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“Okay. But you do love people. Carl, for one.” I try not to sound accusing. Or envious of the fact he’ll admit that he loves Carl, but not me. It’s obvious in all the little ways he looks out for me, but I just… need something. Not more, whatever he means when he says he can’t offer it. I want exactly what we have, but with a promise he won’t keep pulling back the way he has been lately. Yanking the rug out from under me yet again.
“Sure. But I’m never going to be your dream boyfriend. I’m not going to suddenly start remembering or caring about our anniversaries. I’m not going to plan a date night. Or get you frivolous gifts or come home with flowers, or make you breakfast in bed with fruits cut into swans or that sort of nonsense. I’ll never spontaneously bring a white Christmas to your doorstep after we have a fight or learn to sew an apology sweater.”
I laugh.
“Is that what you think I want? Saint, the sweetest thing I can think of right now is someone else making me my favorite winter beverage, or heck, even remembering an offhand comment that it always reminds me of my gran. Or maybe getting to sleep in because I don’t have work and someone else will actually get my kids off to school if I drop the ball. I don’t want frivolous love-bombing shit from anyone. To be honest, it makes me nauseous, and I don’t trust it. I just want exactly what we’ve been doing.”
“Thursday night fuckfests with the occasional weekend sleepover and sexting to tide us over in between visits?” Saint arches an expressive brow at me. I roll my eyes at the infuriating man.
“Yeah. And I wouldn’t say no to you texting that you’re thinking of me while you’re snuggling with Carl. Or whoever else. You keep saying we’re friends, so treat me like your friend instead of freezing me out every time we get a little emotionally vulnerable because you think I might want things I never asked you for.” I try not to sound as completely exasperated with him as I feel.
He was really going to push me away over that? How does he not realize by now that he’s exactly what I want? I love what we have, not some idealized future version of it.
“That cuts both ways, Angel. Friends help each other without keeping score or making it into a big deal.”
“Itisa big deal when I can’t pay you back.”
“You don’t have to!” Saint slaps his palm against the counter, smashing the remains of the cookie. I jump. The abrupt motion nearly topples my tall chair as I stand in front of it, hands braced on the counter.
I shake my head, retreating a step at the heat in his words. I can’t do this. Fight. Cower in front of someone who is angry and has the power to take away so much of my happiness.
I promised myself I wouldn’t be vulnerable like this again. Except, fuck, it’s lonely never letting anyone in. I resist the urge to run out on this conversation.
I focus on calming my breathing. The cool granite of his countertops, the warmth of his wooden floors through my fuzzy socks, the sharp corner on his barstool bumping into my outer thigh. Breathe in his cologne and the lingering traces of spice from the cookie. The crisp bite of the cider perfuming the air as it warms. The sound of it bubbling away on the hob. And Saint’s eyes on me are so full of compassion I can’t tear myself away from them. I take in the stricken look on Saint’s face at realizing he scared me. He wouldn’t hurt me, but I don’t think there’s any hiding the history behind that response. So I don’t try.
“I’m sorry that I raised my voice.” Saint clenches his fists at his sides. He takes a deep breath. “I just wish you could accept that there aren’t strings attached to anything I give you. I’m not him. Okay? I don’t expect you to pay me back for every scrap of kindness.”
“That isn’t what I’m doing—” I stare at him as he nods impassively.
“It is, though.” Saint gives me a moment to drink in that truth.
I didn’t view it that way until just now. That I’m painting him with the broad brush of my past traumas. It didn’t occur to me that it might hurt to be seen as a threat to my hard won freedom every time he tries to do something nice for me.
“I don’t think you’re the sort of person who would deliberately hurt me,” I say.
Saint nods. “I’m glad, because I wouldn’t. But I still keep coming up on these raw nerves of yours, and if we want to keep doing this, we need to figure out how to make that stop.”
“Yeah. Same for you. I notice you pulling back, Saint. You were ready to cut and run by the end of Eliza’s party. Don’t think I didn’t notice that.”
He nods again, his usually sweet smile tinged with sorrow. “We all carry our past hurts with us, Angel. That’s not unique to you. I can’t tell you how often I’ve let my guard down with past partners, only to realize they expect me to be someone different in a relationship.”
“I don’t. Other than the money disparity, you are damn near perfect for me, Saint. Honestly, about the only thing I’d change if we were in an official ‘relationship’ is that I’d want to spend more time with you. Maybe live together some day, if you’re open to that and I can get past moving in together seeming like a trap. And for you to know my kids better. Be a part of our day-to-day more.”
He sucks air through his teeth. This entire conversation is fraught because there’s so much hanging in the balance if it goes badly. “Want to know why I haven’t?”
“You worry too much about blurry lines?” I shrug with a practiced nonchalance that is more about not scaring him off than any casual indifference to his response. It isn’t hard to put together the one-to-one correlation between the times he pulls back from me and the times we really open up to each other.
“Basically, yeah.” Saint shrugs. “Spending time with Owen made this all seem so much more real. I don’t want to hurt your kids if I pull back again. I know that’s a thing I do. It’s how I protect my heart and I couldn’t stand the thought of hurting you or your kids if I let you all get any closer to me.”
“So don’t disappear on us.” I reach over to pat his hands. “I know that’s simpler said than done, but just promise to talk to us if we’re asking too much from you. We can work things out as long as we talk to each other about our piles of baggage. And you know, maybe get therapy to actually work through some of it.”
“Yeah.” Saint snorts. “Therapy might be good. And I can promise to talk to you instead of assuming things.” He cocks his head and gives me a half-smile. “You know, considering how leary both of us are at the first hint of strings, it’s a miracle we let this go on long enough for me to love you.”
Saint chuckles, but it’s a forced sound, and he scrubs at his face, like he needs to hide from the hugeness of what he just put into words for the first time.
It floors me to hear him admit that aloud. Even couched the way he did it, my belly swoops at those words. Giddy exhilaration thrums through me, like staring down the plunge of a really good roller coaster.
“You love me?” I repeat. Letting the words sink into my soul. Letting myself hope this can be real.
