Page 106 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
Not the fantasy. The man.
Burnt banana bread and scorching hot kisses. Red cheeks when I read him the scenes he’s inspired and on camera winks and explaining the sport of shopping cart pushing.
So, yeah, I don’t look forward to squaring off—however that’s going to come—with Courtney, but I’m also not going to discount all the good Gray and I have together just because things might be complicated and messy. That’s not me. Or it’s not me any longer. Because…
That’s not the woman I’m going to be.
I’m not giving Gray up.
I just wonder…why it seems like he’s giving up on himself.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he murmurs as I’m processing my churning thoughts, the big feelings, as I’m registering his body language, the worry on his face, his slow careful movements toward me.
Why does he already think he’s lost me?
“I think it’s exactly what it looks like.” I step off the bottom stair and onto the floor, releasing my tight grip of the banister so I can walk toward him. My pulse is pounding in my ears, but not because I’m afraid.
Because I need to protect him as he’s protected me.
His arms drop, hands clenching into fists at his side. “Red, I didn’t know she’d be here?—”
I’m close, close enough to wrap my arms around him, to hold him tight. “I know.”
He’s still, stiff.
“She snuck in through the garage.”
“I didn’t think you’d willingly let her in, honey.”
That has his arms lifting and wrapping around me in turn. But he’s still tense and his words are full of pain. “If I was a good man, I’d end this—leave you to your life that’s not filled with the shitstorm she’s going to bring.”
“Gray,” I whisper, my heart positively aching for him.
Then even more so when he keeps talking…and Courtney keeps banging and yelling.
“I know you probably think that”—a nod to the wooden door that’s being abused by his ex—“and the last few scenes were bad, but the truth is that you haven’t seen anything yet.” He slides his hand up my back, fisting it in my hair. He clenches the locks tightly after a particularly loud bang, as though they’re a lifeline keeping him grounded in the here and now.
And though the grip is fierce, it doesn’t hurt me.
Because I don’t think this man has it in him to hurt me.
He’ll bend over backward, take any amount of pain to stop someone else from enduring it.
And somehow he still thinks he isn’t good, isn’t worthy, isn’t enough.
“When Courtney gets something in her mind, she doesn’t give up.” He exhales, drops his hand. “And she doesn’t give a fuck who she has to hurt in the process of getting what she wants.”
“And that’s not your fault.”
He goes still again.
Tense.
Then he pulls out of my arms.
I hate the distance but let him pace away, not missing the edgy movements of his body, the jerky thrusts of his hand through his hair.
But, God, I want to hold him, to find the right words to make him understand, to make this better.
