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“Let me know when you decide this is worth it, Sadie, because, trust me, it is. It’s so fucking worth it.”
With that, he stood and walked out of the room, leaving me sitting there in my internal debate over what was right and what was safe.
Safe.
A word that I knew well and trusted myself with. But was he right? Was Jamie right? Perhaps building walls around the scars of pain and grief from years long past had actually been nothing more than a smoke screen, an excuse to not live a full life.
Dazed and befuddled, I left the room, leaving my bag in my locker, and left Haven. Voices carried on conversations around me, buzzing with excitement and newfound desires, but I heard nothing. Only the sound of my own bad decisions carried me, footstep by footstep, to my car, and back home.
“Jamie?” I called out as I entered the house. What had begun as the buzzing of trepidatious thoughts and worries had surged to an endless drone of doubt.
“Hey sweetheart. You’re home early,” he answered from the living room. He sat there on the couch, lounging with a book and a glass of bourbon. I took him in, the look of him, the feel of him here in our home.
Safety. Reliability. A steadfast truth I could rest in. But I had rested for long enough.
“Thatcher wanted to talk.”
“Oh?” Jamie replied, laying his book down in his lap and turning his eyes on me.
“Yeah.” I sighed heavily, slumping down beside him. “He had a lot to say.”
“Good things?”
“Ha!” I scoffed derisively. “Not in the least.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“More than that, I think Ineedto.”
“Would you like me to be a sounding board, or would you like me to listen and give advice?” His gentle support, unwavering and unabating, fueled my desire to speak.
“Advice. I fucked up, Jamie. And not just as a Dominant, although my behavior in that department has been particularly atrocious. I ignored him for two weeks. After telling him I wanted to begin a dynamic with him; after sleeping with him, and starting something that I had only barely scratched the surface of deconstructing.”
“I take it he wasn’t happy?”
“Not in the slightest. I ignored him to the point that he felt he had to go through Max to speak to me. Which, I suppose, is true. But he said his piece, and it was profound. I don’t know what to think.”
“What did he say?” Jamie shifted on the sofa, turning to face me completely, his presence giving me calm in my sea of turmoil.
“He told me he deserved better,” I answered with chagrin.
“He’s right.” Jamie instantly agreed.
“Ouch. But it’s true. I have done more than wrong by him; I think, maybe, I’ve done wrong by myself. I think that I’ve spent so long shrouding myself in a protective fortress, trying to keep the past from becoming my future once again, that I failed to see I was holding myself back.” Jamie had every reason to tell me off, reminding me that he had told me that countless times over the years, but he stayed quiet, listening without judgment or recrimination.
“The past can’t happen again. It’s literally impossible. But instead of protecting myself, I’ve allowed my trauma to dictate my future. I’ve allowed it to change me as a person, and not for the better. I need to be honest, and I need to let myself grow from it, not be held back from it.”
My eyes found his. His bright smile, eyes glassed over with unshed tears, shone back at me.
“I need to take control of my past and be better. I need to do better. You were right, Jamie. I deserve more. And I think I could maybe have it — with Thatcher.” I felt the lead anvil that had been sitting on my chest for Lord only knows how long, begin to lift.
“I’m so proud of you, Sadie.” Jamie’s words, rough with emotionally tightened breaths, brought tears to my eyes.
“I can do this. But I’m scared.”
“I know, sweetheart, but you’re not alone. And you deserve this, and more.” His hands found mine, pulling them into his lap as our fingers interlaced, offering me comfort and stretching in equal measure. “So what happens now?”
“Now, I need to talk to Thatcher.”
