Page 20 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"People don't just stop being who they are, Dax."
"No, but maybe they can be who they are with someone else. Maybe that's what makes it worth the risk."
She lets out a shaky breath. "You know what the worst part about Seattle was? It wasn't even the harassment or losing my job. It was how stupid I felt for thinking someone actually saw me as more than just... a conquest or a problem to be managed."
"That's not what this is."
"How do I know that? How do I know you won't wake up in a few weeks and realize I'm just another complication in your perfectly organized life?"
"Because my life isn't perfectly organized. It's a fucking disaster held together by hockey and stubbornness." I laugh, and this time it's real. "You want to know what I did after you left Vegas? I called every hotel on the strip trying to find you. Then I sat in that room for six hours waiting to see if you'd come back."
Her eyes widen. "You did?"
"Yeah. Then I went home and proceeded to drive Jamie insane by reorganizing everything we own while refusing to explain why I was acting like a lunatic."
"I threw up twice on the plane home," she admits quietly. "Not from drinking. From panic. Because I'd never felt anything like what I felt with you, and it terrified me."
"What did you feel?"
"Safe. For the first time in my life, I felt completely safe with someone." She wipes at her eyes. "And that felt more dangerous than anything Marcus Williams ever did to me."
"Why?"
"Because when someone hurts you, you can categorize that. File it away, learn from it, build better boundaries. But when someone makes you feel safe? When they make you want things you've convinced yourself you don't need?" She shakes her head. "There's no defense against that."
"Maybe you don't need a defense."
“Defenses are what keep you from shattering when someone doesn’t stay.”
"Okay, but what if... what if we're each other's safe place instead of each other's threat?"
"That's not how it works. People aren't safe places. People leave, or die, or decide you're too much work?—"
"Hey." I take another step closer. "Is that what you think? That you're too much work?"
"I am too much work. I have anxiety attacks over making decisions. I overthink everything. I make lists and then ignore them. I talk to myself when I'm stressed, which is constantly. I haven't been in a relationship in three years because I'm too scared to let anyone close enough to see how much of a mess I actually am."
"You think I'm not a mess? I read Nietzsche before games because it's the only thing that shuts up the voice in my head telling me I'm going to fuck up. I send my mom money every month because I'm terrified that if I don't take care of everyone, they'll leave like my dad did. I've never told anyone I love them because I'm convinced if I say it out loud, they'll disappear."
We're standing close enough now that I can see the flecks of green in her eyes.
"So yeah," I continue, "we're both messes. But maybe we're compatible messes."
"That's not a basis for a relationship."
"Isn't it, though? Understanding each other's crazy? Actually liking each other's crazy?"
"This is insane."
"Completely."
"We could both lose everything."
"We could. Or we could figure out how to have something real without destroying our careers."
"How?"
"I don't know. We're both smart people, we figure it out as we go." I reach up tentatively, and when she doesn't pull away, I cup her face gently. "Look, I don't have all the answers. I don't know how to do this any more than you do. But I know I'd rather try and fail with you than succeed at anything without you."
