Page 118 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
“You with your burning tendencies and chicken and PB&J pregame meal?” she asks and God, I love her strength, love that she tries to shake off the hurts, tries to keep looking forward.
But I don’t want her to hide herself.
I’m not going to let her.
This shit hurts.
And she’s allowed to hurt, allowed to express that pain.
I’m just…going to do my best to take it away.
Hell, I can think of any number of ways to kiss it and make it better.
But first, I think she needs something else. Cupping her face in my hands, I hold her eyes. “Red?”
“Yeah?” she murmurs.
“You need to know that my kitchen has a hell of a lot more heart with you in it.”
Truthfully, my whole house, my whole life has felt that way.
Warmer.
Better.
Faye.
“Gray,” she whispers, her eyes going damp.
“Shh,” I say, smoothing back her hair. “You don’t have to say anything. This is just us taking it slow and learning each other, remember?”
A deep breath. “Slow is you saying beautiful things and taking care of me?”
“Well, considering you fell in love with me in this very spot…”
She freezes. Then glares at me and pulls back. “If you remember correctly, this is where I fell in love with the fantasy of you.”
“Ouch,” I tease, rubbing a hand over my chest, pretending to soothe the ache there. “My ego.”
“Gah, you’re annoying.”
“You like it.”
“Maybe.” She nibbles at her bottom lip, guilt sliding through her expression. “But I also feel that—at this juncture—I need to confess something.”
“Confess what?” I ask, watching her gaze slide away, her cheeks go pink.
She wrinkles her nose. “It’s embarrassing.” A flash of eye contact. “Like really embarrassing.”
“I think I’ve covered the gambit on embarrassing, Red.”
She winces.
“No.” I tap her on the nose. “No looking back. Now”—I draw her closer—“what’s this confession of yours?”
Thirty-Eight
Faye
