A Dash of Spice

He planted his hands on his waist. “It’s like a million jackhammers going off inside my head. And I—”

He dropped his hands and lifted his arms in the air. As though he held the words on the tip of his tongue, but couldn’t bring himself to say them out loud.

“What?” she quietly asked. “What happens?”

“I throw up.”

“Well, I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

Now, his fists balled at his sides. “I scream, Ciara. At the top of my lungs. Because that’s how much it fucking hurts.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. More tears filled her eyes.

He said, “It’s like someone is taking an ice pick to my skull and splitting it open. And the pain slices down the back of my neck. Down my spine. And sometimes it’s completely blinding. And almost always debilitating.”

She stared up at him. Her body started to shake. The tears fell faster.

He told her, “It’s violent, insidious pain, Ciara.”

She pulled her hand away. “But isn’t that when you would need me the most?”

“You don’t fucking get it!” He turned away. But then immediately spun around. “It’s enough to bring me to my knees, sweetheart. Do you think I would ever want you to see me like that?”

“Oh, my God!” She launched herself into his arms. Sobbed uncontrollably.

He held her tight, with one arm wrapped around her. With his free hand, he stroked her hair.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered against her temple. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I didn’t mean to hurt you last night.”

“It’s not your fault,” she softly wailed. “You should have told me. I should know all these things about you. Damn it, Scout. I should know these things.”

“It makes it worse that you know.”

She raised her head and glared at him through her tears. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Ciara, my grandfather taught me not to be weak. Not to show weaknesses.”

“William Wood—”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” He laughed. A hollow, strangled laugh. But it was a start. “Don’t go there. I already feel like an asshole of epic proportions for ditching you in the middle of the night. And I hate that I can’t ever take that back. I should have left you a note, at the very least. There just wasn’t any time. These things hit fast and furious. And now here I am, making you cry. And fuck!” His arm tightened around her. She buried her face in the crook of his neck. “You told me you loved me. All I would ever want to do with that revelation, sweetheart, is to say it right back to you.”

This made her cry more.

“You’re killing me here,” he choked out. “You have to know I love you. We never needed to say the words. What we have isn’t perfect because we’ve had completely different plans for ourselves—it’s been that way our entire lives. But these feelings we have… They’ve been tried and true from the beginning, Ciara. From that first day I found you curled up in a corner of the rink, sleeping.”

“It was a great place to hide out,” she said on a broken sob. “Everyone was either on the ice or watching what was happening on the ice. Not paying any attention to me. I didn’t want anyone to see me.”

“You were eight years old. You shouldn’t have needed to hide out. From anyone.”

She nodded. “Habit. If my mother didn’t see me, she didn’t have to be revolted by the sight of me. By the fact that Delaney St. James’s daughter was ugly.”

“You were never ugly.”

“I wasn’t pretty.”

“Maybe not in the cover-model sense In the World According to Delaney St. James. But, yeah, Ciara. You were pretty. You were always pretty. It’s just that your mother kept telling you that you weren’t…and you believed her over everyone else.”

“Well,” she sniffled. “You did see her when she was alive. Difficult to argue with someone who made her living off of being beautiful by global standards.”