If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(56)

His eyebrows lift. He stares at me. “I’m still a self-absorbed jerk,” he finally says. “Now I’m just a self-absorbed jerk with an autoimmune disease that fucks up my stomach.”

I sit back on the palms of my hands, staring right back at him. I’m learning Sebastian. Learning that words are his sword and shield. That he wields them fiercely to hold healing at bay. I see in him what I’ve seen in myself plenty over the past few years—a desperate desire to change, to heal and grow, and an even more desperate fear of what that takes, what it will look like…all the ways I might get hurt while I try.

So I don’t say anything in response to that familiar self-condemning comment. I can’t win this battle of words with Sebastian Gauthier. But maybe I can one day win the war through showing him I don’t believe what he says about himself, by showing him the good I see in him, through the simple act of time and presence, until I can only hope, one day Sebastian sees in himself what I see, too.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Celiac disease, it sucks. I mean it’s good that you know now, so you can hopefully feel a lot better. But just because there’s a clear path for dealing with it going forward doesn’t mean it’s easy or fun or you can’t feel sad about not eating Milky Ways.”

“Or decent pizza,” he mutters, flopping back in the chair, picking up the novel I’d left there and fanning through the pages. “Or donuts. Or baguette. Or chocolate silk pie. Or a brioche bun.” He sets aside the book and rakes his hands through his hair. “It’s ridiculous that I’m this miserable about all the foods I can’t eat anymore. It’s just food.”

I nudge his toe with mine. “Food isn’t just food, though. It’s comfort and memory. It’s family recipes and meals shared with friends. Food is a fulcrum of socializing and relationships, and now you don’t get to just show up to that. You have to think ahead and tell people your dietary needs and explain them again when they’re lunkheads about it or, worse, well-meaning, but very poor at understanding it. You’ll probably end up accidentally eating something that hurts you every once in a while, and going to a restaurant will sort of suck until you find places that have nice gluten-free options. It’s a big deal. It’s a disease that’s interrupted and fundamentally altered your lifestyle, impacted your relationships. It’s very valid to be upset about that.”

He glances down at me and sighs. “Well, at least the ‘impacted relationships’ part isn’t at play, seeing as I don’t have any.”

“The hell you don’t,” I tell him, standing up, putting my hands on my hips. Sebastian stares up at me, eyes searching mine. “What am I, then? And Ren?”

Slowly, he sits up, too, and clasps the tips of my fingers. “Anyone ever told you that you’ve got the whole badass Valkyrie thing going, when you get fired up?”

“Stop deflecting, Sebastian Gauthier.”

He traps his lip between his teeth, still looking up at me. “But I’m almost as good at deflecting as I am at hockey.”

I arch an eyebrow.

He sighs, his fingers still sliding along mine. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t want to talk about it, because I don’t like feeling…knocked back on my heels, powerless, like there’s something wrong with me.”

I turn my palm, sliding our hands together. “Yeah. I hear that. It’s okay to feel that way, you know? I’m not great at it myself, but I’m working on it with my therapist. To let myself feel things, even when they’re hard.”

“I don’t feel like it’s okay,” he mutters, peering down at our tangled hands, taking mine in both of his and tracing my fingers. “I don’t know how to do that. Be okay with not…being okay.”

I watch him as he examines my hand, then I do something my lizard brain clearly told my other hand to do, because before the much more sensible, rational part of my brain can tell it what a bad idea this is, my free hand glides softly through his hair. “You learn by practice and more practice. Like anything you want to get good at. Little by little. Baby steps.”

His thumb slides along my index finger and a sweet, hot ache settles low in my stomach. My fingers being touched should not turn me on like this.

Sebastian leans into my touch as I softly comb through his hair. “How do I do those baby steps?”

“Well, I think it’s different for everyone. For me, I let myself acknowledge my ‘not okayness,’ my difficult feelings, which can be really, really intense. It’s hard for me. Then, if they start to feel like they’re too much to stay with, and generally they do, I use what my therapist calls ‘distress tolerance.’”

“Distress tolerance?” He turns his face just enough that the words are whispered against my palm, hot and damp against my skin.

A shiver runs through me. “Something that helps you navigate intensely difficult emotions or situations. Often, they’ll be distractions. Pleasurable distractions. Comforting distractions. Healthy distractions, preferably.”

He groans into my palm, and I arch reflexively, just a little, hopefully not enough that he notices.

I think he notices. And I think, maybe he’s a little wound up like I am too, because he turns his face, until his lips graze my palm. “Distractions, huh?” he breathes against my skin. “Pleasurable, comforting distractions?”