Page 101 of On Your Knees

It’s strange. I didn’t know it was in me to be vicious. I never have been.

Except… that’s not true. My episodes are vicious. Which means that it has always been there. I’ve just never known what to do with it. And I’m glad it’s there actually, in case I ever need it again.

Ethan closes the door behind us. As we walk into the kitchen, he asks, “Why was she here?”

“She’s awful.”

“I know. Why was she here?”

I don’t want to tell him, but I can’t lie to him, and he does need to know. The content of the article could affect him. Us.

“Jensen published something apparently.”

“Ah.” Ethan pulls away from me and goes into the kitchen for a glass, which he fills at the sink. He guesses, “And she wants me to work with her on a response.”

I stand at the island, gripping the edge of the counter. “You’re not going to, are you?”

“No.”

I should be relieved. I am. But I’m still uneasy about her. I ask something that’s been bothering me for a few days. “Why were you at the charity dinner that night? You were there with her. Why?”

Ethan frowns at the glass in his hand. “I wasn’t there with her. I was there to spite her. To rub her face in my existence, I guess.”

“I don’t want you to do that again. I don’t want you to ever see her again.”

Ethan’s frown deepens, like he’s not ready to promise that.

“Ethan.”

He looks up. He comes back to me. I watch it happen in his eyes, the way he returns. He draws a deep, shuddering breath. He nods, acknowledging what I’ve said, accepting it.

But the peace doesn’t last. Other things crowd into his eyes. A heaviness seems to settle over him.

I ask, “You’re still going to read the article, aren’t you?”

“I have to. I have to know how it might impact us.”

“Then let’s read it.”

He frowns. “I don’t want you to read it.”

“Then be with me while you read it.”

Ethan sighs. “Yeah. Okay.”

He sets his water aside and pushes away from the counter. I follow him as he moves into the living room, where he sits on the couch with his phone. I lie beside him with my head in his lap. He takes a heavy breath and brings up the article.

I don’t look at him. I can tell he needs a little bit of privacy. It’s enough that he’s letting me be with him.

His free hand is on my shoulder. When it tightens, I reach up and rub my thumb up and down his fingers.

Eventually, he lowers his phone. He’s silent for a long time. Then he says, “He didn’t include me. He has an interview with someone else. Someone who was willing to speak. He kept it about Clifford. He said nothing of Paul.”

I keep rubbing his fingers with my thumb. “You’re glad he didn’t mention you.”

“Does that make me a coward?”

“It’s your choice what to say or when. No one should take that choice from you.”