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Maybe I’m not the only one who read some self-help books after I left.
“Don’t be,” he tells me as his thumb rubs circles along my wrist. “We haven’t had a relationship since my father…” Madox doesn’t finish that sentence, but then he adds, “And I doubt we ever will.”
“Even if it feels like you have everything, it’s okay to be upset about the things you don’t have. You know that, right?”
His eyes flash to mine with an intense heat, and he stares at me as if what I’ve said is foolish. “I do. I’m well aware of that … even as I sit across the table from you right now.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that my words could be used against me, which is exactly what this feels like. My hand slips from his grasp, and he allows it. I drag it back to my lap.
“What’s holding you back?” Madox asks me.
“Back from what?”
“Your guard is up. Not just a little. I can barely see you. The real you.”
I clear my throat and try to meet his eyes so I can be honest about how I’m feeling, but I can’t even do that. “You intimidate me,” is all I manage to get out.
“I’ll listen to whatever you tell me. Just talk to me,” he says, and his voice holds an edge of desperation. It’s something I’ve never heard from him. Not like this.
Staring down at the barren white tablecloth, I speak, letting it all come out.
It’s a real conversation. That’s what this is. Our first real conversation. Probably ever. It’s so much easier to allow fears to be unspoken.
“I’ve only just come back to New York, days ago. I don’t have a grip on anything at all in my life right now. I feel an immense amount of pressure. I’m worried and excited at the same time. I’m happy…” With that admission, I can look him in the eyes as I continue, “For the first time in a really long while.” My throat gets tight and tears prick at the back of my eyes, but I hold them back. “And I’m afraid that I’m going to be swept up by you, and I’m going to lose this part of me that’s actively working to choose happiness and create a stable income. More than that, I’m afraid this isn’t going to last and I’m going to let myself fall, only to be shattered at a time in my life where I can’t afford that.”
I can barely breathe, waiting for Madox to say anything at all. A moment passes, more dishes are placed in front of us – although there’s no way I could possibly eat a damn thing right now–and it’s not until the doors behind us close again, leaving us to ourselves that Madox asks me, “You didn’t plan on coming back to see me then?”
It fucking hurts to see the pain etched in his expression right now.
“I didn’t know… I haven’t spoken to you in so long. … Trish never told me that you messaged until today. When I told her I saw you, she told me you asked about me. I didn’t know you were thinking about me. I would have never thought you’d make an effort like you are right now, because it never felt like you did back then.”
It’s awkward; laying everything out on the table feels like willingly drowning yourself. “I feel,” I have to swallow before adding, “If I had known…” My head is teeming with thoughts and I can barely focus on a single one. For three years I rehearsed every conversation in my head I wanted to have with this man, and in all of them, he never cared. So to sit here and see how much he does… I’m struggling. It’s all too much, and I can feel myself slipping backward.
I refuse to go back to who I used to be.
“Would it have made a difference?” Madox asks in a low tone, pushing his plate to the side and bringing his hand to rest on top of mine.
“Would what have?” I ask him, feeling a wave of emotional exhaustion. I love this man. That was never a question. And that’s what makes it hurt the most. Even after all these years I still love him. I loved him back then and it wasn’t enough though. Love isn’t always enough.
“If you’d known that I was asking about you, would you have come back for me?”
“Not at first, no. I was scared and I needed to find myself after what happened with my parents that week.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t hesitate to ask me another question, and I don’t hesitate to answer.
“Did you miss me?”
“Of course I did. You have no idea.” My voice is choked when I tell him, “Some days just to feel okay I would pretend you were holding me.” I remember what it felt like back then, to be so alone in the spare room of Trish’s apartment, crying on the bed. Letting every bit of me break. I knew if I went back, Madox would hold me and take away the pain. But then he’d eventually let me go, and I wouldn’t know what to do with myself because the only identity I had was to be his. His burden.
I want to brush the tear from my eye before it can fall, but I refuse to let go of his hands right now. Not with the way his warm touch reminds me how life has changed, and I’m not in the same position I once was. At least I can stand on my own now. This is the first time I can sit in front of him and say that much.
“I remember what you said the night before you left when I found you at your place… about being more than a dirty fuck,” Madox starts to speak after a moment of silence.
I cut him off before he can continue. “I don’t think I meant half of what I said, Madox.” I feel awful inside, desperately wanting to avoid going back to that night and how everything happened. I don’t want to go back. It hurts too much. I can’t go back.
