Page 77 of Compassion

Shit.

“Archer-”

“It’s fine.” The icy exterior I loathe slides into place as he begins to back up towards the living room. “I’m gonna go put out the fire and head to bed early. I know you like for us to hit the gym before therapy when the schedule allows.”

“Arch-”

“Enjoy your sandwich. There’s an extra thing of mustard in the pantry if you need it.”

I’m not given the chance to say anything else to his face, and I have an inkling of my own that his glorious ass doesn’t listen nearly that well.

I mean…I wanna take a moment to appreciate how round and firm it is in those jeans, but I know now is not the time. However, I wish it was. Fooling around on a Friday night sounds way better than fighting.

Following out of the room, I meekly suggest, “Can we please talk about this?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Except there is.”

“There isn’t.”

“There is.”

“There isn’t.”

“Damn it, Archer!” My body rushes around to block his ability to kill the fire. “Don’t do this.”

His stoic expression continues weighing down the butterflies in my stomach that I miss floating. “Do what?”

“Shutdown.”

The lack of a rebuttal has me finding the backbone I need to get better about having.

“Werarelyfight. I meanactuallyfight. And whenever we do,youdo this shit. You get upset or mad or pissed off, stuff it all down, swallow your tongue, and then just fuckingbail. Why?! Is it because you think I can’t handle having an adult fucking argument or do you think I’m gonna kick you out for not being a ‘yes man’? Or is it something totally off the wall I don’t understand but want to?”

It’s his turn to have culpability claim his stare.

“Which is it, Archer? What’s the reason you’re afraid to fight with me?”

“I…” One hand snakes around the back of his neck to squeeze. “I…” The shoulder shrug that follows is clumsy. “I’m not fuckingafraidto fight with you, Jaye. I just don’t like to do it. I don’t like seeing that look on your face. I don’t like feeling like an asshole. I don’t like thinking that the woman I love now hates me because I said some stupid shit in an argument when I could’ve done the right shit which was walk away until we were both more level fucking headed.”

Did he say…love? Did you hear that? Did I hallucinate that? Is this a lack of food hallucination again?

“But you wanna fucking fight, sweetheart? Fine. Let’s fight.”

Instantly regretting that choice of words.

“How the fuck could you not tell them about us?” He folds his arms protectively across his chest once more. “Andwhyhaven’t you?”

Guilt settles back into my expression.

“Give me a bullshit excuse that I can poke holes in. Tell me it’s because you don’t see them very often when you never see them less than three times a week. Tell me it’s because it hasn’t come up in a conversation, when your mother clearly brought it up tonight, giving you an opportunity to tell her that you don’tneedto be fucking set up anymore! That you have a man in your life that gives you the shit you need! No, I don’t have a fucking sportscar – or any car for that matter – and I can’t give you diamonds for our fucking anniversaries and have to put up birdhouses in the Brandts fucking backyard to earn a few bucks just to buy you a salted caramel mocha on a Sunday, but I am fuckingherefor you! I am here for everything you fucking need!”

“You are!”

“Then why the fuck are you so ashamed of me?!”

“I’m not ashamed of you!”

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