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I sit bolt upright and stare at him, sliding back so he’s not touching me anymore. “What happened to me as a teenager? What specifically are you talking about?”
His face goes wary. He realizes he’s made a mistake.
“Nothing.”
“My mother told you something.” Fury bubbles up inside me. How could she talk about that horrible, humiliating time in my life?
“It’s nothing,” he insists, standing up. “Let’s go to bed.”
I rarely yell—my parents drummed into me that a lady never raises her voice—but I’m ready to explode right now, and the words ring from my mouth and echo off the walls. “Do you see how damned toxic my mother is being?” I shout. “She’s sabotaging this relationship with everything she’s got, and then she’ll blame me when it fails. Yes,somethinghappened to me when I was a teenager. It was incredibly inappropriate for her to tell you, and furthermore, everything she tells you is her version, which is full of half-truths and paints me in a terrible light.”
His eyes widen, and he holds up his hands defensively. “She didn’t paint you in a bad light! She said for three years, you were the victim of an abusive, mentally ill manipulator who made you do perverted things to yourself, and it’s messed you up ever since. She said I’d probably need to be patient with you when we were intimate.”
The thought of them talking about my sex life and what happened to me when I was fifteen makes me nauseous. Does he know about the visit to the doctor, about how my parents forced me to spread my legs for a strange middle-aged man I’d never met before? About me writing Bastien’s name right above my private parts?
I suck in air, light-headed. “You need to leave,” I tell him.
“You’re not safe. You shouldn’t be alone right now,” he says as I storm over to the front door and turn the alarm off.
“Get. Out.” I grit the words out, my voice shaking.
He stands up, but he doesn’t move. I feel powerless and angry, and tears fill my eyes.
“We’re getting married, Camille. These are things you should’ve told me yourself.” He massages his temples. “Your mother agrees.”
That’s the final straw. He isn’t wrong, but constantly bringing my mother into things has pushed me too far. “Get out, now! Or I’ll get in my car and leave you here alone!” I shout.
He folds his arm across his chest stubbornly. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. If I can’t stay, I should call someone right now who can help you deal with whatever issues you’re having. You need professional help. I don’t think it will be safe for you to be alone.”
I freeze and stare at him. Is he threatening to have me committed?
I resist the urge to scream at him again. I won’t give him any ammunition. “Do you realize that you’re being every bit as manipulative as my mother?” I bite out each word as I clench my fists, rigid with anger.
His jaw drops, and he starts to argue, but then a look of misery twists his face.
“Yes,” he says. “You’re right. I am. I just feel like you’re slipping away from me, and when that happens, I do whatever I can to make you stay. I’m sorry. You have every right to be angry with me.”
Some of my fury drains from me. Unlike my mother, he’ll admit when he’s wrong rather than immediately making everything my fault.
“Ever since we announced the wedding, it feels as if you’re pulling away from me.” So he sensed the timing too. “Was it too soon? We can postpone it. I’ll announce it tomorrow.” He looks at me wistfully, and I know he’s hoping I’ll say no.
“Yes. Do that,” I bite the words out brutally, and I feel a mean satisfaction when his face falls. “And you also have to promise me you won’t speak to my mother again. At all. You don’t answer her calls, texts, or emails. Or we’re through.” I shake my head in disgust. “You two talked about…I can’t even say it. Jesus, Landon, I can’t believe you thought that was okay.”
He wilts, his broad shoulders drooping. “I’m so sorry, Cam.”
And he is. It’s plain to see the remorse and subsequent pain his actions have caused.
I take a deep breath, done breaking him for one night. This is my mother’s doing, and I need to remember that.
“We’ll work through it,” I say. “I need time and sleep.”
He nods and then grows quiet, seeming to contemplate something. “Can I please sleep here? You can have the guest room since your window is broken. I believe you if you say someone was here. I would never forgive myself if anything happened.”
I don’t want him to, but I’m also terrified to be alone in the house. “Fine. Keep your phone right next to you,” I tell him. “In case whoever it was comes back.”
Exhausted, I grab my phone and Landon’s charger and go upstairs. I spend a few minutes sweeping up the glass from the window I’d shattered. It wouldn’t be fair to leave all the work for him. It’s kind that he’s willing to put himself in danger for me.
When I’ve cleaned up all I can, I head to the guest room and plug the phone in right next to the bed. Then I change into my pajamas and crawl under the covers, burning with resentment at what my mother told him.
