I’d like very much to not fuck this up, so I’m going to think about all of the things I need him to know. Where do I start? Acknowledge his commitment to Jett? Tell him how I feel? Or… tell him what I want?
WhatdoI want?
Us.
I try to imagine waking up to him when I’m fifty years old. He’ll be barely forty and looking fine as shit, no doubt. I can see us, still laughing about our made-up curse words and how he mowed me down in a grocery store a long, long time ago. I can feel our weathered skin as we sit hand in hand, swaying on a porch swing. I can taste his sweat as he pumps his beautiful cock into me, getting me pregnant for the fourth time. His hair is peppered with white on the sides, and my skin is looser, but it’s still us.
And I can see it.
My veins buzz at the false memories. I want them to be true. I can see mundane and passion, heat and anger. We’d have it all together.
My head feels heavy as my body begins unloading pent-up anxiety, releasing its grip on my tightly flexed shoulders and stomach. Relaxing, I promise myself to get up and go talk to Beau right now.
That waiting one more second is a mistake.
But then… I fall asleep.
* * *
I wake up,boobs throbbing, room black, panic and sweat coating me in sheets. Flying out of bed, I grab my phone. 12:14 am.Holy shit. I fell asleep at like eight o’clock! Disoriented and so insanely panicked from not having spoken with Beau yet, I push open the door and pad my way down the hall, careful to not wake either of them. Peering in Jett’s nursery, he’s sound asleep, so I’m about to keep going when my eyes catch on something, causing me to stop and double back.
There’s a large, muscled lump on the floor, and my heart slams into my ribs at the sight.
He fell asleep getting Jett to bed.
My poor pussy can’t catch a break.
Quietly, I make my way in the room, kneel, catch my breath, then silently and gently shake Beau awake. His eyes flutter, long lashes catching as he fights sleep to see me. After a moment, he only blinks once, and his mouth falls open.
“Come to the living room,” I whisper, but I wrap my hands in his shirt, curling them so hard that the fabric pulls tight on him. He blinks at me a few times, dazed and maybe a little confused. But I yank him again, desperation dripping from my eyes in the form of silent tears. He gets to his feet, and at some point, I release him, and then we’re in the hall. He walks to the living room and I follow him.
I feel like I’m spinning. The weight of not knowing where we stand is crushing me, I can’t take another breath until I know if the man that sleeps on my son’s bedroom floor is going to forgive me.
“I’m in love with you,” I start because is there a better place to start? Seriously. “I should have said it much sooner. I should have said it months ago.” I shake my head, so many words fogging my mind, the ability to articulate them seemingly harder and harder to control.
“I had to give Dustin the opportunity not to hate himself later in life, if he gets better. And when it came to Jett, I had to make sure that choosing for himnotto have his birth father in his life was the right choice forhim. Not for me. I had to set myself aside and say even if I hate Dustin with every fiber of my being, I have to make sure because this is Jett’s mental health down the road riding onmychoice now. This wasn’t something I could take lightly.” I take a breath, discovering I’m shaking slightly.
Two solid fingers lift my chin, and our eyes lock, so much heat between us.
“I understand that. I never wanted to make you feel like I questioned your choices. I was just, very hurt that you didn’t take me along with you, even just by letting me in the know.”
I nod, my chest squeezes with achy fullness, stress still pinching everywhere inside me, making me shift on my feet a little. “I’m sorry. Everytime Dustin disappointed me, I felt so ashamed. I was embarrassed.”
“Why embarrassed?” he asks, face painted in genuine confusion.
“How fucking awful of a wife must I have been to make him not even want to see his own son?” Tears break loose and I don’t want them to. I don’t want this talk to be aboutthis. “I don’t want to make this about me, Beau. This is about you, and us. And… how sorry I am.” I feel so desperate. His face is soft but studying mine, and my stomach twitches in response.
“Do youreallythink that?”
My eyes drop to his chest as I consider it.
Iamembarrassed that my marriage failed.
It’s true.
“Yes,” I say, even though I hate to say it. It’s honest, and he’s earned that. More than.
“Baby, you gotta hear this, okay? Like, really fucking hear it. Think about it. Chant this shit in front of your mirror every day. Get it tattooed on that sexy thigh of yours. Fuck, I’ll get it tattooed on my chest so you can read it every day you ride my cock. But no matter what, repeat these words to yourselfevery dayuntil it’s part of your soul.”