Conflicting Hearts by J. D. Burrows

Author:J. D. Burrows [Burrows, J. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Holland Legacy Publishing
Published: 2012-11-10T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

The Weight of Shame

The shame I bear is so intense in Ian’s presence that I’m having trouble dealing with it. I can barely lift my eyes and look at him without cringing inside. It’s horrible. No one can tell me that this man will not look at me any differently. My past has been exposed. My damage is evident. His mind must wonder about every detail of the abuse, and now I fear that he’s questioning whether to move forward in our relationship.

When the fire dies, we return to the beach house. His hand is tightly holding mine, until we step inside.

“I’m tired,” I announce. I’m not really. My only thought is to hide, so I don’t have to look at him in the eyes.

“Yeah, it’s been a long day,” he agrees. He walks into the kitchen and sets down the unused contents of the paper bag. I see him reach inside, grab the candy bar, open the lid to the waste container and throw it inside. Ian turns and looks at me.

“I’ll never buy another one of those again.”

I’m having trouble watching how this has affected him emotionally. The man is such a tender creature that I’m convinced he’s horrified by my confession. The beauty of our relationship is marred, and I’m deeply saddened.

“What are you thinking?” His face is pensive with narrowed eyes.

“Anger. Confusion,” he says, looking down at the floor.

“Toward me?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m not angry toward you, but my mind is filled with questions.”

“What kind of questions?” I hold my breath and wait for his answer.

“For starters, why you stayed in an abusive relationship with your ex-husband after what happened to you as a child?”

He brings his hand to his hair and rakes his fingers through his wind-tousled locks.

“Second, what you said about how you want sex.” He brings his eyes up toward me, and I feel like a whore. “Is that why you want it rough, because you were treated that way as a child?”

How insightful Ian Richards has become. I am amazed over his perceptive psychological conclusion. Emotionally, I shut down. His questions about my behavior have breached my weak defenses, and I can’t find the words to answer. As I look at him, I have this sinking feeling he’s slipping away from me. He thinks I’m perverted. I am perverted.

“Time…time out,” I whisper. I turn around and run upstairs to the loft.

“Damn it,” he utters in frustration.

I reach the landing and run into the bathroom, close the door, and lock it. I need a safe place.

“Rachel!” he frantically calls after me. I hear his loud footsteps ascend the stairs.

“Time out, Ian,” I yell. I back up against the bathroom wall and stare at the door handle.

“Rachel, please, let me in. I won’t pressure you, I promise.” He knocks on the door. “Rachel, answer me.”

I can’t talk. My throat and chest are constricted. No air is entering my lungs. He turns the handle again, and I hear him tearfully plead with me.

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