Page 62 of His Last Shot
The brush glides through again.
“What do you mean?” he inquires.
Bristles massage my head.
“I told him about it pretty early in the relationship. Of course, he said he was fine with it and never acted like it was a big deal. Which, at first, I thought, ‘Wow. This is awesome. It doesn’t even faze him.’” I huff at how naïve I was. “But sometimes, when my flare-ups were hitting hard, I would need him. Some compassion might have been nice, ya know. Instead, I always got, ‘Suck it up!’ or ‘It’s not that big of a deal.’ And my personal favorite, ‘This is all just in your head.’”
The brushing stops. “He actually said those things to you?” I can hear his teeth grinding together.
“Yes. All the time. Which made me second-guess myself. Like maybe he’s right. This could all just be in my head, and I’m being overly dramatic.” I sigh. “For the whole time we were together, I always doubted myself. And in the end, he eventually ended up choosing someone else. Someone who wasn’t broken. Which is why I didn’t bother getting upset. He did what he did because of me and my RA.”
“No, Rachel. He did what he did because he is a selfish SOB that didn’t love you enough. No one deserves what happenedto you.”
He continues brushing as I let his reassuring words wash over me. “Maybe. But I guess I’ll never know. He was older, so he probably didn’t care enough. I was just his young and dumb fiancé who was overly paranoid about her chronic illness.”
Carefully, he sets the brush on the table next to the chair, its bristles softly scraping against the surface. “Is that why you are so guarded and afraid of men older than you?”
“And customers, since that’s how I met him. So, yeah. My guard is up now.”
“Is your guard up with me?”
There it is. The million-dollar question.
Silence fills the room as I decide how to answer. My heart pounds.
I nod.
The weight of my reply is almost unbearable; I’m so completely torn right now. I need Johnny more than I need air. But the walls I’ve built around my heart are still there. And I fear they always will be. And yes, I agreed to this date. But now that the truth is out there, how will things be? Will he tip-toe around me? Treat me like a porcelain doll? I don’t want that.
But I want him. So bad. Sometimes, I hate myself and these doubts.
He places his hands on my shoulders and gives them a slight squeeze as he kisses the top of my head. “I better go,” he whispers.
My quiet admission is all the answer he needs to know where my head is at. He swings his leg up and over my head with such ease it’s like he’s a freaking ballet dancer. I watch as he plants his feet directly in front of me, extending his hand. I grip it, and the effort to stand causes a sharp, agonizing protest from my bones as my grunts and groans fill the air. Before I know it, we are face to face.
“Unless you don’t want me to?” he asks.
Yes, no. Yes, no. Yes, no.Each option swirls in my head like a tornado.
“I don’t know what I want.” And that’s the honest-to-God truth. Him being here feels so right. Letting him leave feels so wrong. But there is still so much hurt in my heart. Every one of my insecurities flashes like neon signs.
His hands envelope my face, a comforting touch amidst the uncontrollable thoughts. Unconsciously, I step closer, the scent of him filling me as my hands instinctively find their way around his waist.
Our mouths inch closer with every passing second. I want this. I want this so bad. More than I have ever wanted anything in my whole life.
Slowly, our lips brush as ragged breaths catch, and a current surges through me, making my skin burst.
Once again, jolting me to my senses.
I jerk back, a strangled noise catching in my throat, the air thick with the scent of fear. Dejected, Johnny’s shoulders slump, his head hangs low, and his arms fall limply at his sides, a picture of utter defeat. With a determined set to his jaw, he takes a step back.
My skin, still tingling from the memory of his hands on me, quickly grows cold, a stark contrast to the lingering eagerness in my heart.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper as I wrap my arms around myself. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
This guy, this incredible, amazing man, is ready. He is ready for me.
“I can’t keep doing this, Rachel.” The confession hits me like a physical blow.
