“From the cycle.”
The blondes. Jenny.
“Okay, but you still stalked me,” I point out. “So I didn’t exactly cure you—I just redirected your obsession.”
He waves a hand. “Pot-ay-to,pot-ah-to.”
“How was your morning?” I ask Eli as he sets a bagel from the café down in front of me. I refused to let him bring me lunch every day—far too suspicious—which means it’s Friday.
It’s been a strange week.
True to his word, Eli has kept an eye on me the entire time. His displeasure at having to do so inconspicuously has been palpable. But thankfully—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—he has practice.
He crosses his arms, frowning. “It would be better if I could just sit in the waiting room.” He leans in. “Or better yet, in here with you.”
“Do you think,” I ask carefully, “that maybe you’re being a bit over the top about needing to be close to me because of misplaced guilt?”
I wouldn’t normally be so direct—especially now that we’re using these sessions as actual therapy again—but the urge to push him is too strong to ignore.
Eli freezes. His brows draw together. Concentration? Annoyance? I can’t tell.
“It’s not misplaced,” he says finally, the words forced through clenched teeth.
I tilt my head. “You have nothing to feel guilty for.”
He explodes upward. “I wasn’t fucking there!” he shouts, pacing. “I wasn’t there and you got hurt. I should never have left you in that position.”
My chest aches. I stand and move toward him slowly. Despite the anger rolling off him, I know none of it is directed at me. And I know—without question—he would never hurt me.
“Eli,” I murmur.
“Angel,” his voice cracks. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t tell me it’s not my fault when it is.” His head drops, shame heavy in his posture.
I’m standing directly in front of him now. My fingers slide between his, lacing tight.
“Eli, guilt is understandable—it’s a common response to trauma. But guilt doesn’t equal responsibility.Youdidn’t break in and attack me.Youdidn’t hurt me.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Holding onto it isn’t going to help. Punishing yourself by trying to control every variable will only keep us stuck in that moment. I want to move on. Don’t you?”
His nod is barely perceptible, but it’s there.
“I love that you want to be close to me. But doing it out of vigilance isn’t healthy—for either of us. I want you to be with me because you choose to be, not because you feel like you need to atone.”
Something in my words cracks him open. “How do I stop?”
“Let me help you feel safe again.”
43
More Than Enough
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