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“Don’t.” I stop him. “I can’t bear to hear you apologize for loving me like that.”
“I wasn’t going to.” He softly kisses my lips. “I was going to apologize for the way I handled things. I was selfish. Cowardly. I avoided you. I made you worry. I am sorry for that, Dee. But I’m not sorry about loving you. I could never be.”
His words don’t settle me. Rather they shove me further off-center. “Why were you avoiding me?”
His muscles tense, his body an unmalleable block of steel.
“I sensed there was something wrong when you returned from your jog this morning. Will you tell me what happened?”
“No.”
That hurts. “Is it because you don’t think I can handle it?”
“I think you’re one of the strongest women I know. It’s not that. It’s my shit.”
“Then that makes it mine too.”
“Not this.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
The contrast is not lost on me that I’m fully exposed while Mick is clothed and covered like his secrets.
I slide my hands to the back of his neck and look into his eyes. “I have no idea what you think you can’t tell me, but there is nothing that could ever drive or scare me away this time. I will face anything with you, Mick. That’s my truth. I hope you’ll give me yours.”
He crushes me to him, his breaths heavy and burdened. “I went to a bar tonight.”
I swallow my shock and try not to reveal my alarm. “Did you drink?”
“No. But I wanted to. Badly. I hadn’t come that close since Cayo died.”
“You were strong.”
“I wasn’t. The only thing that stopped me was seeing your text. It was like being pulled out of a deep hole that was about to close me in.”
“I’m glad you found a reason.” This time. I find it hard to imagine the Mick I know—dominant, in control, a force to be reckoned with—giving in to self-destruction. But he is an alcoholic. “Have you thought about seeing anyone?”
“A therapist, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“I did during rehab and for a while after.”
“Was it helpful?”
“Some.” He shrugs. “Didn’t give it much of a chance. Too much talking and prodding.”
“That’s how I felt about that kind of treatment too. That’s why I chose behavioral therapy. I didn’t want to get into the messy stuff of my past or my childhood. I’d always found it too painful to open up that Pandora’s box…until a wise man convinced me that it actually helps to talk instead of keeping the pain locked inside.”
The mood shifts. “Don’t go there, Dee,” he warns, closing off again. “This isn’t the same thing.”
I have no idea what it is or how we’re going to find our way back if he won’t talk to me. But pushing the issue now will only drive him away.
We wash up and crawlinto bed, saying very little. Mick pulls me into his warmth. Tears pool in my eyes, but he can’t see them.
“It’s late.” He spoons against my back, hugging my waist, softly caressing my skin. “Try to sleep,” he murmurs.
