I did my best to hide my anxiety from Skylar, but not all of my compulsive behaviors were easy to conceal. She knew something was up with me, but when she’d ask if I was OK, I’d lie and say I was stressed about work, or tired, or hadn’t been eating right. She either believed me or pretended to, probably in order to give me space to work this out on my own, which made me feel even guiltier. I was lying to the woman I loved and she deserved better. Don’t believe me, I wanted to tell her. Don’t let me shut you out. Don’t take my silences for answers. Don’t let me ruin this with fear.
On my bad days, it felt like every step I took could trip the wire, every drastic thought I had would come to fruition, and every minute was sixty seconds closer to losing her. Of course you’ll lose her, the voice taunted. When have you ever been able to hold on to something good?
But there were good days too.
When Mia Fournier had her baby in mid-October, Skylar was given a promotion, a raise, and a box of Abelard Vineyards business cards that said Skylar Nixon, Brand Representative on them. I sent her two dozen pink roses at work the next day and told her how proud I was of her that night. She asked if she could have a reward, and I said of course.
The wicked little thing asked if we could take a shower together, during which she begged me to jerk off in front of her and come on her chest.
Which I did.
Later on I blindfolded her and tortured her endlessly with my tongue for being such a naughty girl, her hands tied, her body stretched out on the bedroom floor.
On those kinds of days, I felt like a god. I could do anything as long as I had her. One chilly fall evening we dragged my sleeping bag out on the dock and spent the entire night out there, whispering and kissing and making love until the sun came up, when we finally went into the cabin and slept for hours in my bed. I came so close that night to asking her to move in with me, but I was too scared—if she was there constantly, it would be much harder to hide my rituals from her.
But God, how I loved her. Madly. Passionately. I wanted her with me all the time. I craved her with every fiber of my being. That night on the dock, I knew without a doubt I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.
Finally, some fucking conviction.
In November, I started fantasizing about proposing. This was how you were supposed to feel when you asked someone to be your wife—wildly in love, every vein in your body running hot with blood when you’re together, every beat of your heart an explosion. But the more I thought about it, the closer I came to asking her if she wanted to stay with me forever, the more fragile she seemed in my eyes, the more obsessive thoughts pummeled my brain, and the less I felt I was good for her. She wouldn’t be happy with me, would she? She couldn’t be. I was a liar. I was a coward. I was despicable, tying her up and fucking her just to make her feel defenseless and vulnerable the way I did.
But I couldn’t stop.
Fear, guilt, and shame tortured me, and the more I fought it, the worse I felt in my skin. My life became a charade. I hid my relapse from Ken by canceling sessions for four weeks straight. I was able to hide it at work because my father let me keep my own hours—it never mattered if I was late. I stopped writing in my journal in the effort to hide it from myself, and I tried desperately to hide it from Skylar—but eventually it became impossible.
“What is with you?” she asked one cold, rainy November night after I’d driven back to the cabin for the second time to check the outlets and appliances. We were on our way to meet the Fourniers for dinner and were late already, but I’d made soup on the stove that afternoon, and it was an odd day, and even though I remembered turning the burner off, I didn’t trust myself. What if that memory was from a different day and the gas was still on? I’d made up some story about forgetting my wallet and then needing one of my meds, but those were flimsy excuses and she knew it. “And if you say ‘nothing,’ I’m getting out of this car. I’ve put up with this behavior for too long.”
I pressed my lips together, remaining silent. When I pulled up in front of the cabin, I told her to wait in the truck. Running through the driving rain, I went inside and began checking the appliances, and when I turned around she was standing there, arms crossed.
“Sebastian. Stop it.”
“I fucking can’t,” I blurted, gripping the edge of the counter. You didn’t check the toaster.
“Then tell me what’s wrong. You’ve been acting strange for weeks now, and you won’t talk to me. I don’t know what to do when you shut me out like this. I feel helpless!” She was wearing a fitted black coat and a new pair of leopard print high heels. Even furious with me, she was beyond beautiful. Too beautiful for you.
Turning, my head, I stared out the window. I couldn’t look at her. You fucking coward.
“God, it’s like you’re two people,” she said, starting to cry. “The one that takes me to bed every night and says such sweet things and makes me feel so hopeful and good and safe, and this one that’s just—”
“Crazy?” I finished, braving a sideways glance at her. “Told you.”
“Confused,” she said, shaking her head. “I have no idea what’s going on with you, but unless you decide to let me in on it, I can’t help you!”
Help me. Stay with me. Don’t go. But I said nothing.
“God, you’re so maddening!” She shook her hands in the air. “Why won’t you talk to me? It’s like you want me to leave you!”
I swallowed, part of me desperate to fall on my knees and beg her to stay and the other part anxious to get this over with. You always knew she’d go, didn’t you? At least let it be on your terms.
“Christ, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re doing all this to drive me away so you can hate yourself for it afterward.” She shook her head. “Why do you think you don’t deserve to be happy?”
“Because I don’t!” I finally exploded. “I’m not right in the head, Skylar. I’m fucked up.” The truth gnawed painfully at my gut, and I felt no relief in voicing it.
Tears dripped from her eyes. “My God. You’re so intent on punishing yourself for something you have no control over, you can’t see straight,” she said. “Have you been going to therapy?”
I looked away again.
“Look at me. Have you?”
Reluctantly, shamefully, my eyes met hers. “No.”
Drawing herself up, she wiped her tears and put both hands over her heart. “You don’t know what this is doing to me. I love you, Sebastian, so much it kills me to see you hurting. I want to make everything better for you, and it breaks my heart that I can’t. And I want a life with you, but I can’t be the only one trying to make it happen.”
“This is a life with me, don’t you get it?” I snapped, hiding behind anger. “This is who I am.”
“Bullshit. This isn’t who you are, and you know it.” She pointed a finger at me. “You’re not an asshole, and you’re not a freak, and you’re not a monster.” She took a step closer and the fresh tears in her eyes had my chest in a vise. “You’re a beautiful, brilliant, complicated man, Sebastian Pryce. And I adore you. But if you want to suffer here alone with your tortured soul because you think for some fucked up reason you deserve it, fine. Choose suffering over me. But I can’t watch. It will destroy me.”
She turned and walked out the door, and I watched through the front window as she grabbed her purse from the truck and got into her car, not even trying to shield herself from the downpour. Instead of driving off in a huff, she sat sobbing in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, which was even worse, and my hands gripped the cement countertop so hard I thought I might crack it.
Eventually she left, and I was so mad at myself I nearly put a fist through the kitchen window.