Page 50 of Saving Ren
“You’ve got gates,” I interrupt him, all the while replaying ‘right now, he doesn’t know about me.’
“I’ve got gates, yes, but that’s not what I. . .”
“Then get to the point, Gabe.”
“I want you safe.” He shifts slightly while looking around the room. His eyes finally settling on mine.
“It matters to me that you’re safe, that you’re somewhere he likely won’t find you.”
My stomach has twisted itself into knots so tight, it hurts.
“Whydoes it matter to you?” I ask.
“Aside from the fact that no man should ever do that to a woman, I don’tknowwhy it matters but it does.”
He scratches his fingernails over his whiskers, the rasping sound filling the room.
“I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d be happier if you took my room, and I’ll sleep in the guest room downstairs, that way, I’m closer to the front door if. . .”
“But why?” I cut him off. “I don’t get it. I’m not understanding what this. . .” I pause, letting out a frustrated sigh. I’ve had months of my husband telling me I’ve let myself go, that I’m fat, and I’m useless and I’ve allowed it in. Like an ear worm, Jay’s words have gotten into my head and buried themselves deep. I don’t want to come across as insecure but. . .
“Gabe, I’m forty-four. I have two grown-up sons, a psycho soon-to-be ex. No doubt a messy divorce to make the ex an official title is going to be a big part of my life in the coming months. I have boobs that are starting to droop, a belly that is not only absolutely, most definitely drooping, but it also wobbles and is covered in stretch marks. Then there’s this,” I air circle my face with my pointer finger. “Split lip, bruised cheek, black eye, dried blood in my hair, a glued together head, bruised ribs and hip, and a shoulder still sore from being dislocated. Add to that,allof the issuesallof that combined has left me with, I’m a mess. Mentally, physically, all the ‘ally’s’ you can think of. Each and every one of them points to me being a big fat fucking mess.”
I have to look away from that penetrating gaze of his as I talk. His eyes display so much emotion, he has me forgetting how to use my words. It’s likehefeelseverything I say, every emotion I hope to convey, he gets them, then reflects them right back at me, and it’s too much, so I look away. I stare at his bare chest feeling exactly like the insecure woman I really don’t want to be, but know I’ve become.
“Did I not tell you Friday night how fucking hot I find wobbly bellies and stretch marks? Split lips, glued heads, and black eyes are definitely not my thing, but ya know what, they’re gonna fade. In a couple of weeks, the bruises will be gone, the scar on your head will fade. When you do notice it’s there, it’ll just be a reminder of your story, like your stretch marks and wobbly belly are reminders of the babies you carried. They’re all just a small part of what makes up your life story. They don’t define it, but they’ll always be a part of it, you can’t change that. What you can change is how you let all of that impact the way you feel about yourself, and the way you live the rest of your life.”
This man isn’t real. In real life, blokes like him don’t exist. I’m either dreaming or delusional right now. Concussed maybe?
Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep breath, then slowly open them as I let it out. In all his dark-haired, blue-eyed glory, he’s still there. Right beside me, in his bed, as real as you like, looking at me that way that he does. It overwhelms me. With everything else I have going on, I don’t have the brain capacity to deal with the way he looks at me,orhis words. They’re wise and honest, and I know they come from a good place, but I’m not sure that I’m ready to hear them, and I’m certainly not at a place where I believe them.
“I can’t. . . I don’t want to be living my story right now. I don’t even want to be living someone else’s, even if theirs is a fairy tale. I want a break. Ineeda break.”
I raise my palms to my head, pressing them against my temples as I try to articulate what I’m thinking and feeling.
“It’s too much. I just need to go somewhere and justbe. I’m still struggling to process what’s happened to my marriage, my husband’s behaviour, and now there’s you, and it’s too much.”
I can’t think of any other way to explain how I feel so I pause, watching as he pulls his knees up, rests his elbows on them, and laces his fingers together.
“There’sme?” he questions.
That’s all he took from that?
“Yeah, you, and all. . .” I trail off, waving my hand in his general direction.
“You’ve got all what you’ve got going on, so why exactly areyouinterested inme? I saw the girls you were talking to on Friday, young, blonde, you obviously have a type, and it’s definitely notme.”
“Don’t tell me what my type is. If I don’t even know that, then you definitely don’t, so don’t make assumptions.”
“Then what is it? What is it about me that after less than forty-eight hours you want to move me into your house?”
“You want blunt?”
“I want total honesty, that’s what I want.”
“Total honesty? I have no fucking idea. Physically, I don’t know if you’re my type because, like I said, I don’t know what my type is, but that doesnotmean youaren’tmy type. I like my life drama-free, so emotionally, mentally, that would be a big fatnotoo. My head is telling me that everything about you right now is one giant red flag and will mean nothingbutdrama, but ya know what? I don’t fucking care. I went out for a drink with my brother’s Friday, and the last thing I was looking for or expecting was you, but there you were, and now, here we are.”
“This doesn’t make sense.Wedon’t make sense,” I say quietly, without making eye contact with him.
