Finding myself (18+)

Chapter 39

"Already at home?" I dropped my keys and walked to the couch, where I found Andrew sitting. He is wearing his work clothes, a dark grey three-piece suit. His head leaned against the back of it. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling. His stare is so intense I raise my eyes for a moment to check if there's something there.

Nothing.

Despite it, he's a picture of worry and vulnerability.

"What happened?" I sit on his side and observe him while he adjusts on the couch to look at me.

"Nothing," he shrugs and looks away. I close my eyes and sigh. I don't want to resent him for not sharing, for putting this barrier between us.

Because it doesn't matter how much I share with him, he can't open up completely. Not when it is about him.

He can make me talk. He can share the good news. But when it comes to sharing a concern, or personal issue, it goes only one way.

He can be pushy and make me tell him when something is bothering me, even and especially if I don't want to talk about it. But he still is very secretive about his problems.

I know he's stressed at work. Really stressed. But that's not because he told me. It's because I see it.

"Andrew." I sit on his lap, straddling him. "What's going on?"

He watches me. His eyes scan my body, earning him a small smile. Then his hands grab my waist and pull me closer.

"I prefer doing something else."

"I'm sure you do." I halt his approach. "So, let's compromise." I propose, ready to be the person to lead this conversation that became impossible to ignore. His stress has increased daily, and he never talks about it.

"For every information you share, I'll take one piece of clothes off." He leans back against the couch, considering. I raise my hand and touch his cheek, breathing in and out my concerns about him. He stares back at my pleading and insisting eyes that are ready to spend the night here to have a moment of honesty with him.

"I hate working for my father."

He gasped when I took only my hair strap off. "That's not fair."

"You can do better than that." I shoot him a skeptical glance. That's old news.

He takes a deep breath before speaking.

"I'm going to quit."

"What?"

"Shirt off." I roll my eyes and proceed to take my shirt off.

"Why?"

"Because I can't take it anymore. He fucking controls every move I make. I left for the US to be able to work on my own and not have him breathing on my neck every day. I accept coming back because he said he would step out."

He places his face on his hand.

"I'm bloody stupid-"

I watch and listen to him. Attentive and careful. Almost afraid of making a movement that will halt his talking. He moves his hands and head, agitated, while he tells me what is bothering him.

And even if I don't understand why it is clearly challenging for him to be open about it.

His talk is a mix of rushed words that leave his mouth uncontrollably and silent moments where he talks slowly, choosing carefully every word he utters. Considering how much he would share because he hates being vulnerable.