Page 91 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Does it matter?” He says it so coldly that I feel the chill of it on my skin.
“I’m sorry.” I start gathering up trash before climbing out of bed. “I didn’t mean to cross a line.”
But before I can take more than a step or two, Sly wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me straight onto his lap.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking down at me with eyes as serious as I’ve ever seen them. “I wasn’t expecting the question.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him quickly, because one day and night together doesn’t entitle me to personal information about him, and neither does the fact that I shared my story earlier. No matter how vulnerable that made me feel or how much it feels likethisday,thisnight, does entitle me to something. “I probably shouldn’t have asked—”
“You can ask anything you want,” he tells me firmly. “And I’ll answer. It’s just…I’m not exactly proud of how I got that scar.”
“Then we don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s fine.” He drops a quick kiss on my lips before rolling off me to sit on the side of the bed with his back facing me. “I got in a fight with an ex-friend who happened to be wearing his Super Bowl ring when he hit me. The scar’s from the team logo.”
“Wait a minute. I’ve seen Super Bowl rings. Are you telling me yourfriendhit you in the face while wearing one of those huge-ass things?”
“They aren’t that big.”
“They look pretty gigantic to me.” A chill sweeps through me, and I scoot back against the headboard and grab a pillow to cover myself. “So what were you fighting over? A woman?”
He doesn’t answer right away, which causes another, deeper chill to move through me. It may be naive, but if someone had asked me, I wouldn’t have said Sly was a violent guy. Sure, football can be a brutal sport, but throwing a ball isn’t the same as throwing a punch.
For a second, I flash back to Jarrod shoving me down in that pool, holding me underwater. I know a fistfight with another guy is a long way from that, but I still didn’t think Sly was the type to get in random fights.
Silence fills the room as I wait, breath held, for his answer. “We were fighting over my sister.”
Well, that’s unexpected. “Your sister?” I repeat.
At first I don’t think he’s going to say anything more, but then he sighs and shoves a hand through his hair. “He was one of my closest friends.”
“You mean like the romance novel trope?” I ask, relaxing a little because I can totally see Sly as the protective older brother. “Falling for your best friend’s little sister, only the best friend doesn’t take it so well?”
“More like the idiot older brother who set them up at the beginning of our junior year. They started dating immediately and were together almost five years.”
His voice is tight, and though I can’t see his face to read his expression, his tone isn’t just distant. It’s glacial.
A shiver runs down my spine, and I almost back away from asking any more. But I’m the one who started us down this path, and now that he’s fully on it, it doesn’t feel right to leave Sly there alone.
So I do the only thing I can think of. I take his face in my hands. I press a soft kiss to his hard lips, then another and another until they soften just a little and his arms come around me on a shuddering breath, like he’s piecing himself back together one memory at a time.
Then and only then do I whisper, “You can tell me.”
His jaw tightens, and for a second I think he’s going to blow me off. But then he takes another shaky breath and nods.
“Everyone thought they were the perfect couple. She’s a little shy, while he’s really outgoing. She’s serious, while he likes tojoke around. She likes to read, while he’s a literal encyclopedia of movies. Opposites attract and all that. But where it mattered, it seemed like they really clicked, you know? They’re both smart and interested in a lot of different things, the kind of people you want to have in your corner. Or at least, that’s what I thought.”
He shakes his head, swallows convulsively. And for the first time since I met him, he looks as vulnerable as I always feel. Gone is the charmer with the slow smile and the dancing eyes. In his place is a devastated man filled with regret.
Seeing him like this hurts me in a way few things ever have. Because I see him now, really see him, and I can’t help but understand that the slick charmer he shows the world is just as much a shield to him as the Black Widow is to me. The knowledge would have brought me to my knees if I wasn’t already on them.
Sly tries to shake himself out of it, tries to force a smile that he’s far from feeling as he rubs a thumb over my upper lip in a gesture that’s fast becoming a habit. I kiss his thumb, then pull back enough to look straight into eyes that have gone nightmare dark.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him softly.
“You don’t even know what happened.”
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not responsible for the actions of others, no matter how reprehensible they are.” It’s a mantra my therapist has made me say over and over through the years. Most days I even believe it.
