Fueled(book two)(190)

All I can think to do is swallow and keep my eyes fixed on blades of the ceiling fan above as they rotate endlessly.

“Why?” My voice croaks as I speak for the first time since we’ve come back to the room, asking the same question he’s asked me. “Why did you tell me that you slept with Tawny?”

“I…I don’t know.” He sighs in frustration as he shoves a hand through his hair. “Maybe because since that’s what you thought of me—expected of me without even letting me explain—then maybe I wanted you to hurt as much as I did when you accused me of it. You were so sure that I slept with her. So sure that I’d use her to replace you that you wouldn’t listen to me. You shut me out. You ran away, and I never got a chance to explain that whole f*cked up morning to you. You wouldn’t let me…so a part of me felt like I might as well give you the affirmation you needed to think of me like the bastard-* that I really am.”

I remain silent, trying to process his rationale, understanding and not-understanding all at the same time. “I’m listening now,” I whisper, knowing full well that I need to hear the truth. Need it all laid out on the table so I can figure out where to go from here.

“I truly didn’t know how alone I was, Rylee,” he starts on a shaky breath and for the first time, I can sense how nervous he is. “How isolated and alone I’ve made myself over the years, until you weren’t there. Until I couldn’t pick up the phone and call you or talk to you or see you…”

“But you could, Colton,” I reply, confusion in my voice. “You ran from me…not the other way around. I was the one sitting and waiting for you to call. How could you think otherwise?”

“I know,” he says softly. “I know…but what you said to me—those three words—they turn me into someone I won’t ever let myself be again. It triggers things—memories, demons, so f*cking much—and no matter how much time has passed, I just…” he fades off, unable to verbalize what the words I love you do to him.

“What? Why?” What in the hell is he talking about? I want to scream at him, but I know that I have to have patience. Look where my obstinance has gotten us thus far. Verbalization is not his strong point. I have to just sit back and be quiet.

“Ry, the explanation—when, as a kid, those words are used as a manipulation…as a means to hurt you…” He struggles and I so desperately want to reach out and hug him. Hold him and help him through it, so maybe I can understand him better—comprehend the poison he says sears his soul—but I refrain. He looks at me and tries to smile but fails miserably, and I hate that this conversation has robbed him of that brilliant smile of his. “…it’s too much to go in to right now and probably more than I’ll ever be able to explain.” He exhales on a long, shaky breath. “This, talking right now, is more than I ever have…so I’m trying here, okay?” His eyes plead with me through the shadow of darkness, and I just nod at him to continue. “You said those words to me…and I was immediately a little boy, dying—wishing I was dead—hurting inside all over again. And when I hurt like that, I usually turn to women. Pleasure to bury the pain…” My free hand grips the sheet beside me for the little boy that was in so much pain he’d rather die and for the man I love beside me that’s still so haunted by it and for what I fear is going to spill from his lips next. His confession. “Usually,” he whispers, “but this time, after you, there was no appeal in it. When the thought crossed my mind, it was your face I saw. Your laugh I missed. It was your taste I craved. No one else’s.” He shifts onto his back, keeping his fingers still laced with mine as my heart squeezes at his words. “Instead, I drank. A lot.” He chuckles softly. “The day before…everything happened…Q came by my place and read me the riot act. She told me to clean myself up. Told me to find some friends other than Jim and Jack to hang out with. Becks showed up an hour later. I know she called him. He didn’t ask what was wrong—he’s good like that—but knew I needed some company.