Page 107 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I’m a writer.
That should come easy.
But there’s no easy way to heal the wound inside him.
“Gray,” I say softly.
He stops pacing, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead, he stands there, hands fisted again, head tipped forward, gaze pointed at his toes. His big shoulders hitch up on a breath…then drop on his exhale.
“Will you…” I begin and his head lifts, his eyes finding mine. “Talk to me?”
Edgy is back in an instant. “About what?” he asks guardedly.
“About why you think you need to keep paying for something that isn’t your fault.”
He snorts, gaze flashing behind me as the banging continues. “It’s me who married her.”
“And”—I shift closer but stop short of touching him when his body goes stiff again—“you said you were both young, said you made a mistake. And clearly it’s one you’ve tried to rectify many times over. So I guess”—I press my side to his—“I’m wondering why you have this need to keep punishing yourself for not being perfect?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then tell me.”
A muscle flickers in his jaw. “You don’t need to hear this shit. It’s over, and eventually she’ll get the message.”
Except…she’s still knocking.
And screaming.
“Let’s go up to bed,” he says, reaching for my hand. “I wanted to talk to you about the engineer who’s coming to look at your house.”
“We can talk about that,” I agree, allowing his fingers to wrap around mine. “But we also need to talk about the other thing too.”
Because I let his avoidance slide the other day.
But…I don’t think I can, don’t think I should.
Not if I want more, want to love every part of him.
“Red,” he warns.
It’s not a caution I heed as he draws me toward the stairs…and up them.
Not one I heed as I push my nerves aside and give him words that are too big, too soon…
“The only thing that scene did was make me fall in love with you.”
He falters on the treads, and maybe I shouldn’t have started this on the stairs—for the fall risk alone.
Though, since I’m committed now, I keep going. “You’re not perfect, and neither am I. But, perfect or not, Courtney doesn’t define you—not back then, not now. You’re Gray Roberts—captain of the Grizzlies, the man I fell in love with four years ago without knowing anything about you except that I liked the smile on your face and knew you had kind eyes and loved that you looked out for Mrs. Zander when she was ill.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he tugs my hand again, coaxing me up the rest of the stairs.
“I’m not sure Mrs. Zander actually was ill.”
“She wasn’t,” I says, lips twitching. “Something I know because she told everyone at Wine Club.”
Gray’s fingers convulse around mine.
