Being Me (Inside Out #2)(49)

I stiffen and his low rumble of laughter fans my neck with seductive promise, before he adds, “The mile-high club.”

I jerk around to face him. “Forget it, and that’s nonnegotiable no matter what you do. There are people everywhere.”

“What if I rent a private plane for our return?”

He can’t be serious. “You’d do that just for us to, ah, get membership?”

His lips curve devilishly. “Without hesitation. In fact, since this trip is one of many I’d like to take you on, I think that might be the way to fly.” A puzzled look slides over his face. “How is it again that you grew up with money and never traveled?”

As if hit by a bullet, I stiffen before I can stop myself. “Busy with childhood and teen activities, I guess.” The plane is taxiing and, afraid he’ll read my panic, I quickly turn to the window and feign interest. Silently, I kick myself for missing an opportunity to begin to share my past with Chris. I just have this unyielding sense that once I open Pandora’s box and let one demon out, even if it’s one of the smaller ones, the bigger, darker ones will escape before I am ready.

Chris’s hand falls away from mine, and I feel his withdrawal reach well beyond a small physical connection. It is all I can do not to drag his hand to my lap. “It looks like it’s going to storm,” I murmur, noting the dark heaviness of the clouds above burdened by a downpour yet to happen, much like the weight of my secret.

“You aren’t afraid, are you?”

I wonder if he’s talking about flying in the storm. With Chris, there is often a double meaning. With effort, I school my features and turn to him and meet his penetrating stare. He knows I was dodging his question; I see it in his eyes.

“I don’t know what to expect. This is new to me,” I say.

“Because your travel has been limited to almost never.”

It’s not a question and this time I’m certain we aren’t talking about the weather. I blink into his unfathomable expression, but there is expectancy in the air. The answer to why I never traveled is on the tip of my tongue, lingering there, but I cannot seem to push it out. “Right. Because I almost never traveled.”

We lift off and the bumps are instantaneous. My fingers curl around the armrest again, but this time with white-knuckle intensity. Chris’s hand comes down on mine as it had before and I sigh inside with the return of his touch. “Just a little turbulence,” he assures me. “It’ll even out when we get to a higher altitude above the clouds.”

As if in defiance of his claim, the plane jerks and we seem to drop. I stiffen and my breath lodges in my throat. “You’re sure this is normal?”

“Very.”

“Okay.” I breathe out. “I’m trusting you on this.”

“But not on everything.”

There is a coolness to his eyes, and I wonder how soon his walls will slam down in front of mine. I’m backed into another corner. If I tell Chris everything I may lose him. If I keep him shut out, he may shut me out, again. It’s time to at least start down a path that leads to my hell.

The plane jolts again and my heart drops to my stomach.

I tug my hand from underneath his and lift the armrest, and hopefully the proverbial wall separating us as well. “We were my father’s pets,” I say, angling in his direction. “He left us at home and ran off to his many mistresses.”

Understanding seeps into his expression and he shifts to face me. “When did you find out about the other women?”

“Once I moved away for college. That’s when my mother’s rose-colored glasses came off me.”

“She knew.” It’s not a question.

“Oh yes,” I confirm. “She knew.” I can’t tame the bitterness seeping into my tone. “If we were his pets, she was his lapdog. She was so in love with him that she’d accept anything she could get from him, which wasn’t much.”

His expression is thoughtful, concerned. “How active was he in your life?”

“He was my idol who was never home. I worshiped the ground he walked on, just like my mother. I had no idea we were his token family to look good for business or whatever his reason was for keeping us around. I think it was about power. Or because he could. Or because he didn’t want my mother to get all his money. I have no clue. I stopped trying to figure it out years ago. There had to be a reason that made sense to him.”

“Do you think your mother knew why?”

“I think she convinced herself he loved her. She was blinded by love.”

“Don’t take this wrong,” he warns gently, “but was it love, or the money?”

I hate the question I’ve asked myself, and rejected, too many times to count. “I don’t know really what was in her head. The mother I thought I knew wasn’t the one I discovered after I took those glasses off.” I shake my head. “But no. I never felt like she was about the money.” My mind travels the past. “She gave up everything she loved but painting. She’d hide her work and supplies when he was home.”

“You said she created your love of art.”

I nod. “Yes. Very much so.” I let out a heavy sigh, trying to escape the tight sensation strangling my airways. “Looking back, it was an abusive relationship, almost like Stockholm syndrome, where the captive adores her captor.”