Page 82 of What We Broke

Instead, I keep my mouth on his skin and one hand running up and down the length of his back, and the other hand holding him tightly to me, giving myself something to do while reminding him I’m still here, listening.

“In case it wasn’t obvious,” he continues, “I was drinking because I had no healthy ways to work through Lola’s death.” His voice cracks as he says her name. “Every time I felt something, I drank. Sad.Drink. Mad.Drink. Lost.Drink.”

He lifts his gaze and meets my eyes. “Everything hurt, so I just drank.” A humorless laugh leaves his mouth. “And do you know what the worst part is? I can’t think back to a time where I can say with complete confidence that I drank and felt nothing. Numb? Yes. Did it dull the ache a little? Yes. But did it allow me to feel nothing? Not a single fucking time.”

He seems furious with this revelation, and I make the conscious decision not to let him beat himself up. We can’t change the past, and beating ourselves up over it doesn’t help.

“Baby.” I curl my hand around his neck. “When was your last drink?”

We both know I’m distracting him from focusing on all the ways he’s failed, and I don’t care. He is sitting in my arms, talking me through his decision to stop drinking and being committed to that decision, and there is no way I am going to let him focus on anything but that.

“The day I came to see you at work.”

“Why that day?”

His hands cradle my jaw. “I hadn’t drank since the night you came home from the bar.”

I know which night he’s referring to. “You knew I was at a bar?”

He scoffs. “Did you forget you had your tongue in my mouth a few hours later? I could taste the whisky every time you kissed me.”

I shake my head shamefully. “I’m sorry about that night. The drinking and the way I—”

He slaps a hand across my mouth. “I don’t want or need an apology. Not for any of it, but especially notthat.

“That night I felt how much it hurt you to love me,” he admits. “But I also felt just how much you did. I hated seeing you like that, but when I saw you at work, I realized just how close you were to giving up.”

We haven’t spoken about his request for a divorce, and no matter how right he feels in my arms, and just how good things are moving along, I need those words.

I need that one word.

Grabbing his wrist, I kiss the inside of his palm and drag his hand away from my mouth. “Do you still want a divorce?”

His thumb skims across my lips. “I can’t believe I ever told you I wanted one.”

“Do you still want a divorce?” I repeat.

“No,” he breathes. “No. No. No.”

My mouth finds solace in his, and like a freed hostage, my heart swells with relief. I want to believe our love is a great love, a true love, but unfortunately, the hard lesson to learn is that it doesn’t actually matter which one of those it is. Because with great love comes great loss, and with true love comes true pain.

And no love is invincible.

His tongue sweeps through my mouth, and I feel the resounding beat of desire thrum between us.

“I told you not to get any ideas,” he says in between kisses.

“Marry me.”

I feel the stretch of his lips against mine and the rumble of a laugh deep in his chest. “Always.”

CHAPTERTWENTY-ONE

jesse

NOW

It’s therapy day.

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