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When someone clears their throat, I realize there is a line behind us. Ice-cream enthusiasts just want their fix, and Saint and I are delaying their gratification by airing our dirty laundry. When he appears to be mulling over what to say, I huff an exasperated sigh and push past him, ignoring the way my body responds to him even after all this time.
The bell dings, announcing my departure, but I honestly don’t know if I’m coming or going when it comes to Saint. Half of me wants to throw my arms around him and never let him go, and the other half, the stubborn, mad as hell half, wants to slap him.
Pacing briskly down the sidewalk, I decide the best option would be to put some space between us. I need time to digest this before I do something I regret. But when a warm palm wraps around my bicep and spins me around, all rationale floats to the California wind.
I act on instinct as the mad as hell half wins and slap Saint’s cheek. He grunts under the force, and so do I because holy shit, I think I just broke my hand—again.
Immediately I clutch it to my chest, wincing in pain. Saint reaches out to touch me, but I shrink back, not needing his hands on me right now to cloud my judgment.
He reads between the lines and keeps his hands to himself. “What happened?” He nods toward my cradled fist.
“I hurt it when I connected with my ex-husband’s face.”
His lips twitch. “Are you all right?”
The only suitable response is a maniacal laugh.
An unexpected madness overcomes me, and I begin to cackle uncontrollably. I don’t bother fighting it because after a year of utter despair, it feels good to laugh. But those tears of happiness soon switch to sadness, and my laughter is weighed down with wretched sobs.
I’m so embarrassed, but I can’t stop. It flows out of me like a wild rapid, and I’m suddenly crying a year’s worth of tears. “Wh-where have you b-been?” I stutter, my vision blurred with tears.
Saint clenches his fists by his sides, and I know he’s suppressing the urge to reach out and console me. “I’m sorry it took me so long,” he says with nothing but sincerity.
“You could have called,” I offer, wiping away my tears angrily.
“I could have,” he replies with a nod. “And I wanted to. So many times.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Saint tongues his bottom lip, sighing. “I made a promise to you, that I would be the best man that I could. It’s taken…time.”
I don’t sense any deception in his admission.
Now that I’ve had my meltdown, I pull myself together. “And how did you go with that?”
Saint takes his time replying. “It’s a work in progress.”
I appreciate his honesty.
Someone brushes past us, reminding me that we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk. The sensible thing would be to invite him back to my house and talk. But when I catch him watching me closely, his eyes consumed with wanton blackness, I know that’s a bad idea.
“So your husband finally got what he deserved?”
“Ex,” I clarify. “And yes, he did. I told him not to show his face again. It’s his turn to disappear.”
A smirk graces his lips.
I have so much I want to say, but I don’t know what. This is the first time this uncomfortable silence has lingered. “Are you planning to stick around?”
He kicks the pavement and shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “That all depends.”
I gulp. “On what?”
“On whether you’re going to hit me again.”
This time, I can’t hide my smile. “Well, that all depends on what you say.”
This banter is our go-to, and it settles my nerves somewhat. But regardless, I need to go home and clear my head. Now that he’s back, I need to figure out what I want. It seems weird for us just to go back to the way things were because they were filled with violence and bloodshed.
