Page 87 of Weston’s Treasure

Why did I push?

I felt like the world had dropped out from under my feet and I was at a loss. I’d been angry and prepared to battle it out. I wasn’t, however, prepared for Weston to give up and walk away.

I started the conversation in the car because I didn’t want to go back to my apartment alone but something ugly had bubbled to the surface when he told me what we were going to do. The hell of it was, it was what I wanted. I wanted to stay with him. I wanted the help cleaning out my old apartment. And I wanted help finding a new one. I hadn’t even talked to him about not wanting to stay in the place where I now felt scared to be in and felt violated. But even so, he wasn’t going to allow me to go at it alone.

What was wrong with me?

I’d gone too far telling him he was taking over my life. And I’d gone way too far accusing him of hitting me and hurting me. When even in my altered state of over-the-top crazy I’d known damn good and well he’d never hurt me.

Talk about getting myself in a pickle I had no idea how to get myself out of.

Somehow I didn’t think admitting I was wrong was gonna cut it this time. I thought I seriously fucked up. No, scratch that, I knew I did. If I hadn’t felt it deep in my soul, Weston telling me to use the door would’ve sealed it. But I did feel it and it felt like shit.

The door opened and Weston’s angry gaze came to mine. I’d hadn’t realized I’d stood there rooted in the exact spot he’d left me in long enough for him to take a shower and come out with a towel wrapped around his waist. But I did know I had to try to make this right before I left.

“I’m sorry—”

“Not now.”

“Please. I need—”

“I see you’ve calmed down, but we’re not at the part where you apologize, I apologize, and then we move on. But honestly, Silver, I’m not just tired. I’m just plain tired of saying I’m sorry.” Good night, that hurt. “Only for the same shit to happen. And I’m not talking weeks or even days later, I’m talking hours. So honest to God, I don’t want an apology and I’m not offering one up until you’re ready to give me more.”

“Give you more?”

“What made you flip in the car?”

“Flip?”

“Flip from sweet and playful to sarcastic and nasty? What did I say that had you so pissed, made you turn so fuckin’ fast I could hardly keep up?”

I didn’t have an answer to his question so I remained silent, trying to think of why I’d over-reacted the way I had.

“Right,” he mumbled, and moved across the room to his dresser.

The towel dropped, but I was so lost in my head trying to pinpoint exactly why I’d gone from joking with Weston to shoring up my defenses to protect myself, I didn’t even enjoy the sight of his nakedness. I vaguely saw him pulling on a pair of shorts but I was frozen. Why had I felt the need to protect myself—from Weston?

Why would I fight with him about him giving me what I wanted?

What the hell was so screwed up in my head I’d pick a fight about nothing?

“I was protecting myself,” I blurted out what was turning over in my head. “I don’t know why. I didn’t want to go home. I never want to go back to that place again. I don’t think you’re taking over my life. But in that moment, it felt that way. I don’t know why I felt it or why I said it, I only know I was feeling it.”

“I’m not Dale.”

“I know you’re not.”

“No, baby. I. Am. Not. Dale. I’m not him. I’m not taking over your life, taking away your choices. I don’t want to be in charge of you. What I want is to make sure you’re not alone in a place where you feel unsafe. The easiest way for me to do that is to make sure you’re not there when everything is cleaned out. After that, whether you decide to live there or not isn’t up to me. What is up to me is making sure the woman I love is not bustin’ her ass filling it full of new furniture and doing that shit alone. So, if you’ve got a problem with that, I suggest you get over it or let's hash it out now. Because what we will not be doing is fightin’ about it when I move your new shit up those steep-ass stairs.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?” Weston snapped and I didn’t blame him.

I’d done that, I’d made him wary. I’d taught him that when it came to moving furniture, paying for flowers, or bourbon, or anything really, I’d make it into a fight.

“I won’t argue about you moving furniture.”

Now it was his turn to stare at me in silence and I knew I owed him more so I gave it.