Page 47 of Solitary Man

I threw my hands in the air. “You know what? Screw you.” Then I spun and stormed to my office and slammed the door. Needing to get away before I fell apart in front of him.

Stupidly, I expected him to follow. He did not, and my anger reached new levels when the bang of the front door reached me. I spun to the window in time to see him walking across the field to his workshop. That was when I hit my limit.

That was when the pain I’d been fighting sliced through me so deep there was no way I could sit here and wait anymore.

I’d done that enough in my life.

Storming across the office, I yanked my door open, strode through the house, and marched outside. The barn door was closed, and I pulled it with such force that it swung back and hit the wall with a bang as I walked in.

Cash was standing at one of his workbenches, hands gripping the edge, head down. He swung around at my violent entrance. His massive body turning to face me, his arms dropping to his sides, his body going rigid.

I wanted him so bad I hurt.

All the anger and pain twisted together.

“Why are you being like this? Why won’t you talk to me? Why is it that one moment you couldn’t get enough of me and now you won’t even look at me, let alone touch me? I need you to tell me, Cash. I need you to talk to me. I deserve that much.”

He started breathing faster, heavier, but said nothing.

“Do you even want me here?”

Nothing.

The pain was like being cleaved in two. “I can’t live like this,” I whispered and stared into his eyes, needing to be reassured. Desperate for him to tell me he loved me, that he wanted me here with him. “I can’t stay here…if things are like this.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, his massive frame shaking, and made a sound like a wounded animal, but nothing else. Not one word.

“Goddamn you, Cash. Say something. Your wife just told you she’s thinking of leaving.” I walked up to him, the anger taking the lead, trying to protect my wounded heart, and I balled up my fist and thumped it against his chest. “Say something.” Then I thumped both down on that wide chest and yelled at him, “Say something!”

He grabbed my wrists, but he didn’t push me away, he held me where I was. He was shaking harder now, breath sawing in and out of him.

“Goddammit, Riley.” He backed me against the wall, trapping me between him and the rough-sawn planks behind me.

“You left me. You made me feel like that sad little girl all over again, desperate to be loved but never good enough.”

“Darlin’,” he choked out.

A sob broke free. “What is wrong with me? Why does nobody want me?”

“No.” He gripped my arms tight. “No, that’s not…you were going to leave me sooner or later…and I thought…better for us both that it’s now,” he choked out.

I stared up at him stunned. “Why?” I whispered. “Why would I leave you?”

His eyes searched mine almost frantically. “Because I’m not the man you think I am. Because it was only a matter of time before you figured that out for yourself.” He moved in closer, shaking harder. “Because every day you’re here with me I need you more, want you more.”

“Cash…”

“I didn’t think I’d survive losing my parents, or the loneliness that came after. Then you came into my life, and the thought of losing you…it’s worse, Riley. God, help me, it’s worse.”

My own breathing was ragged, and I wanted to touch him, comfort him, but he still held my wrists, stopping me from giving him what we both needed. “Please, Cash, I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

He leaned in closer, so much pain in his steady gaze. “When you gave me your scrapbook, the things you said…I knew then I had to give you up, that I couldn’t lie to you anymore. You deserve more, more than me.” His nostrils flared. “I didn’t write those emails. I’m not him, the man you chose. That was Landon. I told him how to reply, but he took it upon himself to make them…more. He gave you more. Because he knew I wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough to get you here, and I’m not enough to keep you, either.”

I stared up at him in shock, not about the emails, I’d kind of begun to suspect that for myself, but that he would think that. That he could believe that about himself. “You’re wrong.”

His confused gaze searched mine. “Riley, I’m not…”

“I know you,” I said. “I don’t care who wrote those emails.”