I Stand Before You (Judge Me Not #2)(93)

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whisper into her hair. “It kills me to see you hurting, to know I disappointed you. I should have come clean with you a long time ago.”

It’s all true, but I don’t add that I just knew my ass would do something stupid like what I did. Hell, we’re only a little bit into this new relationship—this change from friendship to love—and already my troubled past is causing us grief. My omission of fact was as bad as lying, I realize that now.

I start to say more—I’ll f*cking grovel if I have to—but Kay shushes me. “Let’s not talk about it anymore,” she says, leaning back just far enough so our eyes can meet. “You’re forgiven, Chase. Just dance with me, okay?”

So, I do. I wrap my arms tightly around my girl, no more eggshell-careful hold. “I love you,” I tell her, pressing our bodies close as the song continues.

We move and sway, move and sway. At one point, I spin her out, and on the return, I dip her down low. Kay giggles and tilts her head back. I lower my face to hers, my lips touching her mouth, carefully, cautiously, asking for permission.

My girl grabs my hair in her little grasp, pulls me as close as possible, and smashes her lips to mine.

Permission granted.





Chapter Sixteen


Kay


I forgive Chase for his lie, his omission of fact, whatever. It doesn’t matter. Like he said, what happened with Missy occurred before I even met him. And I already know Chase is no saint. He’s trouble, just like he warned that day by the lockers.

But as we dip and sway under the starry sky, slow dancing to old Motown music, I realize keeping my own terrible secret for much longer will have worse repercussions. It will undoubtedly do more damage to this relationship than one stupid, kept-from-me blow job.

So when Chase spins and dips me, and goes in for the kiss, I grab hold of his hair and smash my lips to his like he’s holding the air I need to breathe. Sometimes, metaphorically speaking, I think he may be. Chase has brought me to life and given me reason. He sustains me, which is why the next words out of my mouth take every ounce of strength and courage I can muster.

The kiss tapers, and, as we right ourselves, I hurriedly say, “We have to talk.”

The song ends and my concerned boy steps back, but his hands remain on my waist. It reminds me of the day I wrecked into him, the first time this man ever touched me, the beginning.

“I have to tell you what I haven’t been able to, Chase. You deserve to know the truth of what happened the last night Sarah was alive. It’s killing me to keep it from you, to keep it bottled up inside.”

Chase starts to say something, but I put my hand up in the space between us. “I know,” I rasp, “I know you said it doesn’t matter, but it does.” I take a ragged breath. “If anything, just look at the grief one small secret caused. And this secret, Chase, this secret I’m keeping is so much bigger—” A choked sob escapes me, interrupting my speech.

My boy draws me back into his strong arms and tries to soothe me. “Hey, hey, sweet girl, it’s okay.” I feel him kiss the top of my head. “There’s no rush. If you really need to tell me, that’s fine, but it doesn’t have to be tonight.”

I pull back. “Yes, it does. I have to get this out.” I pause, and then whisper, “I just don’t know if I physically can.”

Chase presses his lips together and watches me for a beat. Then, he leads me up the porch steps and over to the swing. The music has long ended, but the turntable still spins, the needle playing nothing but static. Chase stops and shuts the record player off completely, and then sits down next to me on the swing.

I know I probably look like I’m close to losing it, and I really kind of am. My hands twist together in my lap, and I suck in a few uneven gasps of air. I sense Chase is about to tell me again that whatever horrible secret I am harboring, there is no obligation to share it right now, but I shake my head before he can begin speaking.

“Don’t,” I choke out. “Just let me do this.”

I snatch up his hand and start stroking his fingers to calm myself. Just this simple physical contact with Chase helps steady me.

“You need to know the truth, Chase, the real story.” This gorgeous man, always so supportive, and infinitely patient, nods slowly and waits for me to begin.

I face Chase Gartner. The man who has a tattoo that reads: As I stand before you, judge me not. But on this night I am the one who plans to hold a life up—my life—for him to judge. I am the one who intends to spread my sins before him. And though he says he never would, there’s no way he won’t judge, or have an opinion leaning one way or the other. Will Chase see me as guilty of neglect? Or will he view what happened to my sister as truly just an accident? I steel myself to accept his response, be it good or bad.

And then I get started. Or, more accurately stated, I try to get started. But, like before, every time—every damn time I attempt to get my words out they catch in my throat. This secret lies deep, buried under years of shame, guilt, and grief. And I can’t seem to find the tools I need to dig it out.

So, I start to cry.

“Why can’t I tell you?” I sob angrily. My ire is not directed at Chase, but at myself and this inability to come clean.

“What is wrong with me?” I choke out before losing it completely.