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I take her hand in mine as we exit the bathroom and head to the kitchen. Then, I prepare a salad with enough lentils to give her the right amount of carbs for the injection she just received.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, after taking her first bite.
It might be sick, but I love watching her eat, especially when it’s food that I’ve prepared.
I lean across the kitchen isle.
“I’m a hundred percent certain that your answer to my next question is going to piss me off but I’m going to ask anyway.”
I pause, watching as she takes another bite of the salad.
“What are you apologizing for?”
She rubs her lips together as she chews.
“Stop that,” I tell her. “I’m the only one who gets to use my mouth to smear your lipstick tonight.”
Laughter spills out of her, making me inhale a little deeper. Our eyes lock.
“I know you had other plans for when we got in tonight.”
“Oh, you mean like stripping you down, laying you in my bed, and making you scream my name until your voice is hoarse?”
She bites her lower lip, and I see the vein in her neck pulse a little quicker. I love seeing the physical evidence of the impact of my words on her body. It’s as if she wants me as badly as I want her.
“Yes.” Her voice is breathless. “But instead of going right at it, we have to do all of this …” She gestures to the salad in front of her.
“Stop.”
I close my eyes and can’t help the way my nostrils flare as I do my best to rein in my irritation.
Slowly, I open my eyes once I’ve calmed myself to a reasonable level. “Who was it?” I ask, looking her directly in the eye. “Which one of your fucked up exes made you believe taking care of yourself before he could fuck is some sort of inconvenience?”
I try to temper the tone in my voice but it’s useless. Because I know once she tells me who, I’m going to look the fucker up and make him wish he’d never come across her let alone said some bullshit like that to her.
Dropping her head, she pushes the remaining salad around her plate, not answering.
“Who was it?”
She shakes her head. “No one.”
“Monique.” Her name comes out as a warning. It takes everything inside of me not to tell her that if she lies to me again, I’ll have no choice but to bend her over my kitchen island and turn her ass red as I make her take every inch of me as punishment.
I can’t do that with her.
I have to clamp down on those urges.
“I’m not lying,” she says with emphasis. “No one ever said it out loud. But I saw it. In the roll of their eyes or the deep exhale whenever I had to pause things to check my numbers or do an injection and then eat. Having a chronic illness can take the spontaneity out of a relationship.”
She says it like she’s trying to warn me against something.
“And?”
“And, it doesn’t ever go away,” she replies.
“You know what else can take the spontaneity out of a relationship? Being tired, a long day at work, kids, bills. Should I go on?” I don’t wait for her reply. “Life can take the spontaneity out of a relationship. Diabetes is a part of your life. I know it’s not going anywhere. It’s as much a part of you as the honey color of your eyes. Or the way your dimples appear when you smile at something you really love. You don’t ever have to apologize to me for wanting all of you.”
She bites her lower lip, looking as if she’s trying to hold back her smile.
