Page 7 of Everything We Give

“Has she said anything since our call?”

“Nothing except that she wanted to collect herself before she picked up Caty from Catherine’s house. My opinion? I don’t think she wanted to go home to you feeling the way she does.”

Which is how? Did she realize she is still in love with James and is afraid to tell me?

Nausea surfs a wave in my gut.

What did James say to her? What did he do to her? I might have met James when he was Carlos a couple of times, but I don’t know James. I’ve never met him.

Nadia adjusts the dimmer light and the flat brightens. Aimee blinks, her eyes adjusting, and wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. I know she knows I’m here. She had to have heard me knock. I will her to look at me, but she keeps her gaze fixed on the glass.

Nadia glides a hand across my shoulders in a show of support. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

I nod, hooking my thumbs in my pockets, and approach Aimee. She turns at the sound of my boots on hardwood and holds up her hand, stopping me. She shakes her head. A prickle of dread coasts down my spine. I stop opposite the coffee table cluttered with magazines, books, and potted succulents. A basket of folded laundry rests off to the side, an odd, out-of-place piece in Nadia’sHome Décorliving space.

“I’m just checking on you. I’ve been worried.”

She glances over her shoulder toward the kitchen where Nadia went. “I don’t want to talk here.”

I hold out my hand for hers. “Then let’s go home. I’ll take you.” Now that I’m here I don’t want to be apart from her.

She shakes her head again. “I’m not ready. You go. I’ll meet you there.”

“I’m not leaving you until I know what’s wrong,” I say, even knowing she doesn’t want to talk here. “After what happened this summer, I have the right—”

“Ian, please.” She groans in frustration and grabs a sock ball from the laundry basket, and for a moment, I think she’s going to throw it at me. Instead, her shoulders slump and the sock ball drops to the floor. Her chin dips and it breaks my heart. She looks so sad.

“I want to talk later,” she says. “Right now, I’m still ... processing.”

Processingwhat?

“Aimee ...” The not knowing, the uncertainty, it’s killing me.Please don’t tell me you’re in love with him.

A tear falls and it motivates me to act. One small drop off her chin and I close the distance between us, wrapping her in my arms. She stiffens and holds her breath. I murmur in her ear, telling her how much I love her. How much I care about her. I press my lips to her forehead and smooth my hand down her hair. Eventually, she relaxes and leans into me so that I’m supporting her weight. Then she cries.

I rock with her. “Baby, you’ve got to help me. We can’t fix this unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

Her arms rope around me and hook low on my waist. I lean back to look down at her. I can’t see her face. “Please tell me why you’re sad.”

Her breath shuttles out of her. “I’m not sad. I’m angry, or I was before you got here.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“No, I’m mad at me. I’m hating myself right now.” Aimee leaves my embrace and returns to stare out the window.

“Baby.” I follow. I lean my forearm against the glass and study her profile, the faint freckles that decorate her nose like a dusting of chocolate on latte foam. I gently run a finger down the length of hair where it meets her shoulder. “Why would you feel that way?” I ask softly.

Aimee folds an arm under her breasts. She knuckles off her tears. I want her back in my arms. I don’t like the way she’s withdrawing into herself, shoulders stooped and back bowed. I don’t like her keeping things from me.

We don’t do secrets, not after my tumultuous childhood and what she went through with the Donato family. We agreed to have an honest marriage with open communication. This includes discussing her past relationship with James, despite how much I want to despise the guy. Not that James has done anything directly to me. I just don’t like how he treated Aimee, let alone the psychological mind trip James sent her on courtesy of his brother Thomas.

Talk about a fouled-up family. I thought my parents had problems. Screw the cake. James and his brothers take the whole damn bakery in the dysfunctional-family department.

Aimee takes a deep breath. “I was fine while I was with him. We just talked, you know? He told me about his sons and how the three of them are enjoying island life on Kauai. I know how much I hurt you ... hurt us ... when I saw him last summer. I told myself I’d never go out of my way to see him again. But he called. He’s trying to move past all the shit his brother made of his life, and to do that he felt like he owed me an apology, face-to-face. He said I deserved that much after everything he’d put me through. So I met with him. I was fine while we talked, but afterward? Everything hit me and I started bawling and shaking and, goddammit, I was so angry. I thought I was past all this, what with counseling.” She finally looks up at me and smiles weakly, an apology.

“Aims,” I murmur. I caress her cheek with the back of my fingers, then let my arm fall to my side.

“Anyway,” she says with the flick of her hand, “I couldn’t stop crying. I drove around hoping to calm down before I had to pick up Caty, and when I couldn’t stop, I found myself here instead. If I came home as upset as I was, I knew I wouldn’t be able to clearly communicate to you why I went to see him, and I didn’t want you to jump to conclusions.”

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