Page 97 of Beyond the Stroke

He shifts, opening his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My body is walking the line between the adrenaline rush from the storm, and exhaustion from the day. After a moment of hesitation, I give in. His arms come around me, strong and solid, while his heartbeat is a steady drum against my cheek.

Why is he so warm and inviting and annoyingly irresistible?

“This is silly. I don’t need to be comforted.”

Rory’s chin presses against the top of my head. “That’s why you’re clinging to me like a baby koala?”

“This isn’t clinging. I’m simply existing on top of you.”

“Mmhmm. Whatever you say, wife.”

Another crack of thunder and his arms tighten around me. His hand starts to rub slow, soothing circles against my back. It reminds me of the night my van was broken into.

“Have storms always bothered you?” he asks.

Those slow, absentminded circles have me in a trance.

“No. I used to love them, actually.”

“What changed?”

I shrug, my shoulder nudging against his chest.

“I don’t know. Somewhere along the way, they started making me feel…trapped.”

Somewhere along the way was the summer after my sophomore year, when Tripp and I had been dating for a few months and everything started to shift.

Above me, his voice is gentle. “Trapped how?”

“Like you know something is coming, but you can’t stop it. You just have to sit there and take it.”

“You felt powerless?”

An uncomfortable lump in my throat makes it difficult to swallow.

That’s exactly how I felt in my old life.

“And unwanted,” I murmur, giving voice to the hurt that I experienced with my ex.

Beneath me, Rory stiffens slightly, and just for a second his fingertips falter on my back before resuming their lazy circles.

But I’m all too aware that he’s pulling at a thread that I don’t want to unravel.

Pushing off his chest, I sit up and move away.

“You should get some sleep.”

From the opposite end of the couch, Rory stares at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is low and firm. I can hear the frustration in it.

He shifts over until his thigh presses against mine. With those blue eyes boring into mine, his hand cups my jaw.

“I don’t get it, Summer. You’ve got this idea in your head that you’re hard to want. And I’m trying to figure out what idiot made you think that, so I can prove them wrong.”

Tripp. He’s the idiot. My brain knows this. For years, it’s been trying to reassure me that the lack of intimacy in myrelationship was more about him than about me. But there’s a sneaky part of my subconscious that doesn’t believe it.

Then, there’s the fact that I have no new experiences to wipe Tripp from my memory. No counter evidence to his rebuff.

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