Page 27 of Rejected Plus-Size Mate

A sigh eases out of me, but it does nothing to settle the tension in me.

“Okay,” I agree reluctantly. “I understand. I’m sorry I snapped just now, and I’m sorry for being overprotective. I didn’t mean to hurt you, and I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you.”

“Thank you, Kyle,” she murmurs. “That means a lot.”

“I just want to be worthy of you,” I say very softly. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Leslie doesn’t answer, but when I glance over at her, the smile on her face is so bright that it seems to make her glow. She looks like a perfect angel. A sweet girl who deserves only love and safety.

And no darkness.

I have to protect that light. It is the only thing that matters to me. And to do it, I have to hide my past.

Chapter 10 - Leslie

Kyle’s soft voice and carefully spoken words affect me deeply. He’s usually so reactive, I know that he is really putting in an effort to listen and reciprocate. For a few seconds, I don’t say anything, and the moment passes.

When we get home, we start cooking dinner, and even though both of us are making an effort, the atmosphere is tense. I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something from me, and it’s not just from the fear of him seeing other women.

I’m painfully curious about his reasons for breaking up with me and disappearing, but now I’m also desperate to find out more about his nightmares.

Why does he have to be so complicated?, I think to myself as I watch him standing at the counter, peeling potatoes. His face is drawn with concentration as he devotes his full attention to the task, and I love the way his lips curl and his brow takes on a slight furrow as he carefully peels and chops.

Being super-hot and intensely complicated with deep rivers of past hurts will snare a girl every time.

I shake my head at my own folly, getting pots and pans ready. Both Kyle and I are decent in the kitchen, and we used to cook together a lot before the breakup. It’s such an easy routine to fall into, neither of us thinks too much about it.

Other routines, such as going to bed, have an entirely different feel. We used to tease each other on the couch, laughing as we tried to focus on the TV and resist each other. Finally, one of us would break, and we’d chase each other to the bedroom to disappear into each other’s arms for hours on end.

Don’t think about that!

I try not to, but the memories are all around me, constantly. I can’t escape them.

After dinner, I feel the usual awkwardness. I don’t want to sit on the couch with him and be viscerally reminded of our previous routines. He also sleeps on the couch now, which only makes the situation so much worse. I just go to bed early, as I often do these days.

That night, Kyle has another nightmare.

I pad down the hallway on my bare feet, being as quiet as I can. He twists, fighting the blankets just like last time. His eyes are flickering like crazy, and sweat is pouring down his temples. Every now and then, he moans or shouts.

I don’t want to let him suffer like this, but I’m also afraid to wake him up. I can’t go back to bed and leave him, so I just sit nearby until the nightmare settles down and he finally falls into a very deep sleep.

After I go back to bed, my mind is churning. Something is going on with him, and the fact he won’t share it with me cuts me almost as deep as his rejection of me. It really drives home the fact that I am really not important to him. That he doesn’t trust me, and doesn’t intend to.

I cry a little as I fall asleep, wondering which side of Kyle I will see in the morning and if he will ever open up to me.

When I get up, he’s already in the kitchen, as he often is. He always looks bright and well, as if the nightmares really don’t affect his sleep. He turns to me with a big smile on his face, waving a spatula.

“Good morning! I made some pancakes. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” I answer, smiling. “Good morning to you, too. Did you sleep well?”

“Sure,” Kyle says, turning his back on me to tend the pancakes. I’m definitely fishing with my question, and he seems to have answered me honestly.

“Here we go,” he says, putting the plate down in front of me. “Syrup and butter is there on the table. I’ll just grab the coffee.”

“This is really nice of you,” I take a bite of the perfectly fluffy, crispy pancake. “I missed your pancakes. You make them better than anyone I know—even Gladys.”

“Thanks,” Kyle answers, sitting down across from me with his own food. “I remembered how much you like them, so I made an effort.”

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