Perfect Together by Kristen Ashley

He shook his head. “You don’t know why, Wyn.”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t know why I’m not close with my mother.”

Oh God.

Now that we were here, with that new look on his face, did I want to know?

I wasn’t sure.

My mouth was because it ordered, “Then tell me, Remy.”

After decades of evading this, he immediately turned his head and pointed to a white scar that was around three inches long. It marred his tanned skin about an inch down from his hairline, just behind his ear.

I’d asked him about it years ago.

He’d told me it was a rugby injury. He was down on the pitch and got stepped on by some cleats.

Now, I sat frozen to the spot, knowing that was a lie.

He turned back and shared, voice detached, “Dad was away on business, but he was supposed to come home. He didn’t come back when he was supposed to, even when he did.”

I sensed where this was going, but I didn’t say anything.

Remy kept sharing.

“He had a local fuck.”

Yes.

That was what I sensed because Guillaume cheating on Colette, and Remy knowing it, was one of the things I did know about his folks.

“I’d met her,” he carried on. “He took me to her place once and I hung in her family room while they fucked in her bedroom. We were supposed to be having father and son time. Her name was Estelle. She was gorgeous. Brashly gorgeous. What my mother would refer to as low rent or trashy. She was a lot younger than my mom too. She made me an ice cream sundae and told me I was a heartbreaker. Then she took Dad down the hall, and as he was walking away, he told me to be quiet and behave.”

I could not believe my ears.

“My Lord, Remy.”

“But that day, the one he was supposed to come home, he called Mom and told her he was going to be away another couple of days. She was furious. But this time, she held it in check. At least she did until she got another call. I don’t know who it was from, probably a friend of hers. One who saw Dad with Estelle. He was in New Orleans. He was home. But he didn’t come directly back to his wife and son. He went to his local fuck.”

I reached out and touched his arm, murmuring, “Oh, honey.”

“Though, he sent flowers,” he continued. “Or his secretary did. When Mom got them, that was when she lost it. Took the vase, struck me with it. It broke on my skull, and the edge cut me. It cut deep. Water all over the place. Red roses everywhere, all mixed with my blood. Mom was hysterical. Our live-in, Marjorie, took me to the hospital and called Dad’s secretary. He came home then. Home. Not to me in the hospital. To our house. To her. Soothing her, telling me when Marjorie brought me back that we had to understand how delicate she was. How women reacted to things differently. How very, very good we had to be not to upset Mom.”

There was no buzzing in my head this time.

It felt like my veins had turned to acid and I was deep breathing while trying not to come out of my skin.

Remy, however, grew silent and I knew story time was over.

“How old were you?” I asked.

“Seven.”

Seven.

He’d been seven.

Good God.

I continued deep breathing, but now while trying not to will my body to dematerialize in Phoenix, rematerialize in NOLA, so I could slap a dying woman silly.

I then tried to leech all accusation out of my voice when I asked, “Why have you never told me this story?”

“Because I learned to be very, very good not to upset the women in my life.”

I sat back like I’d been struck, but he leaned forward.

“You don’t get it,” he said harshly.

And his face was suddenly ravaged, a hundred times worse than the harshness of his words.

“Then explain it to me,” I replied gently.

“It’s all I knew. Don’t make waves. Smooth things over. Be good.”

“Okay,” I prompted. “For her, but for me?”

“Of course for you. More for you than I’d ever do it for her.”

This made sense.

And yet it really, really did not.

“I want to understand, Remy, I truly do, but I can’t say I’m getting it.”

“I love you.”

I sat still on my stool, staring at him.

“Nothing should touch you,” he went on.

Oh God.

He kept going.

“You don’t feel pain. You don’t get upset. Nothing touches you, Wyn. I have to make that so. Do you get it?”

God.

“Life isn’t like that, Remy. It’s impossible to make that so.”

“I know that. I’m fucked up, but I’m not stupid.”

“I wasn’t saying you were.”

“I’m saying I don’t make you feel pain. I don’t upset you. I don’t cause you harm in any way.”

“You never would,” I assured, then added, “I knew that. I never doubted it.”

“She broke my arm. She gave me a concussion. And once she shook me when we were on the stairs, lost control, and I fell down. Half a flight. I dislocated my shoulder.”

Some force surged through me so strong, it drove me to push my stool back and stand up.

Remy stood up with me.

Broke…

Concussion…

Lost control…