I stand outside the front door of the bungalow. Ryan’s car sits in the driveway. I thought about what I want to say to him the whole drive home, how I want to apologize, what pieces of me I want to offer to him. He needs my vulnerability. He deserves it. I can’t keep holding back from him if I want to see where this could go.
Vulnerability. Great, my favorite thing.
I could stand out here all night, freezing my butt off, or I could go inside and face the freaking music.
Big girl panties, Tess.
Taking a deep breath, I slip my key into the lock and turn it, letting the door creak softly open. The living room lamps are on, letting off a warm glow. The TV is on too. I can hear the telltale sounds of Mario Kart. Hurt Ryan came home to play video games, taking comfort in the familiar. Is his heart aching like mine?
I step inside the door, shutting it softly, and lean against it.
You made it inside the house.
Now I just need to walk down the hall.
“She’s not here,” he calls after a minute.
I grip tighter to my keys. “What?”
“Cami,” he calls. “She’s not here. You don’t have to hide by the door, Tess. It’s just me.”
I will my body to move, walking down the little hallway. I pause at the end, peering around.
Ryan sits alone on the middle of the couch, game controller in hand. He glances over at me, his hurt expression tearing me apart. The Mario Kart theme music is the soundtrack for the heavy silence hanging between us. I’m convinced those repetitive, high-pitched jingles will play over the sound system when I eventually arrive in hell.
Feeling too anxious to just start blurting out all my thoughts and feelings, I cross over into the kitchen, dropping my purse and backpack down on the counter. And because I’m a mess who always has to do something with her hands, I jerk open the fridge and snatch up a bottle of water.
Letting the door shut, I slowly turn. “Ryan, I—”
“We can’t keep doing this,” he says, tossing the game controller down. The motion freezes the screen, and the music—thank fucking God.
“Doing what?”
He slings an arm over the back of the couch, looking intently at me. “You can’t keep pushing me away. I know you’ve been hurt before, but any man who would cheat on you is a fucking idiot. I’m not that man, Tess. So, stop testing me.”
“Wait—this isn’t about Troy being a cheater,” I say, setting the bottle of water down. “Is that really what you think?”
“Why else would you be trying to shove me at Cami to see if I stick? You thought the same thing about Drunk Cleopatra, remember? Tess, I’m not that guy.”
God, how did this all get so inside-out?
“I know Troy’s cheating wasn’t about me, Ryan. He cheated because he was weak and lonely and desperate for external validation. He’s always needed other people to build him up and make him feel like the man. And I know you’re not a cheater. I know you’re not Troy.”
He launches off the couch. “Then what is this about? If I’m not in your arms, and if we’re not fucking, then you shut me out and shut me down. It’s like we don’t exist outside of these four walls,” he says, gesturing around the room.
“I swear, I’m not trying to push you away,” I say. “I’m just…succeeding.”
“Tess, talk to me,” he presses. “What is this about—”
“It’s about you,” I cry. “It’s about me trying to stop you from throwing your life away, waiting on me to give you something when I’ve told you I never can!”
“Jesus, fuck.” He drags both hands through his hair. “Is this about what you said to me at the wedding last month? That bullshit about me wanting to marry you?”
“Ryan—”
“Have I ever asked you to marry me?” he shouts. “Have the words ‘Marry me, Tess’ ever left my mouth in the form of a question?”
“No—”
“Have you ever even asked me my views on the subject?” he says, crossing his arms.
“No.”
“No, you haven’t,” he snaps. “Because you’ve been too busy running scared, right? Poor Tess can’t plan for the future. All she can think about is running from her past. Well, let me enlighten you. I don’t give a shit about marrying you. Why would I?” he adds with a shrug. “Neither of us are religious, and we’re both U.S. citizens. I don’t need the tax benefits and, frankly, I’d rather keep my finances separate from my partner—not because I intend to withhold from her, but because my taxes are a fucking mess.”
Of course, my calculating Virgo has thought it all out. “Ryan—”
“That is all to say nothing about how unnecessary I see the institution to be,” he says over me. “Love is love, right? Look at Doc and her guys. Just look at the bullshit they’re having to deal with, picking who gets to be married and who gets a commitment ceremony. And what are they gonna do when they have kids? Who gets to be the father? It’s fucking bullshit.”
“And then look at you,” he says, waving a hand at me. “All you want is out of a marriage that no longer works for you, and yet you’re trapped. It’s been three fucking years, and you can’t break free of that asshole. It’s madness.”
I hold back my tears as he paces away from me with a muttered curse.
Then he’s closing the space between us, taking me by the shoulders and holding my gaze. “If it will stop you running scared, I’ll make you this vow right here, right fucking now: Tess Owens, I will never ask you to marry me. Those words will never pass my lips, okay?”
Our bodies hum with electricity at being so close. It’s like mine knows to crave him. It knows he’s nearby. Does he feel the same? The tremble in his fingers makes me think he does.
“But let’s not for one more second distract ourselves with talk of a marriage neither of us want or need,” he says, still holding tight to me. “This isn’t about that. Just admit it: You’re terrified.”
I gasp, leaning away from him. My resolve hardens at the look in his eyes. “I’m not afraid of anything,” I say, heart racing.
“Liar.” His hands slide up my shoulders to grip my face. “You’re terrified of this. You’re terrified of me, of what you feel for me.”
I huff, the sound catching in my throat. “You think you know me?”
“I do.”
“Why would I be afraid of you?”
“You’re afraid of what I can offer you,” he replies. “You’re afraid of what I represent.”
“And what is that?” I say, trying to ignore the way my body lights up at his touch, the way I’m leaning closer to him even now.
“Hope,” he murmurs, his lips inches from mine.
I close my eyes tight.
Hope. That word is dangerous. That word builds you up and tears you down, leaving nothing left but a charred and broken mess. Hope that my mother could change, that she could learn to stay. Hope that someone could want me. Hope that Troy was the one, that we would be happy. Hope that his family would accept me. Hope that we’d find a way through, that he could learn to love me again.
“No. I don’t have hope—”
“Yes, you do,” he presses, his hands drifting down my shoulders. “You’re protecting yourself with this bullshit about living in the now. But I see you, Tess. You have hope hidden away that you deserve more than what you’ve settled for in the past.”
How does he know me like this? He doesn’t get to know me. I can’t let him in.
“No one has ever put you first, Tess. Not your family, not Troy, not even Rachel.” He says the words so casually, tearing me open. “She has her own life, her own priorities. I give you hope that you deserve to come first.”
“I know what I deserve,” I say, my walls hardening as I fight him even now.
“Then tell me,” he challenges, his gaze fierce and direct. He’s not backing down. “Tell me what you deserve. Say it out loud.”
I lean away, my hands going to his wrists as I try to pull him off me, break our connection.
He huffs, watching me squirm, even as his hold on me is gentle. “You talk a big game, Tess. You’re larger than life—your opinions, your ambitions. And you put on such a good act for everyone. Laughing Tess. Fun Tess. Flirty Tess. You wear those labels like they’re party masks, floating through life just hoping people won’t actually try and see who dwells underneath.”
“I know who I am,” I counter, knowing it’s bullshit. So does he. For better or worse, Ryan knows me. It’s barely been a few months, but he knows me. Certainly, better than Troy ever did.
“Scared Tess,” he presses, keeping me captive with the truth. “Lonely Tess. Angry Tess who just wants to feel something, right? How many times have you said it to me? We’re friends who fuck to feel good. But you don’t want mindless orgasms. And I don’t want anything Cami or Cleopatra or any other woman has to offer. How could I when you exist?”
“Ryan, please…” He’s still looking at me like I’m his world. It’s overwhelming and humbling and I don’t know how I deserve it. I don’t know how to earn it.
“You deserve a second chance, Tess,” he says, reading me like a goddamn book. “At everything—love, adventure. I want to help you.” He brushes my hair back, tucking it behind my ear. “You’re my dream girl. So long as you’re on this earth and breathing, I know what I want. I know what I’m working towards.”
And now I’m clinging to him, words failing me. I need him to see me. I need him to understand how my vulnerability works. Sometimes I can’t speak. Sometimes I can only do. I gaze up at him, reaching out with my soul, begging him to catch me as I fall. Begging him to let us fall together.
Stepping in, his left arm wraps around my waist as he cups my cheek with his right and tips my face up, searching my lost expression. “You’re not ready to tell me how you feel, and that’s fine. But Tess, you are gonna show me.”
“How?” I say, willing to try. “What can I do?”
“Show me how you feel. We’re done fucking without feelings. We have been for a while. So, take off your panties and put them on the counter. Now.”
My insides flutter with need and anticipation. “Ryan—”
“Don’t say another word,” he says, his fingers pressing against my lips. “You’re gonna show me how you feel about me, Tess.” He releases me, stripping out of his T-shirt and dropping it to the kitchen floor. “We’re fucking with feelings. All of them. Every single one. Give me your rage and your passion, all your broken fucking dreams. Show me how much you care.”
Oh, thank God.
I don’t have to say it. Our communication goes so much deeper. Souls can speak with more than words, and mine is crying out for him. It’s almost like I can hear his, too, calling to me, begging me to come home. Come find him. Come set his world back on its proper axis.
“Show me,” he pleads again, kicking off his shoes.
I lift my shaking hands to the opening of my long, white sweater and peel it off my shoulders, dropping it to the floor. He takes me in, standing in the middle of the kitchen in my simple wrap dress. It’s black with little red and white flowers dotting the fabric. Slowly, I lift my hands and undo the tie at my waist, tugging the front open until I can drop the dress to the floor.
Now I’m standing in the kitchen in my plain white bra and blue cotton panties. But Ryan is looking at me like I’m wearing the finest La Perla. He steps in, shirtless, and grabs me by the face, pressing his lips to mine, savoring my kiss. It’s fast and hard and then he’s pulling back, his fingers digging into the skin of my back, unhooking the clasps of my bra. Gently, he drags the straps from my shoulders, tossing the useless bra to the floor.
“Show me the way you ache for me,” he commands. “Show me the way your body craves mine like a drug.”
I nod once, reaching out for him.
But he leans away. “Your panties, Tess. I told you to take them off.” He shucks his athletic pants to the floor, stepping out of them, his hand palming the bulge in his grey boxer briefs. “Then put your hands on the counter and bend over.”
Usually, our lovemaking is like a dance. He’s fun and playful, letting me tease him and domme him and devastate him with my toys. His energy tonight is different. He needs something different. My insensitivity at Rip’s has him spinning. He’s craving control. And he wants me to cede my own. I have a choice here. Am I willing to let go?
Holding his gaze, I hook my fingers into the top hem of my panties and shimmy my hips, dropping them to my feet. Stepping out of them, I give him a slow turn before I bend over, ass just in reach of his hands. Picking up the panties with one finger, I drop them down to the countertop. Then, without looking back at him, I place both hands on the counter’s edge and bend at the waist, submitting to his will.
