Revealing Us (Inside Out #3)(51)

We stare at each other and all he gives me is more of his damn silence. I’ve said the things we don’t say, and he doesn’t even react.

I begin to shiver. I can’t stop shivering.

Chris shrugs out of his coat and steps closer, our gazes collide, and the regret I see in his eyes carves a piece out of my soul. I’m going to lose him, and it’s going to destroy me. And I think it’s going to destroy him, too.

He moves toward me and I hold my breath, preparing for the impact of his touch that never comes. He wraps the jacket around my shoulders and I huddle into the dry, warm silk on the inside, but I don’t look at him.

“I’m going to get the car,” he announces softly. “I’ll pull up to the door.”

My gaze snaps up as he reaches for the lock on the door, and I have this horrible feeling that if I let him walk out now, it’s done. We’re done.

“I’m not leaving,” I say, and my voice is steady. “I won’t leave without Ella, and I won’t leave without you. All of you, Chris.”

He stands there, more stone than man, more distant than present. Then he opens the door and disappears into the hallway.

We don’t speak on the ride to the house, the soft hum of the car heater illing the empty space. Once we’re inside the garage, and outside the car, Chris wordlessly takes his jacket from me 196

and hangs it over one of his bikes to dry. I’m mostly dry, thanks to my thin blouse and skirt, and the blast of the heater.

At the door we pause to remove our boots, and Chris takes of his socks as well. I can’t bring myself to remove my thigh-highs, and it’s the irst time in a very long time I’ve felt awkward with him. I think he feels it, too. It’s in the air. We aren’t right. We aren’t even close to right.

Inside the house, we wait for the elevator doors to open.

More awkwardness ills the air and it begins to twist me in knots. Finally the elevator arrives, and Chris waits for me to enter. We lean against opposite sides of the car, facing each other. Chris lets his head drop backward against the wall, and his lashes lower, wispy strands of half-dry hair teasing his forehead and cheeks. The wet cotton of his T-shirt outlines his hard body and dried blood outlines a two-inch cut on his cheek, which doesn’t look like it needs stitches. I hope the injury to his hand is equally minor.

The car begins to move and Chris doesn’t look at me. I have this sense that he believes if he does, the walls he’s convinced himself to erect between us will fall. I burn to tear them down myself, to grab him and hold him, and promise him I’m not going anywhere. That’s what he wants to hear: that I’m not going to die. He wants the impossible.

I can’t take not touching him, not talking to him. The elevator stops moving and I step toward Chris. At the same moment, his head lifts, his eyes crashing into mine, his face carved in hard lines and shadows, no rainbow in sight. We’re still living the storm. No surprise there.

I resist linging my arms around him and reach for his hand, glancing down at his slightly swollen knuckles, and back up at him. “Let me clean the cut and bandage it for you.” I back out of the door, gently tugging him with me, encouraged when he follows. I lead him to the bathroom and he immediately tugs his shirt of, and hangs it on the side of the tub before sitting on the edge himself. The sight of his dragon lexing with the hard lines of one shoulder and arm does funny things to my stomach. It’s a part of his past I will never know, if he has his way.

I look up to ind him watching me watch him. Emotion tightens my throat. “Where would I ind bandages?” I don’t even know where anything is in my home, which might not be my home soon. Why does that feel so much worse now than ever before?

“Under the sink.” It’s the irst time he’s spoken since the bathroom in the bar, and the sound of his voice is silk soothing my raw nerve endings.

I turn away from him, gathering my supplies while I also gather my emotions. Part of me is ready to regret becoming this attached to Chris, but I squash the idea. Chris is feeling enough regret for both of us. One of us has to be willing to put it all on the line for this relationship.

When I turn back to him, Chris moves to the toilet seat to allow me to sit on the edge of the tub. Still feeling a bit too emotional, it’s my turn to avoid eye contact. I sit down and tap my leg for him to put his hand on top of it. He doesn’t hesitate.

His ingers splay on my upper thigh, palm resting in the center, and I am instantly, achingly aware of the touch in every part of my body.

I study the cut on his knuckle, surrounded by rapidly form -

ing bruises. It’s impossible to tell if there is any serious injury unless X-rays are taken, which I’m sure he’ll refuse.

“I don’t know how to love you and not protect you,” he says, and my eyes lift at his soft confession. My heart thunders as he adds, “And I don’t know how to protect you and not overwhelm you. I’m always going to be on edge. I’m always going to think . . . too much.”

“No one knows what tomorrow brings, Chris. We have to live for today together.”

He runs his uninjured hand through his drying hair, leaving it a wonderful mess. “That’s just it, Sara. I can’t do that. I’m never going to be able to do that. I can’t do this.”

He pushes to his feet and he’s gone, leaving me alone.