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I nod. I want to scream but I bought this dilemma. My mind yells at me about lying in the bed I’ve made.
I pace, but less frantically. “What do we do, Eli?”
He leans forward, elbows to knees. “I have some ideas up my sleeve, but my biggest concern is not what we know, but what we’re missing.”
“How are you this calm?” I wave my hand in his general direction. The energy inside me vibrates and not in a good way.
“Come here, darlin’.” He opens his arms wide. This is a pattern. It’s like he wants me close when he drops a bomb. I can’t handle another bomb today… or this year.
I shake my head and continue wearing a pattern in my old, wood plank floors. I’m lost in my own world.
Another man would try to contain me, make me listen, not let my head swirl into the vortex like a flushing toilet. Another man would soothe me or coddle me or pet me to soften the bristling I feel.
I stop dead in my tracks. He knows me. He knows me. He knows that wrapping me up would be like trying to trap a Tasmanian devil. I look up and hold his gaze.
“Are you just going to let me keep yelling?”
He leans back in his chair and raises his eyebrows.
“Are you just going to let me keep pacing and stewing?”
He does nothing but emits a long exhale. A twitch plays at the corner of his mouth.
“Well?” I continue.
He stands and stalks to me. Both hands land on my neck, thumbs at my jaws. With his lips a hair’s breadth from mine, he whispers my name and hovers above me, not kissing me.
Slowly one of his hands trails down my right arm until our hands are clasped as his other slips to my waist pulling me tight to him. Starting with the vibration in his chest, he moves me with the song he begins singing. “She’s Every Woman” by Garth Brooks rolls from his lips. We dance in my kitchen to his singing a cappella about letting a woman rage and be herself.
Because she’s real.
And she’s worth it.
If I let myself think about it, Eli is ruining me.
Not just spoiling me, but ruining me.
He’s not trying to change me, not trying to polish me. There’s no performance here, no need to put on a show. It’s me. And he doesn’t just accept me, he embraces me as I am.
“Yes.” He says when he finishes singing, and we’re holding each other, swaying, navigating my kitchen in a delicious embrace.
“Yes, what?”
“Bright, I’ve known a lot of women.”
I growl, and my eyes slice to slits.
His responding grin is infuriating. “Let me finish.” He waits until he sees something on my face that gives him the go-ahead.
“I’ve known a lot of women. None of them are strong enough to go toe-to-toe with me. None of them love something so much they’re pissed they can’t defend it. None have the passion to yell and pace and scream because they feel helpless but aren’t.
“Will I let you rage? Yes. Why would I not? Bottling up your passion is the equivalent of creating a timebomb. I’m not afraid of your fervor.” He pulls me to a stop and holds my gaze. “I’m afraid of your indifference. So long as fire burns in your belly, you’re you.”
Keeping my gaze, he drops his mouth to mine and gives me a tender kiss. When he pulls back, he holds my eyes. “Don’t ever change.”
We never get to tiramisu. I’d be pissed, but dessert was way better.
THIRTEEN
