It takes him just a few seconds to notice something is wrong. He looks up and is clearly startled when he sees the tears on my face. He darts back up to me, lying down next to me, stroking my cheeks and looking very concerned.
“Cricket,” he murmurs, and when I hear the pain in his voice, I hate myself for not having been able to keep my tears in. “Whatis it, my little cricket? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?”
I hate myself even more with every word he speaks. All I can do is shake my head furiously, but my sobs grow loud as I throw myself into his arms. “I’m… I’m sorry, Quill.”
Yup. Definitely killed his boner. Fuck me.
He drags me onto his lap, squeezing me to him and stroking my back. He must think I’m a crazy person for reacting so strongly to a meaningless comment. In fact, I doubt he even realizes that’s what I’m upset about.
“What did I do?” he asks again. “I know I did something, or you wouldn’t be apologizing.”
I smile through my tears. It sounds funny, but the weird thing is, it’s true.
“We said we would talk to each other,” he reminds me gently. “We said no therapist, but we’d talk about everything.”
“I don’t want a therapist,” I mumble into his chest. I hate that we’re talking about this when we could be having sex. “Therapy means our relationship isn’t working. I don’t want that, Quill. I don’t even want the threat of it possibly not working.”
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, his intense gaze boring into me. “Our relationship not working isn’t a possibility, cricket. It’s animpossibility. No, not even that. There aren’t even words in the English language that could express how absolutely impossible it is that our relationship won’t work out. We’re a fact of nature. Like trees, oxygen, the sky. Do you hear?”
He lifts my chin gently, his gaze turning soft. I nod hurriedly, and then throw myself back in his arms.
He threads his fingers through my hair. “Now tell me.”
“Why do you want to see a therapist so much, anyway?” I ask, trying to turn his thoughts to something else. “It doesn’t really seem like the kind of thing you’d be into.”
He presses his lips to my forehead, hesitating. “Well,” he saysat last in a quiet voice, “I had a therapist when I was a kid. Before my mom… abandoned me. It felt like she was the only person who understood me, before I met you. She made me feel like Iwasn’tirreparably broken. She made me believe that things could get better. Maybe they could have, if I’d had other parents than the ones I was born with.”
I sigh, cuddling against him. I’m always so thankful on the rare occasions he feels like opening up. I would do anything to take his pain away.
“I hurt you,” he murmurs, kissing me again. “I hurt you when you needed me most. I can’t take back what I did, but that doesn’t mean it has to weigh on us now. A therapist could help with that. And help me with my communication skills too. Though right now,” he adds, “I’m thinkingyou’rethe one who needs to communicate better.”
I grin into his chest, aware of how much better he’s gotten at talking lately. Though he only seems to talk at the right times. Whereas I also talk at all the wrong ones.
“So go on,” he says, poking my side and making me squirm. “Tell me what’s wrong.
“Or what?” I taunt him.
He rests his hand menacingly on my stomach. “Or I’ll tickle you again.”
“Well, then, I’m definitely not talking,” I say, squirming against him in anticipation.
He sighs. “Piper. Come on.”
“Fine.” I’m splotchy red before I even manage to get the words out. “It’s not a big deal. Really not a big deal at all. In fact, it’s so stupid I shouldn’t even have reacted, and maybe I’m PMSing or something—”
“Piper.”
“Fine, fine! Well, I just… when you said I talk too much…”
“Oh.” Quill hangs his head against mine, and in the shudderingsigh that escapes his mouth, I read all his guilt. Which only serves to makemefeel even guiltier. “I’m sorry, little cricket.”
“No,I’msorry, Quill.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to apologize. I never want you to apologize. Everything is my fault. Always my fault.”
I bite down on a protest, knowing we’re about to enter one of our apology circles, which are the one thing that dampens our otherwise perfect happiness.
Most of the time, I recognize in him the old Quill, obsessive, strong, forceful, even, in the exact way I like it. But occasionally, the brokenness pushes through the cracks, and it’s like the realization of what he unconsciously did to me has opened up a bottomless pit of trauma.