Page 72 of Mess With Me

I lift the pillow. “What is it, Sasha?”

I act annoyed, like my name on her tongue—not the whole name, but the diminutive people who know me use—isn’t making something swell painfully in my ribs.

Like I’ve been fighting swelling elsewhere all day because of her.

Sasha comes around to the side of the couch.

I keep my eyes closed. I know she’s squatted down beside me, not just because I can sense her there, but because my nostrils are suddenly filled with her scent—a floral breeze so pretty and feminine and such a contrast to the hard machinery and wood scents of this house.

It takes every ounce of self-control I have left not to reach out for her.

“You don’t have to answer, but I wanted to ask before I say yes.”

This has my attention. I open my eyes.

Her beautiful face fills my vision, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. It’s not just how she looks, or how she smells, orher, but it’s the earnestness of her expression. The determination laced with worry, like she thinks I’m going to flip out at whatever she’s got on her mind but wants to ask anyway.

“Spit it out, Sasha. I can handle it.”

“Who’s Laura?”

NowthatI wasn’t expecting.

I try my hardest not to frown, because I knew it took some nerve to ask me that, given how I am.

I close my eyes, choosing my words carefully.

“Like I said, you don’t have to answer,” she says quickly. “Just, if we’re getting married, even fake-married, I feel like maybe I should know if you’re having sad dreams about another woman—”

“She was a colleague. She was killed in action four years ago.”

Sasha waits a beat. “Were you there?”

Fuck. “Yes.”

A beat passes. “You were more than colleagues.”

“Yes.”

“You loved her.”

“I cared about her.”

I meet her eyes again. She knows I’m not telling her the whole truth.

“Yes, I loved her.” The words hurt to say. Pain spasms through me. Do I tell her how pissed I still am at her, too? That no matter how many sessions I’ve had with McCrae’s psych, I remain pissed at myself for not figuring out how to go back in time to fix what happened? It’s not even to have her back—she would have ended things with me eventually anyway—it’s just to have her fucking alive.

Sasha reaches out and pries my hand from where I’ve tucked it under my ribs.

I try to pull my hand away, but she holds firm.

“I’m sorry, Griffin.”

There’s a burning in my sinuses; in my throat, too. I could shrug, say it was a while ago, because it’s true; it was. But it’s not just the old grief I’m feeling. It’s that double-whammy of self-blame. Ofyou could have stopped it.

“Would you have married her if she lived?”

I sit up, which allows me to pull my hand away. “I don’t fucking know, Sasha.” I’m reaching my limit of personal questions.

---