Page 3 of The Story of You

I slam my hand on the desk beside him and curl into his neck. There are no safe places for me except for sometimes this one. My eyes fill with tears, and they fall into his dark hair.

“It was the way he carried himself,” I hear myself say like I’m far away from here. A terrible chill runs down my spine. “Too much like my father and yet I wanted him just like I wanted Aleksander.” My father … Aleksander, two different people to me. “I did you know. Not at first, but after. Is this what you want to hear?”

“I want to hear the truth. Say it. Out loud. Then I can prove to you I’ll love you no matter what.”

I know that. I don’t doubt Lakshan’s love for me. Not anymore. That’s not what I’m afraid of losing.

“That’s the truth. I craved him. I loved him. I still fucking love the dead bastard.”

I could never get much out about this in therapy—I didn’t talk about it—but now and then I said enough for the therapist to put it together. They would say things like, “You didn’t enjoy it. You only thought you did.”

They would remind me that a physical response doesn’t mean that I had good feelings about what was happening or that I enjoyed it. It’s a true statement. True for some people.

It wasn’t true for me.

I don’t think I can bear those words coming from Lakshan.

“Tell me how good he felt.”

That’s unexpected. I should know better. Lakshan is more than my soulmate. I’m convinced we’ve known each other for many lives, which is wishful thinking. My soul isn’t lucky enough to have this man for so long. Having him for one lifetime is more than I deserve.

“When I was little, I had nightmares. He would help me scour my room before I crawled into bed, and he’d lie with me until I fell asleep.”

I’ve torn those memories apart, looking for something untoward, a feeling, a touch, a look, but there’s nothing. The interaction was as expected between father and son.

“I would bury my face into his chest. He smelled like cologne and juniper berry. The smell alone would put me at ease, and I knew that so long as he was there, I would be taken care of.”

Lakshan threads his fingers into my hair. “He made you feel safe.”

“Yes.” I sniffle. The tears won’t stop. He was the only thing ever that made me feel safe. I still believe that I was always safe with him, but the problem was Oliver and Darius weren’t.

“Was it the same when he touched you?”

The sensation of too many hands on me is all over my skin. The revolting realization that they’rehishands tenses every muscle into a body-wide cringe. The part I hate, the one I fruitlessly attempt to bury, is how much I miss his hands at the same time. Somehow, I remain with Lakshan and don’t drift away in my mind.

“How can I hate something and crave it at the same time?” I say instead of answering. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

I don’t know if I’m asking him or hoping the universe will finally imbibe me with an answer. Worse, I wish he were here so he could tell me. He would have an answer, a bullshit one of lies and manipulations, plus a bunch of his psychotic dogma, but I want to hear it all the same.

“If you could be with him now, would you? Oliver and Darius are safe in this scenario, and you know I don’t give a fuck as to whom you want to fuck.”

Lakshan would love nothing more than for me to cuckold him, but it’s really not a kink of mine. I tried once just for him, but I stopped halfway through, told the guy to get out, and then railed Lakshan into the mattress.

Pulling my head off his wet shoulder, I stare into his dark brown eyes with fluttery lashes. My heart’s beating so damn fast, but when I discover what the answer is I feel the same physical relief you feel at the end of a marathon—tired and happy. “No. I only want to be with you.”

I’m not like Darius. Lakshan and I have fun with others on occasion, but when it comes to romance and my heart, it’s reserved for two people. One of them hung himself.

“Then he is your past.”

I nod. “Shanni? You’re my new safe place.”

“I know.” His face is too smug. I need to do something about that.

I go back to his neck, but this time it’s to suck. “I want to fuck you now.”

“When have you ever asked for permission for that?”

We fucked for the first time in the bathroom of a coffee shop. I dragged him inside and said he had until the count of ten to leave before I stuck my cock up his ass. He went to the door, locked it, and grabbed his own dick—for the last time. If that’s not permission, then I don’t know what is.