Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200280 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1001(@200wpm)___ 801(@250wpm)___ 668(@300wpm)
It’s pain.
It’s hurt and anguish. It’s torment and trauma.
He’s not angry at his brothers, he’s hurt at their actions. He’s hurt that they don’t give him the benefit of the doubt. Probably never did. That no one ever gives him the benefit of the doubt. He’s hurt that they design rules and build cages and pass judgement to rein him in, instead of actually listening to him.
Instead of actually understanding him.
And when you’re that isolated, that misunderstood, your pain comes out as anger.
Anger that hurts other people.
But also him, doesn’t it?
I mean, I don’t have to look further than myself for this. Just imagining how tormented he’s been over what he did to me. Not only a little over a year ago but since the day we met. He’s been punishing himself all this time for hurting me, for taking his anger out on me.
And I’m about to tell him that.
I’m about to tell him that his anger isn’t anger at all.
That his nickname — the stupid fucking nickname — is a myth. Everything about him is a big giant myth.
When he says, urgently, “And I want you to know something. I want you to know that yes, I fucking hated the idea of anger management and I still do but I’m doing it.”
“What?”
Determination ripples across his bruised yet still beautiful face. “If it’s the only way to get back on the team, then I’ll do it. I’ll go to therapy.”
“Y-you will?”
“Yeah. I’ll do it for you.”
My chest heaves. “For me?”
So is that where he goes?
Is that where he’s been going for the past few weeks when he isn’t going for grocery runs? To therapy. I never asked him because again, I didn’t want to seem nosy but I’ve wondered.
His gaze bores into mine and his fingers on my waist unfurl and splay, touching my tummy from one end to the other. “And for them.” He digs his thumbs into my belly button and I arch up. “I’ll do it because for the first time in my life, I have a purpose. A bigger purpose. A purpose bigger than soccer or trophies or championships. A bigger purpose than my ego, revenge, rivalries. And it’s to provide for them. It’s to take care of them. And you. I’m not going to let you down. I’m not going to let them down. I know I didn’t tell you the truth before tonight. I know I kept this big secret from you and I… I’m sorry for that. I’m so fucking sorry. The only excuse I’ve got is that I didn’t want you, not for a single second, to think that I’m incapable. That I’m incapable of taking care of you and of them. Because I’m not. I’m not like my father. I’m not like your father. I want you to know that. I won’t ever do anything to make you or them feel unsafe or not provided for or —”
I press my trembling hand on his lips to make him stop. “I trust you.”
His eyes flare slightly in response.
But I don’t move my hand from his mouth until I’ve said my piece. “I do. I don’t care that you hid this from me. I’ve hidden a lot of things from you too.” I still am. “And neither do I care what my brother said. What he did tonight, how he reacted, it hurt me, and in a way I understand where he’s coming from. I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to forgive me for keeping the truth from him. But I don’t care what he thinks. Not about this. About us. About you.”
Then putting a hand on my tummy, where he’s gripping me, I continue, “While I don’t need you to take care of me, Ledger, I know you’ll do everything in your power to take care of them. You’ll do everything that you can to provide for them, to always be there for them. You already are doing it. You already are the best daddy in the world. But I want you to listen to me, okay? I want you to know and understand that this is for you. Your career. Your therapy. Especially your therapy. But Ledger, if you’re doing it, you need to do it for you. For yourself. Not because of me or our babies. Or anyone else. And I know you’re hurt by what they’ve done, your brothers, but I think you’ve been unhappy without them, haven’t you? Just like you’ve been unhappy without soccer. And I think you should at least talk to them or —”
Suddenly, he goes for my wrist.
He grips it and takes my hand off his mouth, his fingers strangely tight, mashing into my pulse as if he wants to kill it. Or maybe absorb it into his skin like a kiss, I don’t know.