Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

“What are those obvious reasons?”

I watched his jaw get tight and I knew what that signaled in this situation.

That hint of Guillaume in Remy. The dashing, debonair, perfect-in-his-own-mind Frenchman’s (emphasis on man) hackles were raising.

“I don’t know, Wyn, maybe because I’m not feeling admitting to my son I walked out on the best woman I’d ever met, that woman being his mother, and then hooked up with a crazy-ass version of my mother who thinks everything is about her, and when it isn’t, she’s willing to go the extra mile to make it about her.”

The best woman I’d ever met.

The blow was so unexpected, silken with a sting, I had no hope of deflecting it.

Or easily dealing with it.

“Like I’m not really feeling standing here admitting that same thing to you,” he went on.

“Remy,” I forced out.

“She tried to trap me with a kid,” he stated.

I shook my head, those short shakes again, doing a repeat of the hand lift to stop this. “I’m sorry that happened, but—”

“And what was your response?”

Down went the hand and I stared at him, now confused.

“Sorry?”

“You were not upset that someone in the sisterhood pulled that shit. You weren’t self-protective, not wanting to hear that shit. You were pissed. For me.”

Oh boy.

My breathing stopped coming easy.

“Why was that your reaction, Wyn?” he asked.

I reverted to our subject.

“How about you sit Sabre down and tell him to be careful about any communications with Myrna, that the breakup was difficult, and she wasn’t handling it very well. And that she’d done some things that were shady, and he needed to be cautious. And then see if she fades away. If she doesn’t, you can take a different course of action.”

“Good advice, as ever, babe, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“Remy—”

“I fucked up.”

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I couldn’t do this.

“Remy—”

“I fucked us up.”

Right.

I was incorrect.

This wasn’t just about Sabre.

It was about us.

And I was not ready.

“Stop talking, Remy,” I snapped.

“I got involved with an awful woman who very nearly managed to shift the course of my life irrevocably because I was completely lost without you.”

Hang on a second.

My voice was rising now in an angry way when I declared, “That is not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he returned. “That’s all on me. It all isn’t on me. But that sure as fuck is.”

“What do you mean it isn’t all on you?”

“The end of us. I shouldn’t have left. I should have stayed. We should have worked it out. But that isn’t entirely on me, even if this is.”

He’d just said it was him, I wasn’t the one who fucking left.

I didn’t remind him of that.

“Remy, we’re done, divorced, over. This conversation should have happened three years ago. It’s too late now.”

“Really? Is that why you just nearly lost your mind when you heard someone was fucking with me?” he demanded. “Is that why you saw I was struggling earlier, and you shifted right out of being pissed at your son for pulling shit and you got worried about me?”

“Our divorce doesn’t erase our years together,” I retorted.

“Bullshit,” he shot back. “It’s not about history or you giving some minimal shit about me. The kind of love we have never dies.”

I took a step back.

“Do not retreat from this, Wyn,” he growled.

“You need to leave,” I whispered.

He threw both of his long arms wide, and it seemed his presence filled the room.

Definitely having trouble breathing because he’d just taken all the air.

“We need to talk this shit out…finally,” he decreed.

“The finality of this happened three years ago, Remy!” I shouted.

“Yeah? So you got the answers to all our questions?”

“I—”

“What was my goal, that I failed at, when I vowed to link my life to yours?” he demanded. “When I stood before a man of God and made you mine?”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Failed at? You mean by leaving?”

“No,” he gritted. “I mean by not taking care of you.”

“What?” I breathed, now totally perplexed.

He’d never—never—not taken care of me.

Not until he walked out.

“And what were you missing that I needed that you didn’t give me?” he asked tersely.

That question felt like a spear punctured my chest.

“What did you need?” I asked softly.

He emphasized his point. “So you don’t have all our answers?”

“Stop doing this,” I begged.

“No, Wyn, it’s too fucking important and too much goddamned time has been lost,” he denied me. “If you did not give a shit about us, about me, you would not look like you look right now. You would not get up in my face defending Manon’s overspending, forbidding Yves’s underage drinking, and you’d find other ways to tell me what you do to our house is no longer any of my business. Not sharing that after spending half an hour shouting at me about it.”