Page 48 of The Retreat

I learned to use it to my advantage, to enjoy pissing off Dad because it saved my sister from his wrath. I’m able to deal with it better than she can, but knowing your parents wish you were dead instead of being who you are is a painful pill to swallow.

I’ve never done anything the way my father wanted me to. Usually I enjoy that bit of information, but tonight, it haunts me like the leftover fear of a nightmare.

Come on, Owen…

I watch the skyline darken while my stomach eats itself, but I’m too nauseated to eat.

Four hours and seventeen minutes.

Fuck!

I need a distraction. I can’t keep pacing this stupid house.

The door opens, and I spin around, feeling half crazed and ready to fucking cry.

“Where the hell have you been?!” My breathing is too fast, my eyes too wide, and my voice too harsh.

Owen doesn’t want to look at me, which sets me off more.

“What? You can fuck my throat, but you can’t look me in the eye?” I use sex as a weapon. Everyone knows it. I used it against him too. Does he think I’m a whore now, too?

“Colin—” his voice breaks, and he covers his face with his hands. “I’m sorry.”

I pause, confused by his apology.

“What are you sorry for?”

“I snapped. I was too rough. Forced you.” There are tears in his voice. I don’t understand what is happening. This isn’t how I expected this to go.

“Forced me?” I reach for his hands, pulling them away from his face. “No, I pushed you too hard. I should have let it go. I’m sorry.” I lift his chin so he’s looking at me instead of his feet.

He meets my eyes, tears and guilt dulling the brightness of the blue. I’m starting to notice the variation in color from day to day.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” His voice is so soft, barely a whisper. The earnestness in his tone, the guilt, the shame, it breaks my heart.

No one has ever cared if they hurt me.

“No.” I cup his cheeks. “You didn’t hurt me.”

Owen closes his eyes and presses his forehead against mine. I don’t know who needs it more, as I wrap my arms around him in a hug. Tears sting my eyes as he holds me back just as tightly. Like he needs the connection as much as I do.

For long minutes, we stand there. Existing. Taking comfort. Breathing.

Until my stomach grumbles.

“When’s the last time you ate?” Owen says against my shoulder.

“That’s my line.”

“You can’t take care of me if you’re not taking care of yourself.”

He might have a point, but who the hell has the time?

“When’s the last time you ate, husband?”

“This is about you, not me.”

“So, probably not at all.” I kiss Owen’s neck and lean back. “How about we order food and go to bed? I’m exhausted.”

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