My Toxin

Chapter 30

The therapist's office was too quiet—the kind of quiet that made every unspoken word sit heavy in the air. I glanced at Marjorie beside me. She sat straight, her hands clasped in her lap, looking composed as always. But I knew her better than that. Her knee was bouncing ever so slightly, and her eyes flicked to the clock on the wall every few minutes. She hated being here, hated talking about things she couldn't control. But she was here. That counted for something.

Dr. Hughes sat across from us, her pen poised over her notepad, though she hadn't written much during the session. Instead, she'd been observing us, her calm, knowing eyes taking in everything we weren't saying. Finally, she leaned forward.

"You're both so young—nineteen," she said, her tone warm but firm. "And yet, you carry yourselves like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. That kind of pressure—whether from your families, your academics, or even yourselves—is a lot. You need to remember what it means to enjoy life, to be young. I want you both to focus on that for a bit. Maybe plan a getaway. Just the two of you. It'll be good for your relationship."

I felt Marjorie stiffen next to me. I could tell she was already calculating the logistics, thinking about how much time she could afford to take away from her endless responsibilities. Before she could voice any objections, I reached over and squeezed her hand.

"That's a great idea," I said, giving her a small smile. "We could use the break."

A couple of days later, we were driving into York. I'd planned everything without telling Marjorie much, hoping the surprise would take some of the weight off her shoulders. She stared out the window as the cobblestone streets and historic buildings came into view, her face softening for the first time in weeks.

"This place is beautiful," she said quietly, almost to herself.

I glanced over, my chest tightening a little. She'd been so tense lately, so guarded. Seeing her relax, even for a moment, made the long hours I'd spent planning this trip worth it.

The cottage I'd rented was tucked away on a quiet street, covered in ivy and every bit as charming as the photos had promised. Inside, it was warm and cozy, with a fireplace that gave the whole place a golden glow. Marjorie wandered through the space, her fingers trailing along the wooden beams, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Do you like it?" I asked, following her into the living room.

She turned to me, her eyes shining. "It's perfect."

The days in York were some of the best we'd had in months. We explored the markets, where Marjorie's eyes lit up at every unique trinket and handmade piece of jewelry. We visited the Jorvik Viking Centre, where she got lost in the history, asking the guides more questions than they probably had answers for. I loved seeing her like that—curious, alive, happy. It reminded me of why I fell in love with her in the first place.

We even made chocolate at one of the local shops, which ended with both of us laughing hysterically as I tried to convince her my design was better. For the first time in what felt like forever, I saw her shoulders relax, her laugh coming easily. And it wasn't just her. I felt lighter too, like the version of me that existed before all the pressure and expectations.

But at night, things felt different. Distant. Like there was a barrier between us.

It was our second evening in the cottage. The fire crackled softly as we sat on the couch, glasses of wine in hand. She was sitting on my lap, her braids brushed to the side, exposing her neck. I pressed a soft kiss there, savoring the moment.

She sighed, leaning into me as I trailed kisses along her jawline, our lips meeting in a slow, tender rhythm. My hands rested on her waist, pulling her closer. For a moment, it felt perfect—like nothing else in the world existed but us.

But as my hand slipped under the hem of her shirt, she jolted, pulling away. The sudden distance between us stung more than I wanted to admit.

"Marjorie, why? What have I done?"

She looked up, her expression cautious. "What do you mean?"

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I feel like there's been this... distance between us. For weeks now. And I don't know if it's something I've done or if... I don't know. If you're not ready for that, I understand. But talk to me. Don't push me away."

Her eyes dropped to her lap, and for a moment, I thought she wasn't going to answer. But then she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Why did you sleep with Isabella?"

Her words caught me off guard. I blinked, completely baffled. "What?"

She met my eyes, her expression unreadable. "Isabella. The tanned, curvy, sexy Latina."

I swallowed hard, guilt twisting in my chest. "I don't even remember, Marjorie. I was drunk. It was stupid, and it never should have happened."

She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping again. "It wasn't a mistake though, was it? You meant to sleep with her. I mean, I don't blame you. She is your type—she's fun and lively, and I'm just... drama. I've never seen you so carefree."

Her voice cracked, and it felt like my heart was breaking right there in my chest. I moved closer, reaching out to take her hands in mine.

"Marjorie, stop," I said, my voice firm but soft. "You're not drama. And you're not competing with anyone—least of all Isabella. You're my happiness. I live and breathe you, Marjorie. Everyone sees that but you."

Tears spilled down her cheeks, and I pulled her into my arms, holding her tightly as she trembled against me. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," I said fiercely, tilting her chin up so she'd look at me. "You are enough, Marjorie. You've always been enough. You're all I need."

She nodded, her lips pressing into a small, trembling smile. And as I held her there, in the warmth of that little cottage, I made a silent promise to myself: I would never let her feel like she wasn't enough again.