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Oh, no, I couldn’t. “I can’t. I just— I don’t think you’ll enjoy it. I mean you don’t have to—” My eyes were still adjusting to the dark, but I felt the frustration rolling off him by the sudden tenseness in his muscles.
“I wouldn’t do it unless I wanted to. I need to taste you, Jules.”
How could I say no? But my insecurities were stronger than my lust. “It’s just that, maybe some other time. I think something may be wrong with me down there where it makes it unappealing.”
“Is that what your ex told you?” His voice was low, exasperation evident in his tone.
I swallowed hard, trying my best not to break down in tears. I was broken, insecure, and completely insane to have thought I was ready for a physical relationship. And I was a big ole chicken who wasn’t ready to deal with these emotions in front of someone. “Maybe you should go.”
He hesitated. “I’m only trying to understand, not pressure you.”
“I believe you, but I think maybe this was a mistake.” The words tasted bitter on my tongue.
He sighed, but then got up and walked out without another word.
Once I heard the front door close, my tears started falling, fast and furious. Next came the sobbing. It had been years since I’d let my emotions overwhelm me, but this seemed to be my breaking point. I buried my head in my pillow, stifling the noise and thinking what an idiot I was. I was letting my toxic relationship with my soon-to-be ex ruin any chance I might have with a good man. Or maybe it was self-sabotage. I was ensuring I ended something I didn’t think I deserved. There I went again with the biggest turn off: self-doubt. The idea instigated another round of sobs.
I didn’t notice Mark come back in until a hand stroked my hair. I sat up, startled until I saw who it was.
The light pouring in from the living room showed his tight grimace.
“I’m sorry,” I managed to blubber and watched his face soften.
“Jules, baby, please don’t cry or apologize. I’m the one who needs to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“You weren’t. You were only trying to understand. But you shouldn’t have to deal with anyone who has all my issues.”
“We all have issues. Now come here and stop talking.” He gathered me up and snuggled me into the middle of the bed with my head propped on his hard chest until my tears subsided.
Finally, in the quiet, he spoke. “You know you can tell me anything. I want to be here for you.”
I swallowed hard. “I have no idea where to start.”
“How about with how you and Tristan’s father met?”
I hesitated, but then realized this was a man who’d already witnessed my humiliation on numerous occasions and had never judged. “We met sophomore year in high school and dated until graduation. Got married at nineteen.”
“What was it like back then? Were you happy?”
It’s funny how those memories got harder to recall. “Yeah, we were. We were young, but we were becoming adults together. I started working at Singer Advertising, put Rob through college, and then afterwards he started with the police department.”
“When did it change?”
“About five years into the job, when he injured his back during a training exercise. It was as though a switch flipped. Over the next year he became depressed, moody, and was taking way too many painkillers. We’d planned to start having kids, but it wasn’t happening, probably because we weren’t exactly having a lot of sex by then. But when he got a little drunk at a holiday party, that night I got pregnant.”
Mark’s hand rubbed my back, which encouraged me to keep opening up to him. “Was he happy about it?”
I didn’t mince words. “Not at all. My joy about finally becoming pregnant only threw him deeper into this nasty mood. I’d hoped he’d come around after the ultrasound photo, but he didn’t. Then he made up excuses not to go to any appointments. At that point, I pleaded with him to go for counseling, but he refused. He would no longer touch me. At all. I’d gained over fifty pounds with my pregnancy, which was too much—I mean, even the doctors said so. I think I turned to food while my marriage went to crap. Anyhow, he constantly made comments.”
“What kind of comments?”
“Does it matter?” I felt his arms tighten around me, which eased my vulnerability.
“It does to me.”
I’d never voiced my humiliation to another soul. “He would follow me around the house oinking at me. Call me fat, criticize every bit of food I put in my mouth, and say he was embarrassed to be seen with me in public.”
My confession made the tension practically radiate from him.
