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Arsène doesn’t say anything for a while, almost like he hasn’t heard me. This was clearly a mistake. I get embarrassed waiting around for him to reply, so I stand up.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
“Second door to your left in the hallway.”
After emptying my bladder, I return to the living room to find him sitting in the same position on the couch. I regret telling him about my infertility. I don’t know what I expected—but it wasn’t complete apathy.
“I’m happy for you,” he says from his spot on the couch.
I blink, thinking maybe I misheard him. “Happyfor me?”
He nods.
“Why?”
“Because you’re not really heartbroken about Paul. You’re heartbroken over the way you two ended your relationship, and that he didn’t love you enough to accept you despite what you view as yourimperfection. That’s an excellent starting point. You’ll move on, find someone else. Someone who realizes the value of a person is measured not by their reproductive system and have a good life. Probably with Nice Rhys or a guy of his brand. Paul will become a distant memory, an anecdote.”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I shake my head. “You’re such an asshole.”
“Why?” He watches me grabbing my little clutch bag and my phone.
“You’re so callous about everything.”
“You wanted me to be devastated for you?” He stands up to follow me across his apartment.
Yes, yes I did.
I stop at the door, turn around, and fling out my arms. “I wanted you to comfort me!”
He stares at me, a little confused.
“Why’re you looking at me like that? What’s so bad about wanting to be comforted? Have you never consoled anyone in your life?”
We’re still for a moment before he speaks. “No.”
His voice is quiet, forlorn. “Never,” he admits. “I’m not sure where to start.”
Vacillating between scolding him and teaching him, I decide to go for the latter. After all, I know what his childhood was like. Distant father, no mother, and a stepmother who banished him from his home.
“There are a few ways.” I munch on my lower lip. “My favorite is just to cuddle and sleep in each other’s arms. My momma always used to hug me to sleep when I had a bad day. Even when I was a teenager. Cuddling is a great destresser.”
He squares his shoulders. “Cuddle. Right. I can do that.”
“Why, though?” I stare at him with a mixture of disbelief and suspicion. “Why humor me?”
He throws me a sarcastic smirk. “Because you haven’t fulfilled your part of the bargain yet, why else?”
I’m not sure I believe him—I don’twantto believe him—but I still trudge my way to his open arms like a moth to a flame. I plaster my cheek over his chest, hoping to feel his heart racing the way mine does.
“If we cuddle in your bed, I want no funny business.” I speak into the rich fabric of his shirt.
“I ... no, you can’t go into my bedroom.” He places his hand on the small of my back, ushering me to a small guest room down the hallway with a queen-size bed.
“Why?”
He looks around himself, as if looking for an excuse. “I don’t let people in my bed.”
“You’ve never mentioned it before.” I frown.
