Page 23 of Tell Me Again

With a shaky breath, I shift my hand up to touch her cheek. “No, of course not, babe. I’m just...” Such an ass? Tired of lying to you? An idiot for letting things go this far?

Come on, say the words, dammit. Tell her the truth.

I want to. God, how I want to. But I can’t.

I close my eyes, and she pushes away from me just a little as her hand slips off my chest. And even though she’s no longer touching me at all, I can somehow still feel her tension.

This really isn’t fair to her at all. Dammit.

“Sometimes, I think...” She trails off, and when I open my eyes again to look at her, she’s watching me with an expression full of uncertainty and worry. But she quickly blinks the look away and shakes her head. “Never mind. Um, we should get up, yeah? M-Mom was wanting us to pick out the cake design and flavors today. She’s so happy she gets to make it for us, and...”

I scoot over on the bed until I’m close enough, and then I gather her up in my arms and kiss her as softly and lovingly as I can. When we pull apart, she’s breathing harder, and her hands have settled on my chest again. I kiss her forehead and then rub her back gently with one hand.

God, the lies hurt. But I can’t help wondering if the truth would be any better at this point.

I prop myself up on one elbow and then bury my head in her shoulder. “I’m sorry, babe. It’s just... I’ve got—”

“It’s fine. We should get up and get going anyway. Don’t want to be late.”

“It’s not fine, Bren. I need to . . . I need to . . .”

The words are right on the tip of my tongue. The truth about everything. And I haven’t even been able to consider saying them until now, until this whole weird trip and seeing Coop again and having all those feelings come back, swirling around and making me all sorts of dizzy and excited and... and completely, utterly, absolutely terrified.

“That’s fuckin’ right. Or I’d have to beat that shit right outta you.”

A shiver of fear shuts down my thoughts as I see the anger and revulsion in my dad’s eyes. I remember it too clearly. It was maybe the most scared of him I’d ever been.

And it reminds me of why I can’t tell her—why I can’t tell anyone.

If I don’t at least tell her something pretty soon, though, she’s going to find out in the most embarrassing way possible on our wedding night, which—

Oh, shit. Our wedding night. It’s coming up in only a few weeks. Somehow, I’ve been avoiding thinking about it, about how she’ll be expecting something I’m not sure I’ll be able to give her.

God, it’s really not fair to her. All of this.

My stomach churns as I force myself to start talking. “Bren, I, uh—”

“I really don’t want to be late, Josh. Let’s get going, okay?” she cuts in, and then she pushes away and stands up, and before I can even answer or argue or at least pretend I was going to try to tell her some sort of truth, she disappears into the bathroom, her shoulders still tense.

Shit.

***

Brenna’s never really been mad at me before. And I’m not even sure whether she’s actually mad. It might be more sad or disappointed or uncertain. I deserve it, of course. I deserve much worse than that. Especially now that I know she knows I’m lying to her.

She’s quiet on the drive to her parents’ house, and when we get there, she only partly perks up as her mom sits us both down at their dining room table and starts showing us all manner of possible cake designs. Thankfully, her mom seems like she’s probably too excited to notice. The whole process—both picking out the design and selecting the flavors—takes only a couple of hours, and honestly, I’m just nodding and agreeing to whatever Brenna chooses. We’re on the same page with everything anyway. Well, mostly.

And when that’s finished, Brenna and I head back into town for lunch because her mom has to sub in for another teacher that afternoon at the school. I’m not sure Brenna’s said a word to me since we left the motel that morning, and that doesn’t change as we drive back. She’s the one driving again, and I think she’s going maybe even a little faster than normal.

I feel sick.

“What do you want to do for lunch, babe?”

She doesn’t answer right away, which doesn’t help my stomach. And by the time she pulls into the motel parking lot a minute later, my heart’s racing with uncertainty. She parks in the spot right in front of our room and then just closes her eyes and sits there, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly.

“Bren? I-I’m sorry. Really, I—”

“I know, Josh. I know. I’m just...” She can’t seem to finish her sentence, but she lets out a long breath, and for the first time today, I see the tension in her shoulders ease a bit.

---