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I sit onto the couch. He tentatively sits down beside me.
“Start talking,” I say.
“Well, firstly . . . I want to apologize. I’ve been out of line.” He pauses as if collecting his thoughts.
You think?
“My behavior last night was just . . . terrible,” he continues. “I didn’t mean any of it. I don’t know what came over me, and I don’t know why I acted like that.”
“Like what? Aggressive and abusive?”
His gaze drops to the floor.
Silence . . .
My heart sinks.
Why do I feel bad for upsetting him?
“Why do you act like this?” I ask him.
“I don’t know . . . ,” he whispers. “It’s like . . . my feelings for you bring out the darkest part of my personality.”
What?
What do you even say to that?
“You said you were trying to get better?” I eventually ask.
“I am,” he says hopefully. “I go twice a week, and Aaron says I’m making progress.”
“Aaron?”
“The psychologist.”
“Making progress with what?”
He hesitates . . .
“Hen.” I look him square in the eye. “Now is the time for honesty,” I say softly. “You at least owe me that.”
He nods. “I . . .” He licks his bottom lip. “I know.” He wrings his hands nervously on his lap. “The thing is . . . and there is no easy way to say this, but . . . I’m fucked up.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“How so?”
He continues to twist his hands together on his lap . . .
“Hen?”
“Well, I always thought I was like this because I hadn’t found the right woman and I’m happy on my own. It’s never bothered me.”
Where is this going?
“Right . . .”
“But then I met you, and I wanted more, but . . .” His voice trails off.
