Page 67 of The Truth of Loving You

The size of the canvas was different from the others, and the color scheme fit my apartment. Cole nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. He’d officially laid his heart out for me, but I couldn’t take it. It was too much.

“Cole, I—”

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s too much too soon, and you’re not here because you want to be. It’s just I’ve been lying for so long I can’t hold the truth in any longer. I know I have to earn your trust back. And I know you’ve got your own issues to work through. I hope someday you will trust me enough to tell me who hurt you, and I can be there for you.”

“It wasn’t me that was hurt,” I said, hating that I gave away part of my past.

“That isn’t true. Whatever happened hurt you terribly. I hate that for you.” He began to collect the canvases.

“Can you leave them?” I don’t know why I wanted to torture myself with all the faces of me. With the obvious care he put into the paintings and the way he portrayed me, I held a sliver of hope for the two of us but feared the hope might kill me.

“Anything you want, Pretty Boy. What’s next?”

My ankle ached, which was much easier to focus on than the rest of it. After giving me pain meds, Cole asked me to choose a movie, picked me up like I mattered, and settled me on the couch.

I could not get comfortable and ended up with my head in his lap. The sound he made from the back of his throat had been a cross between a possessive growl and a contented sigh. I shouldn’t have liked it. It shouldn’t have given me pleasure knowing that being close to me, without the possibility of sex, brought him joy. I should’ve found another comfortable position, but his hands in my hair were soothing.

He knew what I needed before I did and offered to sleep on the couch, so we didn’t have a repeat of last night. I was relieved and grateful. But lying in the dark, my mind raced and analyzed our conversations. Examining them for Cole’s inadvertent untruths. So far, I hadn’t found any.

Most of my girlfriends hated my inability to filter my thoughts and thought I was talking down to them when I used vocabulary words above an eighth-grade level. But Cole thought it was funny, and he’d told me he liked my word vomit and lack of filter. He’d stuck with me for longer than all but one of my girlfriends.

Cole got me. And it freaked me out.

But hypothetical was not the same as real life. I was afraid to let myself hope.

I’d never considered the future Cole laid out for me. My laser focus on my goals had prohibited me from experiencing fun and joy. I’d been stuck in survival mode and did not understand alternative scenarios.

I’d never imagined someone loving me enough to want to build an actual life with me. When I’d imagined marriage, it had been abstract with the two of us eating late-night takeout after a twelve-hour workday.

It certainly didn’t occur to me to fantasize about a day at the beach and making out for hours on the sand. Or leaving work early because I had to see my partner.

Now that I knew that existed, was it possible to forge ahead without considering other options? I’d been so intent on the outcome that I hadn’t bothered to ask if I still wanted to achieve my goal. Cole had planted the seed a month ago when he’d said as long as my goal, a.k.a. my job, made me happy.

And kids.

Sara and Isaac were my world, but I wondered if I possessed the ability to take care of a child. Kids had been another abstract concept to me. But Cole had serious thoughts and ideas about raising children. Choosing between my job and kids was inconceivable. I didn’t want my brain to disintegrate on mind-numbing kids’ songs and discipline, but I also didn’t want to miss first words and steps.

I’d interrogated him to upset him. It wasn’t fair and probably made me an asshole, but I needed to know he wouldn’t run from hard conversations.

The insidious voice in my head had told me everyone leaves, and it was right. Now it was telling me I couldn’t have it all. I hated that voice, but ignoring it had led me here. In Cole’s life on a break from our breakup.

Cole thought he loved me, and he believed it. He said he lied to himself about his feelings for me, but I’d lied too. I’d lied, thinking I’d survive our physical affair without serious emotional scars. I knew eventually I’d fall in love with Cole. It seemed inevitable. Cole loving me was preposterous.

“I can hear your brain. Are you okay?” Cole’s voice floated in the dark.

“You can’t possibly hear what’s in my head,” I retorted, surprised he’d noticed.

“No, but I can hear your breathing, fidgeting, and sighing. Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“Okay, let me know. Good night, Shane.”

“Cole?” I asked, and he hummed a response. “Why does your apartment smell like my favorite candle?”

He grunted a laugh. “In the hospital, you said the world would be a better place if it smelled like mahogany teakwood. I got it online because I can’t make the world better, but I could make my apartment smell better for you.”

The words got stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. “Thank you.”

---