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“You knew it, didn’t you? Actually, I’m sure you planned this together.”
“Will you just calm down? We don’t have any other solution at the moment. I don’t trust an insane person. You believe you have everything under control, but you don’t. She reached you when we were all just steps away, and you’re crazy if you think either of us will just let things go. If she dares to come to you again, we’ll be ready.”
“Alex, what can she actually do? Stab me with words?”
“Bria . . .”
“Security . . . honestly, why don’t you two put me in a gilded cage instead? It would make no difference, none at all.”
“It’s for your own damn protection. Keep ranting, but it won’t change the outcome.”
“You two, I’m so angry.”
“It won’t be forever.”
My skin warms itself from all the anger and frustration building inside me. Now, I understand why the whole change in behavior. Damien was well aware it would anger me. I’m still seething as I call my therapist.
“Hello, Bria.”
“Hello, David.”
“You sound angry.”
“I am.”
“I’m listening.”
“My fiancé hired a bunch of security because he believes my cousin is a direct threat to my life.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“Angry. I hate it, and it interferes with me wanting normalcy.”
“Do you believe the threats are real?”
“I don’t know, but real or not, it’s hard to accept this situation. Who threatens her own cousin? Is it too much to ask for a break?”
“This is what the old you would want. You’re strong, and it’s perfectly fine to feel angry and helpless at times. But, remember how we handle various scenarios shows how in control of everything we are.”
Everything he said sounds logical, and I’m so focused on our conversation, the anger diminishes. It’s good to talk to him, and for the next hour, we go through all the latest events in my life. The best part, though, is telling him, and firmly believing that I can’t wait for my wedding day to say yes to Damien, and I invite him to attend.
***
After we end the call, I’m calmer and I search for Damien. The bottle of whiskey and the glass are nowhere in sight. If the light trace of alcohol didn’t still linger in the room, one could say it never happened. He’s hunched over a barstool in the kitchen with a plate of various sandwiches spread before him. Seeing this strong man with his head drooped, dark circles around his red-rimmed eyes, his hair falling over his lashes, looking defeated and tired, further diminishes my anger. I approach him, and Damien stiffens just briefly before I wrap my arms around his torso. I inhale him—manly, home—and rest my head in the crook of his neck.
I’m done fighting. It’s exhausting, and it lost the thrill it once gave us when we were younger.
As if the same thought crosses our minds, we apologize.
“I’m sorry.”
Hearing and saying it lifts the weight from us. Damien sets me between his legs and tries to feed me, but I shake my head.
“I already ate. I was hungry from all the swimming. I found this sweet Italian restaurant on the way back home. We could go there together next time. I don’t want to fight anymore.”
I say in a rush and my head hangs, and he tips my chin up, kissing me. I lock my hands around his neck as he dabs my tears away with his thumb.
“I was afraid. I’m not used to you being secretive. It was the only option I hoped would work.”
