J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forget

“Everything okay?”

He motions to the table and chairs by the door. “Can we sit?”

I grab a chair and drop in it. He pulls out the one next to me, turns it to face mine, and has a seat. “There are . . . things, um, about me that are probably not like most guys you’ve been with.”

I know. “Rex, you don’t—”

He holds up his hand. “Let me explain.”

I nod for him to go on.

He digs his fists into his eyes then drops to rest his elbows on his knees as he was by the pool. The look is pure defeat, and seeing a strong fighter like Rex curled in on himself twists my gut.

He tilts his head up to meet my eyes. And like the pool water, the usual blue looks like black in the dark. “You already know about the, uh . . . my home and the control thing—”

“I know, but, Rex, this conversation obviously makes you uncomfortable. I don’t want you to share with me anything that you don’t want to.” Because it reminds me of all the ways that you’re strong and I’m weak.

“The way I see it, the direction this”—he motions between us with a few flicks of his hand—“is going? I’ll sacrifice a little comfort now to avoid the situation that may or may not happen later.”

“Situation?”

He exhales and drops his head into his hands, plowing his fingers through his hair. I want to comfort him, kneel down at his feet, wrap my arms around his body, and take it all away. If only the sheer power of my love and need for him could erase a multitude of ugly, I swear, if he’d let me, I think it could.

But this isn’t the time for hugs and confessions of love. This is my chance to shut up and listen. I lean toward him and cover my mouth to make sure I don’t interrupt him again.

I study the colors on his arms, a million different tiny pictures I’m sure I could study every day for a year and find something new each time. Unique. Beautiful. Just like him.

“I’ve been seeing a therapist since I was a kid.” He keeps his face toward the pool deck.

I’m comforted to know he has someone to talk to, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous. I wish I could’ve been there for him, his shoulder to cry on, his sounding board. His everything.

“Remember that night we spoke about the nightmares?” He peeks up at me from beneath a few longer pieces of his hair that have fallen over his forehead. “Mac, I can’t—shit, this is impossible.” He leans back in his seat, throwing a forearm over his eyes.

I roll my lips between my teeth. He’s in pain, hurting, and it’s killing me to watch. I just want this over with so we can get back to us. The present day us.

With a deep groan, he’s back, eyes on mine. They’re conflicted, and damn it’s hard to hold his stare. “I don’t remember much from my past.”

He’s going there.

“When I was ten I was taken out of a foster home.” He talks fast, as if he can’t wait to be free of the words. “My time there was a . . . before and when I was there is all kind of a blur.”

I force an emotionless mask as my heart thunders against my ribs.

“I get flashes—recurring dreams.” He shrugs and uses his fingers to spin his lip ring. “They’re pretty violent. Evil. All except one.”

My nose and eyes burn with emotion as it threatens to unleash. I need to give him this, allow him this moment. His strength is astounding and I can’t help but envy him.

“My shrink says that some trauma from my past is locked up in my head somewhere, torturing me.”

As if what he had to endure as a child wasn’t enough, he’s still suffering. I guess I expected that, but the hopeful side thought maybe it’s possible to move on from the ugly. The successful career, popular band, all his friends, he looks like he’s doing great. But what’s going on inside his head is the proof behind his past.

A past he can’t remember.

A past he doesn’t know exists.

A past that I can give back to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I cough to clear the sob that’s pushing to the surface.

“No.” He leans forward, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s just it. I made more progress yesterday than I have in years”—he smiles, small but unmistakable—“because of you.”

Game. Over.

I cover my face with my hands, no longer able to hold back the rush of emotion. I thought I knew pain, internal anguish, heartache that stung so badly you pray for death. I was wrong.

This is worse.

“Whoa, Mac.” He pulls me from my chair and into his lap.

I curl up there, while sobs rip from my chest. He holds me tighter, rubbing my back and saying soothing things that I can’t even hear over the sound of my breakdown.

As if I could feel any worse? Guilt for not saving him when I had the chance and now the shame that I’m still not strong enough to tell him everything, consume me. He’s exposed his weaknesses, let me in and never looked back, but me . . . I can’t bear to tell him the truth.

It was stupid to think my coming to Vegas would be good for anyone. He says my presence in his life has helped, but he’s not talking about me, Gia. He’s talking about Mac.

And Mac is an illusion.

She doesn’t exist.

What the fuck am I doing? I want to scream, break, and destroy. Sanity wanders off as my thoughts turn desperate. I dig fists into my eyes, pushing back my frantic desire. Think. I’ve come this far. I can’t give up yet, not when I’m so close.

Mac isn’t real—her social security number, ID, eye color. But that’s who he wants—the fake—not me.

Unless . . .

I could become Mac permanently, change my name legally, and keep dying my hair. The contacts will be harder to keep up with, but not impossible. It would be worth it to be with Rex, to keep him in the dark about his past, our history.

My crying quiets as a new plan forms.

“Why are you crying?” He’s still rubbing circles on my back. “What did I say?”

I wipe the moisture from my cheeks “I hate that for you. All of it.”

“Yeah, baby, me too.” He gives me a squeeze. “But things are lookin’ up. I’m here with you, got you in my arms, biggest fight of my career tomorrow night, and you in my corner. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mac. I’m thinkin’ with you by my side, there’s not much I can’t do.”

I pull back enough to see his face, and it doesn’t look like he’s joking. “I think you’re amazing.” And so much more.

His hand moves to cup my cheek. He runs his thumb along my lower lip. “I want to kiss you, but there’s one more thing you need to know before we go there.”

I take a deep breath and nod.

“In the past, after I, uh . . . sex, or actually after sex, I sometimes get sick.”

What? What!

“It’s embarrassing, and it’s not something I’ve ever shared with anyone else, but I think if we plan on hanging out in the future I want you to know if that ever happens it has zero to do with you.”

“You get sick? As in . . .”

He shrugs and drops his gaze. “I get nauseated, puke, gag . . .”

That first night I kissed him on the bed, when he jumped up, he was holding his stomach. The memory of his random muscle cramp at Jonah’s floods my mind. He was gripping his shirt at his stomach then too.

And last night, when we were both catching our breath, he buried his face in my hair, but wouldn’t speak. Was he fighting to hold it down?

Hooking my fingers under his chin, I force him to look me in the eye. “I don’t care. We can take this wherever you want it to go whenever you want to go there. The only thing I want from you is a chance.”

He stares at me for a few long seconds, eyebrows pinched, and then turns his face to kiss my palm. “You’ve got it.”

I’ve got it. A chance. A future. Hope for something more than the dismal life I’ve led up to this point.

The past can be forgotten. Like Rex, I can evolve into a new me who doesn’t know about the horrific history of the man she loves.

I close my eyes and nuzzle my nose into his neck. With renewed strength, and my eyes focused forward instead of back, I say good bye to Gia, the little girl who’s seen more evil than most people see in a lifetime.

Sucking in a deep breath, I allow the scent of Rex’s skin to wash away the old me and bury her for good with peace in her heart. Her job is done.

I open my eyes to a new life, the one I’m choosing.

My life with Rex.

My life as Mac.

Rex

Nothing in my life, at least the parts I can remember, has ever felt as good as holding Mac. She took every piece of shit I slung at her and didn’t seem affected at all. I started to wonder if she’d even heard me, but when she broke down, I knew she did.

She cried.

For me.

Not because she was disgusted by a man who’d vomit after sex. Not because she couldn’t figure out a way to kick me out fast enough. She curled up in my lap, sobbing as if it was the best and only place she’d ever want to be.

I’ve never been needed like that. Never been someone’s comfort.

I like it. Shit, I like being that for her.

Blake’s flip out at the gym today, Jonah’s willingness to walk away from everything he’s worked for . . .

Fuck me, but I totally get it now.

The urgent need to protect her, keep her safe from any and every thing is there, but there’s something else too: an egotistical drive to possess and claim her, willing to fuck-up anyone who tries to take her away.