Page 48 of This Might Hurt

I pull a curtain across the doorway to a smaller changing cubicle and pick up the cream-colored shirt.

“Jesus Christ.” Andrew snorts from the other side of the room.

It’s so delicate and soft I can barely feel the fabric against my skin, and it doesn’t bunch up under my arms like every other shirt in the world.

The rust-colored sweater slips around in my hands like water as I try to maneuver it.

“Is this what all your clothes feel like?” I call out as I drag on a pair of light-colored trousers and a navy blazer.

“It’s great, isn’t it? Now you know why I hate your clothes.”

His troubled face genuinely lights up when I step out of the dressing area.

Like I’m not just passable but everything he could have possibly wanted.

No one’s ever looked at me like that before.

Maybe this is his version of the feral satisfaction I get whenever I put him in my clothes.

That thought makes this whole thing slightly easier to endure.

“Come see.” He stretches out a hand. When I take it, he pulls me to the lighted mirror and squares me up in front of it, his chin on my shoulder as we watch each other.

Then I turn my attention to myself, tilting my head to try and make the picture in the mirror any less weird.

I look like a totally different person—taller and more impressive somehow, like one of those rich assholes in movies you want to hate but can’t because they’re unfairly hot.

“Wow,” is all I can manage.

Andrew turns me toward him and starts raking rough fingers through my hair, fixing it however he wants. His hands slide down and hold my face as he leans back and checks me up and down again. He lets out a slow breath of relief. “This is really good. Maybe they’ll respect you a little.”

“I’m going to choose not to find that slightly offensive.”

He mashes my cheeks with his palms. “Admit it. I did a good job.”

Patrick comes busting through the door, and the warm skin against my face disappears instantly as Andrew steps back. “We’ll take all of this. Please box it up and I’ll text my driver to come get it. We’ll join you in five minutes.”

I stare at him as we wait for Patrick and Rin to remove everything they brought in, trying to figure out what new torture he’s invented for me. When they’re gone, Andrew crosses the room and pushes the door shut carefully.

Sliding a hand in the pocket of his crisp white pants, he comes over to me and pulls something out, cradled in his palm.

“Oh, shit,” I murmur, studying the two gold rings gleaming in the bright white backlight from the mirror. “I forgot about them.” They don’t match exactly, since they weren’t made as a pair. I got a slightly heavier one with a thick band, while Andrew’s is more refined with a brighter polish.

“I was in a really bad headspace when we got these yesterday,” Andrew says abruptly, not looking up.

“And I’m going to be in an even worse place this afternoon.

So I just… Um.” He blows out an unsteady breath.

“I picked these ones because they reminded me of you. And after last night, I was thinking we might end up wearing them again. For, you know, a very long time. So I hope that you like them too.”

“Oh.” I was expecting put this damn thing on and get in the car, so I didn’t get a chance to brace myself. My face feels like it’s on fire. “Yeah, I—I mean, I told you I liked them yesterday and then you yelled at me.”

He finally looks up, failing to hold back his smile, that hopeful light in his eyes. Then he picks up the thicker of the two rings. “Give me your hand.”

Why did we have to pick old rings? They’re so…important. Someone a hundred years ago picked this ring out for their husband. They were probably super hardworking, well-adjusted people with friends and family who loved them. Everyone came to their wedding in a cute white church in the countryside—

“Can I help you?” Andrew interrupts scathingly. I realize I’m standing there with my hand hovering four inches from his, not moving it any closer.

“Um…” I flex my fingers gently. “You deserve better than me, is all. I feel like I should say that before—”

I jump when he grabs my wrist in a bruising grip and shoves the ring on my finger hard enough to skin my knuckle. He pulls my hand up to his lips for a quick, shy moment, then lets go. “Are you gonna do mine or do I have to put it on myself because my husband’s an ass?”

He looks just as embarrassed as me and also genuinely pissed, which is one of my favorite moods of his because his pissiness keeps pissing him off even more until he has to give up being mad. My mouth is grinning before my brain even catches up. “You’re so fucking dramatic. Give it to me.”

“I’m dramatic?” he gripes under his breath.

When I take his hand, I realize the dork has closed his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” He blinks them open and watches as I slip it onto his ring finger a lot more gently than he did.

“Happy?” I rub his clammy fingers between mine.

“You do deserve better, but it’s too late.

I’m gonna be so good to you that I fucking ruin you until you can’t live without me. ”

His smiles are still kind of a mystery to me, so rare and always different. I don’t know what this one means exactly, but it feels good. I try to hold on to it, because it’s probably the last one I’ll see for a long time.