Page 43 of Crusher

“I hurt you, I know I did, believe me, I fucking do, I’m living with what I did, but our son,” he sighs, “You wouldn’t be moving back home for me.”

I swallow hard and look back at the photo of us, then the ones of Kayden as a baby.

It’s hard because here Kayden struggles, and in Hill Crest, I struggle, but I’d walk over hot coals for that boy, even if it means dealing with my heartbreak every day.

“Okay,” I whisper, and Hayes physically relaxes, but soon tenses when I add, “I’ll still be working, and we’ll be staying in separate rooms until I find a decent two-bed apartment or house. Then we’ll have a custody arrangement put in place and have it tailored around your schedule with the club and your job.”

I look at him to see his body is tight, his jaw ticking, and I wait for him. He has a decision to make, fight me on my terms and ensure we don’t go back to Hill Crest, or agree…

“Why not see into starting an ice-skating school?” he tries, and I look back at the pictures again.

“Because I can’t rely on you and I cannot afford it,” I admit, and he huffs, “Freckles, you never relied on me, you always had one foot out of the door!”

I look at him, and as soon as our eyes connect, I confess, “No, I didn’t, not in that sense anyhow. I only had a backup plan because I grew up needing one,” making him frown.

Pulling his sleeves over my hands, I sit forward, causing him to sit forward too, and I explain, “I married you, Hayes. You knew me, you know me. I was closed off, right?” he nods, “I kept you at a distance for seven months?” he nods again, “And I married you, meaning I let you in.”

“But you didn’t, if you did, you would have told me more about your childhood,” he accuses, but I shake my head.

“No, you don’t get it. I moved out of my mom's trailer, a home I was paying for, but stopped. I allowed myself to rely on you. I allowed you to become my support system. My childhood was my past, but you were my present and future, so why would I bring my past into it when I was so goddamn happy?” I whisper, and he frowns. “Hayes, I was finally happy, you were all I was focused on, so I did, I let you in, I gave you my heart. I was ready to have a future with you instead of leaving, and you crushed me, and yeah, I get it, your dad was a cheating dick, but that didn’t give you the right to be a cheating dick as well.”

He flinches as he looks down and rasps, “This is what we needed to speak about in therapy, our life, what I did, with someone in the middle.”

“Someone who would have gaslit me within half an hour just so a brother screwed her, and you know it,” I remind him.

He looks at me and asks, “So what do you want to do then if you’re not willing to see a professional?”

I swallow hard before I admit, “I don’t know Hayes, eight years is a long time.”

“It is, and it isn’t,” he replies, “I fucking love you, that has never changed, you are still my wife, still my old lady.”

I repeat, “Eight years, Hayes,” and he instantly replies, “And you still wear my hoodie.”

I sigh, but he isn’t finished, “You still love me, and I get it, you probably hate it, but that love is still there,” he leans forward and he pleads, “Please stop punishing me for a decision I made eight years ago when I’ve spent the entire time you disappeared mourning you, mourning us, begging for you to come home, punishing myself.”

I shake my head because that decision broke me; it led to her ruining his chances of being a father, so I can’t stop.

Eight years, and my love for him still shines through, meaning the hurt is still there.

I don’t say anything, and Hayes sighs before looking back at the pictures. He asks, “Before we got together, you turned away seeing my cut, you had interest, but as soon as you saw the prospect patch, you told me no, why?”

I furrow my brows at him in confusion, and he smiles slightly before reminding me, “You won’t do therapy,” then admits, “I thought maybe we could just talk, like we used to, but this time, you talking about your childhood so I can see how to help you overcome the pain of what I did so I don’t lose you again.”

My eyes race between his, seeing determination, and I look back at the picture.

Do I tell him?

Do I let him see why I’m so closed off so he can try to get back into my life, into my heart?

But did he ever even leave my heart?

No, he didn’t.

“I thought the Carnage may have been like the Chargers,” I admit, and he tenses but doesn’t say anything, allowing me to continue. I explain, “Growing up my father was in and out of my life, nine times out of ten, he brought a mistress home and when he didn’t, he stunk of booze and women. The day you gave me your cut, Mom allowed him back the night before despite knowing he was wanted for a suspected murder,” I look at my husband who refuses to be my ex-husband, “Mom always allowed him back in, even knowing he was bad news, even knowing he was with other women but he enticed her. He made her love the rebellion in him, and she didn’t care that he was a danger to me.”

I swallow hard, and I ask, “Remember that day I came to school, the day you gave me your property patch, and I had that bruise?”

He nods and murmurs, “You said someone knocked into you with a door, and you hit your head with a metal tray.”