Page 76 of The Good Girl Effect
When we get back to the car outside, I put Bea between me and Jack. He continues to stew on the way home, and I know he’s angry with me. I only hope he tells me because the last thing I want is for things to go back to the way they were before.
Rule #25: Bring out the fight in him.
Camille
Jack goes straight upstairs when we get home. It bothers me so much, but I can’t say anything. Not around Bea.
Although it’s technically my day off, I spend it with her. We play in her room and cook dinner together, and the whole time, I just keep thinking about the brooding man upstairs.
When I lay Bea down in bed at the end of the day, she asks me to stay with her. So I do. Sitting on the chair next to her bed, I softly brush her hair until she closes her eyes.
After a yawn, she whispers, “I wish you were my maman.”
She clutches my hand in hers, and emotion stings in my throat. Leaning toward her, I softly whisper, “No one could ever replace your maman.”
“But you can,” she says, and I quickly shake my head.
I wish I knew the right thing to say, and it’s very likely that I’ll mess this up somehow. No one trains you for moments like this. And maybe there is no right thing to say.
Moving toward her side, I sit on the edge of her bed as I stare down at her, fighting back tears. “I’m sorry that your mamangot sick. I know she would want to be here with you more than anything. And no one else could possibly replace her, but you have so many people who love you just as much as she did. You have your tante Elizabeth. And your papa. And me.”
“And my grand-mère,” she says sweetly before continuing to rattle off grandparents and aunts and uncles, making me smile.
“Exactly.” Leaning down, I press my lips to her forehead. “Bonne nuit. Fais de beaux rêves.”
“Bonne nuit,” she mumbles sleepily.
Leaving the room, I turn off the light and shut her door. Once I’m alone in the downstairs level of the apartment, his presence upstairs calls to me. I already know Jack is the type to bottle up his emotions and hide. He doesn’t want confrontation or to actually face those feelings.
But that’s not me. I can’t just bury this guilt and pretend it doesn’t exist.
I try to busy myself for a while, cleaning the kitchen, doing dishes, prepping meals for the week. But none of it is a true distraction because he’s still there at the forefront of my mind. It’s like I’m waiting for him to come down and give me a piece of his mind, but it’s futile. He’s not coming.
Nearly two hours after I put Bea to bed, I decide I can’t take another second, and I march right up those stairs. I refuse to let him crawl back into the shadows and be a moody phantom like he was when I first arrived.
He’s not in his office or in his bedroom, so I barge right into the bondage room and find him winding ropes and putting them away in the wardrobe. My eyes catch on the gold band on his finger, lancing me with a yearning I can’t stand.
“No session tonight, Camille,” he says with his back to me.
“I’m not here for a session,” I argue.
He glances over his shoulder at me. “Then you should get to bed.”
Stomping over to him, I grab his arm and force him to face me. There’s grief and pain in his eyes, and it both kills me and angers me. Why is this man so intent on enduring this agony alone? Why does he punish himself like this?
“You’re mad at me,” I say through clenched teeth. “So tell me. Yell at me. Scold me or punish me or something.”
“Go to bed.”
“No,” I argue. “How can you live like this? This anger and pain eats at you like a cancer.”
The moment the word leaves my mouth, I wince. It was a slip of the tongue.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I stammer, “I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
“Good night, Camille.”
My eyes pop open to find him walking away, and I quickly grab his arm to haul him back. “What? Stop!”
