K. Bromberg - Slow Burn

“Becks …” Any excuses I have die a strangled death on my tongue when hurt flashes once again in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it as an insult….”

He groans in frustrated exasperation. “Please tell me Ry thinks you’re being just as frustratingly stubborn about this as I do.”

I’m not sure how exactly I give myself away, but the brief hesitancy in my movement or the hitch in my breath tells him everything. His eyes widen and his nostrils flare. “What? Un-fucking-believable! You haven’t told her?” His voice rises as he walks away from me and kicks a small log on the ground so that it flies and hits against a tree, dust particles floating into the air.

I focus on those particles shining innocently against the sun’s backdrop. They look so free, so light, and I’d give anything to be one of those right now.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The words flicker into my head—words as tried and true as time—but their significance right now is a bit much for me. I try to shake the images the thoughts evoke from my head and only succeed in becoming more panicked, more desperate.

“There’s nothing to tell yet,” I shout at him, hoping that the escalation of my voice reinforces my statement.

“Yeah, there’s nothing to tell, and yet you haven’t told the person you’re closest to in the whole goddamn world about it. I’m sure you have some oceanfront property in Arizona you want to sell me since you seem to think I’m that fucking gullible.”

His words slap at me and, God, yes, I deserve them but the anger overrides the confusion and disheartened fear. “Fuck you.” My tone is low and even, a chill to it that he doesn’t deserve. How dare he judge me, mock me, come at me in regards to anything with Rylee?

My friend, my business. And then I groan inwardly because he’s right about it on every level, and all of a sudden it hits me that not telling her is still lying, regardless of whatever intention was behind it.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Montgomery?” he challenges as he steps closer, his anger vibrating off him and crashing into me. “You’d prefer to be fucked so mindless that you can’t remember what lies you’re keeping from whom and how many people care about you that you keep treating like crap and pushing away. What kind of game are you playing here? Let’s see how alone I can be? Let’s prove how stubborn I am?” He runs his hands through his hair, exasperated. “It’s like you’re trying to make me second-guess my feelings for you….” His words come out in a burst of heat but then trail off, and I can see the moment it all clicks for him. When the scattered jigsaw pieces of my sporadic and confusing actions suddenly fall into place.

Fuck me running.

Becks’s head angles to the side again, and his eyes narrow. I can see him trying to process what he’s just concluded. He takes another step closer into my personal space, and even though I’m outdoors with nothing around me, my feet are glued to the ground, and I feel like my back is up against a goddamn wall.

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

I can’t speak, so I simply stare at him as my eyes burn with tears I don’t want to shed. I work a swallow down my throat, and I see his eyes track me, struggling to get the words past my lips. His expression softens immediately. Within a second, his arms—the ones I don’t want around me, and yet I want them so desperately at the same—are there, drawing me into him.

I tell myself to fight it, not to accept the comfort because I don’t deserve it, but my body’s innate reaction takes over. My hands grip in the shirt he slipped back on when he chased after me, and my face finds that spot just beneath his chin. His hand is on the back of my head holding me to him, our hearts thundering against each other’s.

The world spins beneath our feet, and nature hums around us, but I feel like time stands still, and I just hold tight to Becks and to that comforting thought.

“I don’t care how hard you push me, Montgomery. I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs into the crown of my head, his hands pressing me farther into him. “You don’t have to do whatever this is alone.”

My emotions spiral into a continual free fall with his admission. I want to tell him that this isn’t anything—him, me, us, a bad diagnosis—but I’m so sick of pushing people out that for once all I want is to pull him in. My hands fist tighter into the fabric as I try to gain some kind of control of my inner turmoil, but it’s useless. We stand there for a moment, both breathing each other in and trying to understand the other’s reactions.

After a bit, when my fingers are relaxed on his shirt but his are still grasping me tight, I say in an even, unemotional voice that surprises even me, “Nothing has happened yet, Becks. Nothing.”

He sighs, and I can feel his jaw clench. “You’re scared so shitless you’re running…. That’s something. That’s more than something .”

I accept his words, know they are the truth, but I still need to warn him away. “I don’t know what it is yet, but I know that if it’s what I fear, asking anyone to stand beside me, suffer as I go through it, deal with the crap that comes with it … the side effects, the aftereffects, the scars inside and out … that’s something I can’t ask of anyone. Ever.”

His fingers dig into my shoulders as he pushes me back so that I’m forced to look into his eyes. They search mine for the remainder of the truths he knows are there but that I won’t voice: life, death, losing my breasts, losing my hair, scars, infertility. I try to guard those fears, not even wanting to go there yet, not wanting to admit those to him.

“And again, I call bullshit on that. You don’t get to choose the people that care about you. You don’t get to make choices for others, tell them how to feel or, better yet, block them out because of what you think they’ll go through.” Anger starts to weave through his voice, despite the soft brush of his thumb over my cheek, a gentle reassurance against the onslaught of chastising words I hear but struggle to accept. “It’s my choice, Ry’s choice how we choose to deal with it … not yours. I just …” His voice trails off as he shakes his head and leans forward so that his forehead rests against mine.

“Becks, I’m just trying to do what’s best for everyone.”

“What’s best?” He pulls back, irritation rising in him again. “God, you stubborn, fucking woman. Quit being a martyr. What’s best is you letting me make my own goddamn decisions and for you to stop lying to me so that I can.” He releases me and paces a few feet, energy so raw he needs to move. “What’s best is you pulling your head out of your ass long enough to realize I care about you, Ry cares about you—”

“I don’t want her to know.” My voice is implacable as I think of the heartache Ry’s endured over the past few years and how I don’t want to add to it until there is a finite answer. I don’t want to add undue stress to her. “And I never lied to you….”

He bites his bottom lip and grimaces. “Fuck!” he growls out to the trees above him, and then rolls his shoulders to dissipate some of the stress I see settling there. “Semantics aren’t an excuse. An omission is the same as lying, Haddie, but you’re missing the point entirely. It’s not whether it was a lie or not. It’s so damn far from that. It’s you using the sex we’ve had to numb yourself when it should do the exact opposite. It should light your body on fire and burrow so deep under your skin that all you think about is the next time you can have me … because fuck if that’s not what you’ve done to me. So I call your bluff. I’ll keep calling it every fucking day until you admit you want me, that being with me does that to you too … but you won’t, will you?” I just remain still, face impassive, body raging with emotion beneath the surface. “You’d rather stand there and tell me you prefer the numb, the void, the nothing, than admit you need me.”