He looked up; his forehead furrowed. “What do you see me as today, Megan?”
I traced his skin with my finger, trying to smooth out the lines of anxiety. “A gifted artist. Haunted by his past. Alone. Scared to admit what he really needs.”
“What do I really need?”
“To forgive yourself. “ I drew in a deep breath. “To let yourself be loved.”
“You still think you love me?”
“I don’t think. I know.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I still do.”
“You might not after I tell you.”
“And I might very well love you more.”
The startled look on his face told me he never expected to hear those words.
“Megan—”
“Tell me, Zachary. Tell me your story and let me judge my feelings. You want honesty?”
“Yes.”
“Then give me yours and I’ll give you mine.”
His eyes searched my face. “I promise you I’ll listen with an open heart,” I pleaded in a soft, reassuring voice. “We can’t move forward until we get through this. You know that.”
He sat up. “All right, but not here, not in our bed. I need to have a shower and I’ll meet you in the living room.”
Grabbing some clothes, he disappeared into the bathroom.
Our bed.
I wondered if he realized those were the words he used.* * *He paced, walking around the room, adjusting pictures, shifting small items the slightest fraction to the left or right, only to push it back to its original place. He stood in front of Tempest, staring in silence—a frown on his face, shoulders rigid and unyielding. From my place on the sofa I watched, forcing myself not to get up and touch him, not to raise my voice and call to him. He had to come to me. He had to be the one to open the dialogue. He traced his initials in the corner with one long finger, over and again, eventually lowering his arm, resting his hand on the mantle. A deep shudder flowed through his body and he turned to look at me, defeat already in his stance. I couldn’t take it anymore and held out my hand to him, pleased when he reached out and took it, coming to sit with me on the sofa. He stared down at our entwined hands, then lifted them and kissing my palm before pulling away. He leaned forward and took one of his peppermints from the bowl on the coffee table. The familiar sound of the candy wrapper being opened made me smile.
Without a word, he offered it to me, unwrapping a new one for himself when I took it out of his hand. The fresh flavor of sweet mint filled my mouth, reminding me of his taste when he kissed me. “You eat these, a lot.”
He grunted in agreement. “When I woke up…after…my throat hurt and I had a funny taste in my mouth all the time. One of the nurses gave me this kind of peppermint and I liked it. It wasn’t as strong as some kinds and I enjoy the sweetness.” He bit down, his jaw flexing as he chewed on the mint. “I kind of became addicted to them, I think. Mrs. Cooper keeps that brand in especially for me.”
“They are good,” I agreed, hoping he would keep talking.
He fell silent again. The cushions shifted as he moved, his long legs stretching and bending. An irregular beat was tapped out by his restless fingers, but still he said nothing. He shifted forward, his arms resting on his thighs, staring into the fire. I could feel the tension starting to build in him, his lips thinning in a grimace, his face becoming determined, so I slid closer.
“Zachary—”
“I don’t know how to do this, Megan.”
“What can I do?”
“Maybe if you asked me some questions? Could you do that?”
“Are you sure you want to do this today?”
His eyes, tormented and worried, but determined, met mine. “Yes.”
I slipped my hand into his.
“Okay then. Together.”
He nodded.
“Together.”16MeganZachary looked anxious as his hand clutched mine in a tight grip. So, I kissed his cheek gently, trying to let him know I was here and ready for whatever he had to say. I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but I was sure I could handle it. I prayed I could. I also tried to think of how to start the conversation in such a way he wouldn’t immediately shut himself off.
Looking around the room, my gaze landed on his painting. “Have you always painted?”
“No.”
I tried again.
“What did you do before you started painting?”
His inhale of air told me that maybe wasn’t the best question to start with, but I forged ahead. “You must have done something?”
“I was an actor.”
That surprised me. I racked my brains trying to remember his name, but came up with nothing.
“Sorry, I guess I’m not familiar with your work.”
He shook his head. “Given our age difference that doesn’t surprise me. Since you would have been about thirteen when I was at the height of my career, it’s hardly a shock. You were probably far more into boy bands than older movie stars.”