Love Hacked (Knitting in the City #3)(65)
Author: Penny Reid

“Here.” I tossed him the package. “This is for you.”

“What is it?” He eyeballed it skeptically like he’d never seen a present before.

“Rope.”

His eyes widened—not with surprise but with excitement, “Really?”

“No.” I hit the mattress because I wasn’t close enough to hit him on the shoulder. “But I’ll find out which wedding anniversary is the rope anniversary, and we can invest in a length of non-hemp rope.”

“What’s wrong with hemp?”

“It leaves marks.”

His eyebrows arched.

I waved the conversation away with my hand. “Or so I’ve been told. Whatever. Just….” I inhaled, exhaled, plastered a smile on my face. “Just open it.”

He began opening it—tearing the paper then stopping. I watched him as he fingered one ripped piece as if he’d hurt the paper and regretted the action. After a prolonged moment, he removed the rest of the wrapping and exposed the black cashmere scarf, hat, and mittens.

I bounced a little on the bed. “Do you like it? I made it. See the mittens, the top comes off so you can make them fingerless if you need to use your hands. Look at the palm—I added a key, because you hold the key to my heart.”

I glanced between him and the set, waited for his excitement or praise or disappointment. But he didn’t touch it. He didn’t put it on. He held it and stared at it and frowned.

In fact, he was immobile for so long I became concerned. “Alex…?”

“You made me something.”

I nodded. “Yes. Is it okay? I can always knit something else if….”

His eyes lifted to mine and they were glassy. He didn’t cry, likely due to the force of his iron will, but the effect of his shining gaze was the same. He was so brave, so strong, and had been so alone. Even as my heart reached for him I kept my hands at my sides.

“Alex, are you alright?”

“No one has ever given me a gift before.” He returned his attention to the contents of the package and petted the scarf, rubbed his thumb over it. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I pressed my hand to my heart. Not for the first time, I imagined what my childhood would have been like with no gifts, no proud parents, no loving embraces. I often tapped into this empathy when working with my patients, designing the best treatment plan for success.

I watched Alex’s chest expand on a silent breath.

Unexpectedly, he said, “I have no pajamas.”

I shifted from a sitting position to a kneeling position on the bed, inched closer to him. He continued in his stillness and my eyes moved over him, assessing.

The silence was loud, meaningful, and it hurt my heart.

At length he said, “Ask me why.”

“Okay.” I scooted closer; now he was almost within touching distance. “Why don’t you have pajamas?”

“Because I never knew about them when I was growing up. And in prison, you wear the same thing all day and night.”

“What did you wear to bed? Growing up?”

He shrugged; his eyes had a distant look as though he were lost in the memory. “Sometimes I wore the same clothes for several days—to school and to sleep.”

My heart hurt for him, but my brain recalled my training and what I knew of the repercussions of childhood neglect; how important it was for the victim to feel empowered and valued. “You can have pajamas now if you want them.”

His eyes cut to mine, and his previously unfocused expression became sharp and irritated. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Don’t use that voice on me.”

I stared at him, flummoxed, then searched the ceiling for answers. When it gave me none, I let my hands fall to my thighs with a smack. “Alex, you were neglected as a child. I see child neglect cases all the time. How am I supposed to sit by and not try to help?”

“I want your help. But I do not want her help.”

My face fell into my hands and I shook my head. “We are the same person.”

“No. You’re not. You’re my wife, not my therapist. You shouldn’t want to fix me. You should love me as I am.”

“I do love you. But how am I supposed to watch you hurt without trying to help?”

He turned toward me, set my gift aside, and reached for my hand. “Give me yourself; don’t give me psychoanalysis and cognitive restructuring theory.”

I set my jaw and glared at him. “I don’t want to walk on eggshells.”

“And I don’t want to hide my past from you. I want to talk to you about it. But I can’t do that if it’s about fixing me.”

“Hiding the damage isn’t going to help, Alex.”

He paused; frowned at me like I didn’t understand him, his perspective, like he was disappointed in me. Then, abruptly—like a man with a light bulb above his head—something behind his eyes shifted.

When he spoke next, his tone was aloof—almost academic. “I agree that many damaged people want to hide, but I think most just want to be heard, listened to, made to feel important. Those kinds of individuals have found you in the past because you have a remarkable gift for making people feel valued. However, once you’ve filled your role, you’re discarded.”

I stared at him for a long moment. I frowned at his intellectual assessment of my disastrous and painful love life. He sounded like Thomas. Then, a light bulb turned on in my head, and I realized he sounded like me.

“Thank you,” I said, even though his words made me angry. He was right, of course, but labeling the container as truth didn’t make the reality pill any easier to swallow.

Was this his way of telling me that, eventually, when I’d filled my role, I would be discarded? I wanted a partner, not a patient. I didn’t want damaged, but I was the True North to all damaged male magnets. And Alex was textbook broken.

“You’re welcome.” There was a sardonic quality to his voice as if he’d known his words would make me angry.

And because I was angry, I asked before I could stop myself, “And how about you?”

“Me?”

“Which kind are you? Do you want to hide, or are you just looking for someone to listen? And when do you think I will have fulfilled my role?” My fears, which I’d resolved to fight through, were now bubbling to the surface.

He stared at me, searched my expression. I held his gaze and my breath, not quite regretting my words. I needed to know. I’d already plummeted into stupid love with him. It was only fair to know the mechanism of our inevitable separation, his future rejection.

As though he’d at that precise moment decided something of great importance, Alex grabbed me by the shoulders, turned, and pinned me against the bed, my arms trapped. He hovered above me, eyes moving between mine, and shook me a little—just a slight tremor—softly demanding my attention.

“Never, Sandra,” he growled then pressed an achingly gentle kiss to my lips; when he lifted his head, his tone was more beseeching. “I’m not hiding and I’m not seeking affirmation. I just want to be with you.”

My bottom lip quivered, and I hated the gathering moisture in my eyes. “But how is that possible?”

“Believe me.”

“How can I? I see foster kids every day. Yes, there are some exceptions to the rule, but rejection, neglect, abandonment—these are the central truths of who you are. By your own admission, you have no experience with love—with loving or being loved in return. You’re asking me to pretend there isn’t a ticking time bomb between us when I know better. It’s only a matter time before I become your….”

“I was misdiagnosed as a savant when I was five. I’ve been in psychotherapy since I was eight. I don’t like psychiatrists. I’ve told you that. Do you actually think I want to be with you because you’re a shrink? That’s madness. I want to be with you in spite of what you do. Yes, you make me feel valued—but I hope that makes me normal, not pathological. And I hope I make you feel the same.”

“Alex, I….”

“No.” His thumb pressed against my lips. “You need to understand and believe what I’m saying to you. This isn’t about me; this is about us. I’m not going to change, not on purpose, not because you want me to or think I need to. I’m never going to change for the better, never in the way you hope. All the things that piss you off about me—that drive you crazy—those things are only going to get worse with time. I’m going to get on your nerves until you want to tear your hair out. And one day soon, you are going to make me punch holes through the drywall in our apartment because you exasperate the hell out of me.”

I laughed despite my tears and sniffled.

“But I promise you,” Alex lowered his forehead to mine and we briefly touched noses, “I will change in ways that neither of us expects. And so will you. Not because we’ve worked through personal issues and childhood traumas, but because we’ll be changing together. We’ll be growing together. Becoming more, together.”

I heaved a watery sigh, and we lay breathing each other in for a long moment. His grip gentled, became caressing against my cheek. He threaded the fingers of one hand through my hair and settled them on the base of my neck. His eyes were no less savage, but they were entirely unguarded.