“Maybe you should slow down.” I observed his hand once again on the bottle’s neck.
He flinched my hand away and turned toward me. “I don’t need a police officer.”
“I…. Remember, don’t drink because you’re scared or mad or—” I started reciting the wise words he had previously spoken to me.
“And I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed.”
“I’m not.” I tried to be calm because I knew how much he was hurting. “Finn, I thought I was just being your wife… your girl who loves you.”
“I don’t need—”
“You’re gonna push me away, now?” I practically cried out.
He had done it in the past when Wyatt had died. But that was many years and tears before. We had grown so much stronger and secure as a couple…as one heart. Regardless, I got no response from him.
I couldn’t take that. I knew his pain, and I knew where the words, and even the silence that followed, were coming from. But I couldn’t take it. Because, as strong as I had to be for my husband, I was hurting, too. And his rejection, on top of my sadness, would break me…or us.