I don’t want to confront her or tell her the truth. I’ll see her pain. I’ll feel it churn through me, and I won’t—I can’t bear this weight. I’m stronger alone. “Let me live with this knowledge. You don’t need it.”
She fists my shirt. “I won’t let you lie to yourself. I made you that promise, and I’m keeping it.” She stares down at me, her forehead nearly pressed against mine. I match the rhythm of her heavy, vexed breath.
“Everyone except you loves this version of me, so maybe it’s you who’s wrong.”
“Everyone loves the awfully, cowardly fake versions of you.” Her eyes swell with passion. “They love the lesser you because they don’t even know the real one.”
My hand shakes. “Rose,” I murmur, my chest blazing the longer I stare into her. She fuels the fire in my soul, the embers slowly dying, and she tries feverishly to awaken me.
I open my mouth to say the truth—what happened…the words stick to the back of my throat.
I place my hands on hers, the ones clutching my shirt, as though she’s seconds from throttling me to her plane of existence—where the world is painted vibrantly in sadness, in rage and despair. I’m the one who lives in muted tones of impassivity and emptiness, needing other people to color my landscape for me.
Tears drip down her cheeks, but she never smothers the fervor in her gaze. “I’ll wait until you have the strength to tell me.”
Strength. It takes more power to confront emotions than it does to expel them.
I cup her slender jaw with one hand, brushing her tears with my thumb, and I use the other to hold her hip, drawing closer to her body until we’re two vertical lines pressed together. She stands two inches above me.
She’s crying silently.
She’s far from impervious. And yet, she is better than me.
I asked her to be, so when everything compounded on top of me, she’d lift me back to her height again. “Facts,” I whisper.
“Truths,” she counters, resilient and unbending.
My throat closes. What’s the idiom—the truth will set you free? It’s a buoyant phrase that inadequately describes the torment of speaking truly.
“I’ll wait,” she reminds me.
I shake my head once.
Strength.
I hold her tighter, and I reroute my mind and go back in time. Across the street. Scott’s house. “He wanted to see if I really cared about the sex tapes…since I said I didn’t.” Instead of avoiding her gaze, I meet her head-on, doing this right. “He sat me on his couch, remote in hand—and that’s when I knew what he planned to show me.”
I watch her face begin to contort as she tries to comprehend the event.
“I had to shut you out of my head…I couldn’t do what he needed of me with you there.”
Her chest collapses. “He made you…did you…?”
“He asked me to watch one of our sex tapes—with him.” I pause. “And I did.”
I wait for her to release my shirt and slap me, but she holds on with a tighter grip as though saying I’m not leaving you. Her features ride a rollercoaster of dark sentiments. An overpowering, foreign emotion claws at my organs, a battering ram coursing through vital, necessary places inside of me.
I hurt her.
I open my mouth to explain more…to say how it was a tape that hasn’t been released yet. Where I tied Rose’s wrists to our bed, and I kissed her—I made love to her, and I had to sit there, beside Scott Van Wright, a man I hate, and make a mockery of the woman I adore.
I had to be vulgar and callous—I had to say things that’d make her skin crawl, that’d make her scream until her throat became raw, that’d make her sick at the sight of me…that makes me sick at the sight of me.
The act of viewing the tape with Scott carries its own desecrations, but my words won’t stop haunting me.
“I would’ve repulsed you,” I tell her. “The things I said…”
“No…he repulses me.” She jostles my shirt when the guilt weighs my shoulders down. I travel through a scalding cycle of pain, almost unbearable.
Wetness slides down my cheeks, and she holds my face that keeps fracturing. I’m paralyzed from my actions, no matter how much I accomplished, no matter how grand the achievement I shelved—my love for Rose outweighs these victories.
“I forgive you,” she breathes, fighting more tears. Her forgiveness should unburden me, but I feel the same. I feel disgusted and ashamed.
“I hate myself for what I just did,” I whisper. I want to separate the man that spoke ill of his wife from the one who would drop to his knees before her—if I could just pull them apart, then I’d be free.
But I’m one person with one soul, and I’m wading in every malignant word I uttered and every heartless laugh I made. I’m wading in my spirit that I’ve defiled, and I’ve never felt so utterly low.
Her tears mix with mine. “You have to forgive yourself, Connor.”
Forgive yourself. How can I forgive hurting someone who is more than an extension of me? Who I’ve spent years seeking out during our adolescence, just a few more minutes, just one more hour—just a little more time. She can forgive me, but she never heard what I said.
I won’t ever repeat it.
I won’t ever think it.
It’s too much—even for me.
I grasp the back of her head, my fingers tangled in the thick of her hair. “I’m not positive I ever can, Rose.” It’s a weight that nearly knocks me backwards, crushing my ribcage against my heart.
With her small hands on either side of my jaw, she says, “You should never hate the better version of you, the one that loves, the one that hurts—because this man in front of me is extraordinary.”
Her words flood me, choke me, grip me and burn me.
Her words light me in a lethal blaze, and I’m smothered in hot sentiments that pull at me and beg me to scream. I hold her harder, tighter, my forehead pressed against hers.
I’m on fire, every part of me.
I don’t want to be less than human. Maybe it’s this natural remorse that makes me like everyone else, and maybe it’s our everlasting, cerebral love that makes me more.
My muscles scald, my breath locked tight, but I hold Rose right here, pain distancing my lips from hers, tension tearing at my flesh. It’s overwhelming. It’s horrible and blinding, and I clutch onto her as my own guilt and shame keeps pummeling me at breakneck speed.
“I’m not leaving you,” she whispers in a broken voice, further compounding this gut-wrenching pain.
Kiss her. “Je t’aime,” I choke, grasping her slick cheek. I love you. “Je t’aime. Je t’aime.”
I’m burning alive.
She cries more audibly, and I kiss her, our lips together in a fervent, tortured kiss that lingers. I inhale with her, and I slow the movement, our tears dripping, and it becomes a soul-bearing, passionate kiss that awakens my mind.
I hug Rose to my body, taking her off the chair, my lips stinging with salt and urgency. I press Rose so close against me that her feet never hit the floor. Instead, we’re eye-level. At perfect, equal height.
I’ve been split open. I’ve been spilled bare. I’ve allowed her spirit to seep inside of me—to remind me, remind me…why I love.
I can barely catch my breath, blistering against her.