Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“Why did this constitute an emergency?” he asks.
“We’re divorced. That’s not what you do. When you divorce, you stop that. It shouldn’t have happened, but…”
I swallow, draw a deep breath as my heart races with the memory of our frantic lovemaking. No one has ever felt like that before or since, and I suspect no one ever will. Not just how it felt being inside of her, but how it felt. How it felt like coming home and running wild at the same damn time.
“Are you sure it shouldn’t have happened?” Dr. Musa asks softly. “Or are you just afraid of what it means if it happens again? If it keeps happening?”
“Yeah, that,” I mumble. “That might be it.”
“Do you want her?”
A scathing laugh slips out and I cannot stay in this seat. I spring to my feet and start pacing again, adrenaline and panic and desire sprinting a three-man race through my body.
“Of course I want her. I’ve always wanted her, even when I couldn’t…” I swallow, floundering at the prospect of discussing something so shameful I’ve never even revisited it in my own private thoughts. “There were times when I wanted her, but my body wouldn’t…well, when I didn’t…”
Despite all the secrets I’ve divulged to this man, the words about the times my body didn’t respond lodge in my throat. I give up on saying that shit out loud.
“A lot of men experience grief-induced impotence,” Dr. Musa says after a few moments of awkward silence.
“I wasn’t…that,” I grit out. “It was just a couple of times. I couldn’t—”
“Josiah,” he says softly, waiting until I meet his steady gaze. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of here, ever. Least of all over your body expressing grief in the only way it could.”
I’d never thought of it that way, and something knotted in my chest loosens.
“Well, it’s safe to say I don’t have that problem at all now.” I laugh harshly, eager to leave this most vulnerable point. “I can’t stop thinking about sleeping with her, but that doesn’t mean I should give in to it.”
“Why shouldn’t you give in to it?”
“How do I trust her?” I stop to stare at him. “I can’t do it again. I don’t think I’ll survive it.”
And there it is, the truth. It took everything I had and some stuff I didn’t know was there to live through Yasmen leaving me. Through her pushing me out of her life. Through her telling me she didn’t even know if she loved me anymore. Maybe dating Vashti wasn’t the best idea, but I needed to move on. At least I tried to make a life for myself that didn’t include her. Isn’t that what Yasmen wanted me to do? To leave?
“If this is just some phase she’s going through,” I continue, taking my seat again. “Some closure she needs for recovery or whatever, I can’t do it.”
“If this is something you want,” Dr. Musa says, “and you obviously have very strong feelings for her, lay some ground rules. Agree on your expectations. Articulate what you think this relationship will give you both, what you want from it, what’s acceptable, the grounds for ending it. All of it. Be up front and protect both of you in the long run. If you want it as badly as you seem to…”
He raises querying brows, silently asking if I do indeed want it.
“Yeah. I want it.”
I want her.
“Then do what you should have been doing all along,” he says. “What you should have done the first time around.”
“And what’s that, Doc?”
He smiles, not unkindly. “Talk to her.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Yasmen
By the time I pull up to the house after dropping the kids off Monday morning, Josiah is already parked out front. I wave at him as I pull into the driveway, my heart double-Dutching at the sight of him. Once the garage door lifts, he ducks under, walking in behind me. I lower it and sit in the driver’s seat for a few seconds, even though I know he’s waiting for me to get out. He has that we need to talk look on his face, and that could mean several things. With some time and a little distance, he may have thought better of what happened Saturday, and he’s come here to tell me it’s really over.
Or maybe he’s here to blow my back out again. This time in our old bed upstairs.
Options.
He motions for me to lower the window. I do, and watch him warily, scared that if I say anything it’ll be the wrong thing, and I’ll ruin our lives all over again.
“Get out of the car, Yas,” he commands softly, stepping away from the door. “We need to talk.”
I do as he asks and walk into the house, taking one of the high stools at the kitchen island. He sits on the stool beside me and leans his elbows on the granite surface.