So until such time the lie about my profession compromises my moral compass to the extent I feel I’m harming her, I am going to keep things as is.
Jaime doesn’t respond to my question. It’s something I would have asked her had I arrived earlier—say to have dinner with her first. I love to hear all about her work, which I’ve come to learn is important and lifesaving to many people. While Jaime will try to start a conversation about “my work,” I usually put her off with a, “you don’t want to be bored by that,” or “it was a crappy day, and I would rather not talk about it” type of responses.
“Are you in an orgasmic coma?” I tease, taking her chin in between my thumb and forefinger and giving her a little shake.
She grins, stretches again. “Sorry… it’s just… I think you broke me a little just now. But I mean that in the best of ways.”
“We can fuck like that any time you want,” I promise as I release her chin. Curling my arm under my head, I ask again, “So how was work yesterday?”
Jaime’s expression clouds, her mouth turning downward. “Not the greatest.”
“What happened?” My hand immediately goes to her waist to pull her in a little closer, enough so my hand can rest on her lower back. I glide my fingers there in a comforting measure.
“A woman I helped place in a shelter last week left, presumably going back to her abuser.”
One thing I notice about Jaime is she never refers to the men from whom she helps to keep women safe as a “husband” or a “boyfriend.” She only calls them abusers, meaning she doesn’t give them any human credence at all.
“And?” I prompt, knowing this story won’t have a happy ending.
“She’s in the hospital,” she whispers, eyes misting up a bit. I’ve never seen her cry. I mean, we’ve only been dating a week, but she’s such a happy optimist. There’s never been a situation where I would have seen tears.
I’m now seeing the ugly side of her work.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He beat her with a bat.” Jaime grimaces. “She has a brain bleed. She’s in pretty bad shape.”
“Has he been arrested?”
She nods. “Small consolation, right?”
I use my arm to pull her all the way into me, my other hand going to the back of her head to tuck her against my shoulder so I can hold her tightly. My lips go to her head. “I’m sorry. You must be heartbroken.”
She pulls back quickly, chin contracting inward to look at me. “I’m not heartbroken,” she says, eyes still with a wet sheen. “I’m pissed.”
I blink in surprise at the vehemence in her voice.
“I’m pissed at her for going back to him. She knew this would happen again, but she loves him. But that’s not love, you know what I mean? A man cannot love a woman and hurt her like that. It shows an absolute disrespect, which I loathe. But more than anything, I’m pissed at her for going back when we had her safe and cared for.”
I draw in a slow breath. “I imagine it’s difficult for some women to break that tie. Afraid they can’t make it. Or that the abuse is better than being alone.”
“Yes,” she growls, huffing out a breath of frustration. “I get all that. I understand the victim psychology. It’s my specialty. But I still get pissed.”
“Because you want every woman you help to have a success story.”
“Exactly,” she murmurs, then moves into me to snuggle tight. She mutters against the skin of my chest. “Didn’t mean to unload like that.”
“You unload anytime you want,” I assure her, but I feel that small twinge of guilt. Will I always be here to lean on in times like these? And it struck a chord when she talked about disrespect. I’m not abusing Jaime, but I am disrespecting her by continuing my lie.
Christ, part of me feels I should confess right now, but there’s something inside me sounding an alarm bell. She’d be hurt by it, yes. But I suspect she’d be pissed, and I’m not quite ready to let this thing—whatever it is—be over yet.
God, I’m a selfish son of a bitch.
And I reason that this is just a casual, easy relationship. We’ve not talked about commitment or monogamy, although I’d go ape shit if she wanted to see someone else. We’re having fun. A good time. Nothing to indicate this is more than just two people who enjoy each other’s company and are extremely compatible in bed.
Except… I felt her pain just moments ago when she was telling me about the woman who went back to her abuser. I wanted to comfort her and make it better.
And fuck… I sent her flowers this week at work. For no reason. My card read, “Just because I wanted to,” because I was sure she’d be asking herself why in the world I’d do that. She loved them so much, calling me up immediately to gush about them.