will always provide us with the clarity and closure we need to progress in life.”
Cash looks away, a thoughtful expression on his face. He’s quiet for a couple of minutes and really seems to be considering my words. And when he turns back to me, there’s a firm set to his jaw and a glimmer of resolve in his eyes. He’s come to a decision within himself.
“So, you’re going to talk to Zane?”
He nods. “I’m going to talk to Zane. For better or worse, I’m going to talk to him,” he tells me. “Like you said, it’s probably better to know one way or the other than to keep existing in this fucking state of limbo.”
“Good for you. I’m proud of you,” I say. “And no matter what happens, we’re going to get through this, Cash. Together.”
“Together,” he says with a gentle smile. Cash falls silent again, but after a moment, he takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “So, I take it when you go back to school, you’re going for a degree in psychology?”
I laugh softly. “I’ve always thought I’d make a good counselor.”
“I can see that. I think you’d make an excellent counselor.”
“Thanks.”
