“You did,” I reply. “I wanted to see it, Carina. I did. But now that I know, now that it’s real, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get over this. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” There’s nothing else to say to her. She looks like a ten-year-old girl clutching her favorite book, broken. Her skirt floats in the slight breeze as we make our way across the lawn, back into the house, and to my truck.
Once we’re seated, she tells me another story. A happy one about her grandma visiting and teaching her how to crochet. I tell her I want her to crochet me something. She laughs, a painful sound through her sobs, but I see her face contemplating the request. Finally, she agrees and leans her head onto my shoulder as I make our way back home. “Thank you for showing me,” I say. “I feel selfish now.”
“No. No. I needed that, Smith. It’s different now with you. You didn’t change me, but I think you’ve fixed me. The awful memories are still there, lurking in every corner, but loving you and having you with me dulled the pain,” she says.
I turn quickly to look her in the eyes. I force my lips into a smile.
“Sometimes, regardless of what you think, knowing someone gives a new clarity—a true sense of what matters.”
“And what matters?” I ask. Gripping the steering wheel, my heart lodges in my throat.
“Letting go of the past completely and admitting that I’m worthy of a future. Our future. I’m worthy of you and your love. Despite what I’ve been through, I know I can be good for you. What matters is that I can trust myself and my love for you. I love you.” I can’t take my gaze from the road, but from my peripheral, I see her clutching that weather-torn copy of the book she loves and hates in equal measure.
I resolve to trust my gut. Carina is what’s most important to me. “I love you, Care,” I say, squeezing her leg. “You’re all that matters to me.”
She sniffles. “Doesn’t seem very honorable and moral to say that,” she says. Her tone is light and joking.
But her words hit me directly in the chest.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Carina
The pitin my stomach melted away the second we pulled into our quaint little driveway and enteredourhome. “I’m going to take a shower. Wash my face,” I say, waving the book in the air like an explanation.
Smith smiles. It’s almost the smile from a man who feels sympathy, but it’s not. He teeters on that line very gracefully. I give him mad credit for that. I don’t want anyone’s sympathy. Especially from the man I love. With a nod, Smith says he’s going to his room to return a few phone calls and asks that I come get him as soon as I’m finished.
Nerves hit me in spades. I shower slowly and shave every square inch of my body. I wash my hair twice and let my face mask soak in longer than I usually do. It’s not because I’m nervous, it’s because I’m trying to forget what this afternoon made me feel. I don’t want to confuse emotions. I want to compartmentalize my time spent in the house of horrors. The shed. The pit in mystomach rears as do images of Greg on top of me grunting, his alcohol-laced breath wafting in my face as he drilled me into the wooden floor, his eyes screwed shut and his shirt rubbing against my cheek. He never took his shirt off. Not even once.
I lean over and vomit into the drain. My stomach is empty, so it’s just bile and bad memories. I wash my face one more time and exit the warm shower. There are two sinks, so I make my way to mine and take my time brushing my teeth and blow-drying my hair while I go through Smith’s products. He keeps them in his Dopp kit on the counter because he’s always leaving. I smell his cologne and open the top of his shaving cream and smell that, too. It makes my mouth water. Yes. Smith. That’s what I need to focus on now. The rest of today is gone…buried with Greg.
“Pull your shit together,” I say. Smith makes me feel good about myself. He makes me strive to leave the weak, hurt girl in the past. It’s not one particular thing he does, it’s merely what happens when he’s himself. I know what’s going to happen when I leave this room and find him. I want it to happen. I need to be in the right frame of mind. I want this to be something to be remembered. Something more fantastic than fiction. It can be that just by the fact that it’s us. Smith and Carina. A fact that is frightening as much as it is amazing.
Dabbing my finger on my lips, I gloss on some clear balm. I hear the low, manly timbre of Smith’s voice, soI know he’s still on a phone call.
Hanging up my towel behind the door, I cross the hallway naked into my room. “Time to get dressed,” I whisper. My closet is a rainbow explosion of colors. Most of the time I wear black, but recently I’ve been taken with brighter, more daring colors. Folded in the back on a shelf, I find what I’ve been saving for just the right time. “This is it, guys,” I say to the lace bra and panty set. I purchased it at the high-end boutique one day while Jasmine was next door at the market. It’s teal and more risqué than anything I’ve ever worn.
A man like Smith is accustomed to sexy pieces like this, I’m sure. Blue is his favorite color, and I know he likes lingerie. He didn’t come out and say those exact words, but through a story in the beginning of the interview process, he mentioned it. It had to do with a video chat session and his ex-fiancée while he was deployed.
Delaying our intimacy has been a challenge, and since we moved in together, it’s always at the forefront of my mind. At first, I thought something was wrong with me. What type of man delays sexual gratification? From a woman practically throwing herself at him? The answer was a resoundingno man I’ve had previous experience with. And that’s a good thing.
I slip the delicate lace into place, put on my silk robe, and then sneak past the office door and into the living room. I have several candles hidden in drawers andcabinets I’ve been planning to light when the moment was right. If this isn’t the moment, then I’m not sure about anything else. Our time together is dwindling. He’s leaving. Also, I can’t face Megan tomorrow being the woman Smith refuses to have sex with. I’m standing my ground. This is happening. We live together.
We’re in crazy love.
I’m lighting the last small candle and sliding it into place on the ledge in front of the bay window when Smith finds me. “You were supposed to come and get me,” he says. I watch his neck work to swallow as his eyes take in my appearance.
I smile. “I was busy. I wasn’t ready to come and get you,” I say.
Smith leans against the open doorframe, crossing one bare foot over the other. “Well, I wanted to be the one to introduce the romance. I’m a little offended you didn’t let me help.” He bites his bottom lip in a smile. Butterflies invade my insides. It’s the opposite reaction of what happened in the shower. It heals the raw, jagged place where I keep bad memories.
“Perhaps you can introduce something else?” I edge.
He taps his chin. “Would it be a true introduction if you’ve already met him?” he says.
His joke makes me smile. Pressing my lips into a firm line, I send my gaze to the side wall for a couple seconds. When I look back at him, I nod. Smith laughs, the low tone more erotic than any other laugh I’ve ever heard in my life.
The coffee table is in the center of the room. I bend my leg and push it backward and out of our way. It makes a scratching noise as it goes.
