Are you fucking kidding me?” “No.” I sighed. “Will you let me explain?” “Start. Now.” I shrugged back into my robe and perched on the end of the bed while Martinez paced. The details tumbled out in a jumbled mess, as if the past forty-130 eight hours happened to someone else. “Now you know why I’m beat and beat up.” “I cannot believe the shit you get into.” “Literally. You should’ve seen me when I got home. No. Scratch that. I’m glad you didn’t see me. I was covered in cow shit and birth gunk and wood-chips.” And hate. I tugged the robe more tightly, grateful it at least covered the physical scars—old and new. Nothing I could do about the emotional scars, but they weren’t readily visible. I glanced down at my chapped hands and ragged nails. Why was I always such a mess around him? Why didn’t he care? My stomach trembled when Martinez knelt on the floor in front of me. “You still mad?” “No. I never was mad.” He set the side of his face on my thigh and lightly stroked the backs of my calves with his rough fingertips.
