“I’ve been using the skincare line for a week now,” I tell him. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re as beautiful as you always were.”
“Seriously. My skin tone is a little more even, don’t you think?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Are you kidding me? I look better, and you don’t even notice?”
He chuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, beauty routines aren’t for men, Skye. They’re for women.”
“I just mean—”
“You mean you want me to tell you that you look better. What if I did? The first thing you’d say then is, ‘You mean you didn’t like how I looked before?’”
I scoff. “Maybe some women. I wouldn’t.”
He shakes his head. “You aren’t like any other woman I’ve ever met, so maybe you wouldn’t. But I’m telling you the truth when I say I don’t see a difference. You were beautiful a week ago, and you’re beautiful now.”
My cheeks warm. I’m not beautiful like Tessa, but in Braden’s eyes, I am. That’s all that matters.
Already I see I’ve come a long way in a short time.
“Ready for dessert?” I ask.
“Let’s talk first,” he says.
My heart beats hard. Here it is. The time of reckoning. I’m going to open up to Braden, and I have to accept that he may not be ready to do the same thing.
That’s okay.
It has to be.
Plus, maybe he’ll surprise me.
“All right,” I say. “You want any coffee?”
“I think just a little more wine.” He fills his goblet halfway and then lifts his eyebrows at me.
“No thanks.” I smile. “You want to sit on the couch? It’s more comfortable.”
“Sure.” He picks up his wineglass and walks to the living room.
I follow him, sit down, and pat the seat next to me.
He sits.
“You asked me a question the last time we were in New York together. A question I couldn’t answer then.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t think I was brave enough to find the answer.”
“That’s not exactly what I said. I said I was going to have my say, and then you could have yours, if you were brave enough.”
“All right. The exact words don’t really matter, because I’ve realized it’s not the answer that’s important in the long run.”
“Oh?”
“No, it’s the question. You see, Braden, I asked myself the question. I asked why the choking was so important to me, and I have an answer, but it’s not even the answer that’s important.”
“What do you mean?”
“Figuring these things out isn’t black-and-white. I know you like to think of things that way. You’re a lot like Tessa in that way.”
He chuckles. “Am I?”
“Don’t laugh at me.” I give him a friendly swat on the upper arm. “I’m serious. She’s an accountant. A mathematician. There’s always a right and wrong with her. You’re the same way.”
“I’ll admit to being analytical, yes.”
“I’m an artist. Black and white only exist to me as opposite ends of a spectrum. There’s so many colors in between. And then in between the in-between.”
“Am I in for a philosophy lesson?”
“I’m just trying to explain that yes, I have an answer to your question, but I’m not going to stop asking the question. It’s a journey. And while the answers themselves are important, they are only points along the way of the journey. To me, the answer isn’t as important as the question. And the question you asked me was why the neck binding was so important to me. I have an answer to that question, but before I got there, I had to ask another question.”
“You’re talking in circles, Skye.”
“I’m not, actually. You’re just refusing to see the shades and layers between black and white.”
“That’s not true. I wouldn’t be much of a businessman if I didn’t recognize that there aren’t any absolutes.”
“There you go, then. There is no one absolute answer to your question. I have an answer today—and that answer makes sense today—but I feel there’s more to learn about myself, and that might change the answer later.”
“Fair enough. What’s your answer today?”
“I was punishing myself.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Once I figured out that I saw the bondage as punishment, I knew right away why I wanted it. It’s because I feel like a fraud. The only reason anyone cares what I think is because I’m your girlfriend. Things went down and down after that. I lost my friendship with Tessa. I did a half-assed post for Susanne because I didn’t think I was any better than that. And then, that night in New York, you left me, too.”
“But that was after—”
“I know. I know. I’m getting to that.”
“Okay,” he says. “Go on.”
“So I talked to my mother, and I talked to a therapist, and with their help, I figured something out.” I hold back tears as I pour out the story of the cornfield with the added memory of catching my mother in bed with Mario. About how my mother didn’t want any more children.