And not even a particularly well-made one… Part of the bread was torn as if the peanut butter had been spread aggressively, and jelly dripped over the edge.
“I have skills,” Trent said as he picked up his own sandwich, “but cooking isn’t one of them.”
Sunny didn’t bother to hide her laughter, especially when Trent didn’t look the least bit ashamed of his poor culinary showing. His reaction was odd for her.
Tanner had exploded at the mere thought that he had any flaws. She still recalled when he’d tried to put together a shelf one time, when he’d skipped steps on it accidently and ended up with the entire thing crooked. Sunny breathed through the memory of his reaction, at how he’d somehow made it her fault and how he’d never been willing to see himself as anything less than perfect.
So the fact Trent could so obviously be terrible at cooking, with the evidence there, with him admitting his failures, while not seeming to care at all, felt strange.
They ate the food in silence, since even badly made, a PB&J sandwich tasted pretty much the same as any other. The evening passed, the day passing to night and the light disappearing.
Once the sun had set and it was darker out, she found it easier to say the things to him that she needed to. “You confuse me.”
“Oh? Usually people say I’m simple, and they don’t mean it as a compliment.”
He took her empty plate and set it on top of his, then placed both on the table.
“You can be so lighthearted sometimes but intense others.”
“And by intense, you mean that I’m a sadist, right?”
She shifted, the word like an ugly beast who was so close, snarling and dangerous.
He nodded, not trying to touch her or pull an answer from her. Then again, he could figure it out, couldn’t he? “I figured as much.”
Sunny closed her eyes, pulling together the little shreds of worry until they made something almost coherent. “Tanner, my ex, he liked to hurt me.”
“I know.”
“So aren’t you basically the same as him?” She asked the question so softly, she wasn’t sure he could hear her at first. Even though she’d reached a point where she didn’t think he’d haul off and hurt her for it, the question was an ugly one. It was one sheknewhe wouldn’t react well to. She’d essentially said he was the same as her abusive ex. No man, even the bad ones, wanted to hear that.
Still, it was one she needed to understand, one she needed an answer to before she could truly trust him, before she could let go of that lingering fear inside her.
“No, I’m not the same as him.” Trent’s voice was careful, and if he was offended, he didn’t show it.
“But you like what he liked. How is that different? It didn’t start out bad with Tanner either, so how do I know it won’t go that way with you? How do I know it wouldn’t keep getting worse until I’m in the same exact place again?”
Trent leaned back, as if that would calm down the conversation. “I like causing pain that my partnerenjoys. That’s the difference, honey. If you didn’t like it, not only would I not do it, because I’m not a monster, but I wouldn’t enjoy it, either. I like putting the clamps on you because you get wet, and you make these little excited sounds, and it is feeding some need inside you that was starving before. It’s taking care of you.”
She shook her head. “I don’tneedthat.”
“You sure? Because you responded beautifully, like you’d been missing it.”
“I didn’t like what Tanner did,” she snapped. Trent’s words were like a weapon that hurt.
Trent twisted to look at her. “I never said you did. Just because you like pain, because you crave it, doesn’t mean what that asshole did was okay. It doesn’t mean you wantedthat. I’m not blaming you or saying you asked for it. There’s a difference.”
“I don’t understand how it’s different,” she whispered.
“Sex and rape are different, aren’t they? Same basic physical mechanics, but consent changes them from one thing to another. Pain isn’t any different. You can need it and love it when it’s from someone you trust but hate it when it’s a violation, when it’s against your will.”
She looked away, trying to process what he’d said. It made sense, somehow, but she struggled to really believe it. Years of being broken down, of having someone twist her view of sex and consent, made it difficult to accept his point.
“How about I show you?”
Fear crept along the edges of her desire, waiting to strike, to turn the moment to panic, but she wouldn’t let it. She nodded, because even though she didn’t understand it, even though she told herself it was stupid, she did trust him.
Trent grasped her wrist to pull her over, and she expected him to bring her into his lap. Instead, he shifted her around so she was on her knees, lengthwise on the couch. A hand to her shoulder blades pressed her down until her chest hit the cushions, and he stretched her arms forward. Those cuffs, still on her from the day before, attached to the metal on the armrest of the couch. It occurred to her that she’d not removed them, and she refused to think about why.