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My brows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
In nothing but his boxer briefs, he tosses his pants down on the mattress. He’s angry, and I feel myself tensing up in fear.
“Eight months. Eight months I’ve been coming here, and I keep waiting for the day when you’ll admit that what we have is real, but that day never comes. It’s just the same, over and over and over again. How long can this possibly go on?” he asks, looking distraught. “What are we, Eden?”
My mouth goes dry, and I open it to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Do you care about me at all?” The pain and fear on his face gut me, but I feel so blindsided by this outburst I can’t seem to form a response to anything.
Say something, Eden. A voice in my head screams at me, but no matter what I do, I can’t seem to speak.
“Of course,” I mumble weakly.
“Or am I just a client to you?”
“You’re not a client,” I say, which is implied by the fact that Clay no longer pays me, but I know that’s not what he’s talking about right now. For some reason, I’m so caught up in my own head I can’t vocalize what I really need to say.
I love you.
I care about you.
I need you.
He walks to the opposite side of the room, keeping his back to me. And I feel the impending doom of his words even before he speaks them.
Rising from the bed, I cover myself with the robe draped over the chair, and I walk to him. But the moment my fingers touch his back, he says, “I can’t do this anymore.”
My heart falls to the pit of my stomach.
“What? Why?”
When he turns toward me, his eyes are red, and his molars are clenched. “If I asked you to come home with me tonight, what would you say?”
I’m so thrown off by the question I hesitate. “Tonight?”
“Yes, tonight. Come home with me. Sleep in my bed. Wake up with me tomorrow morning and just be real. Not my Madame.”
“Clay…I can’t tonight.”
He lets out a huff and drags his fingers through his hair.
“Fine. Tomorrow, then. Or the next day. Next week. Fuck, Eden, don’t you understand?”
“No. I don’t. Help me understand, Clay,” I beg.
I’ve done everything I can to show him how much he means to me. I take care of him. I praise him. I make him feel loved and wanted, but what he’s asking for is not something I can give.
He reaches for my face, holding me by the jaw and stroking my cheek. “You called me yours. You tell me that I mean everything to you, but then you keep our relationship hidden in this room, and now I don’t know what’s real anymore, Eden. I just know that I’m in love with you, but I don’t know if you feel the same. Or if this is all just a game.”
“I—I told you, you are mine, Clay. You are,” I stammer.
“I’m not talking about Madame Kink,” he says softly. His eyes are pleading, and I want to erase every ounce of doubt, but I don’t know how. I don’t know how to do any of this. “I just want you, Eden.”
Immediately, I think of my life as Eden. My house. My son. That life is a stark contrast to the one he sees me in every day. He has no idea who Eden is, and I know deep down that once he learns the truth, he’ll never want her.
And there is no way for me to make him understand that without someone getting hurt.
“I can’t…” I say with a shake in my voice.
