Charitable Contributions

22: All She Knows

Michael told me Mia wasn't teaching her classes. Had she seen the studio's parking lot overflowing into the side streets? She left my texts on read, which I stopped sending after the most pathetic one.

Me: I need you to know what really happened.

When Mia showed up at the party, relief filled my heart to burst. In another Mia one-eighty, she sucked all that hope out in her retreat. Her flashes of warmth, the cracks of trust seeping through her walls in that apologetic smile, made me unhinged. Hardened with muscles trained to perfection, an exterior thicker than rumors and suspicions, and my level of stubbornness, she weakened me without saying a word.

She could have worn a plastic bag and taken my breath away, but my cock jumped out of my pants at first glance. With her in skin-tight yoga clothes, I shouldn't have been that affected by a dress on her tight frame. It hugged the cinch of her waist, and the skirt painted over the curve of her hips and thighs. The round tops of her cleavage begged for release, or better for my mouth over them.

It was more than that. Much more.

A soft, apologetic smile curved her lips. Her skin glowed, and her eyes rounded. Most importantly, they shone with no signs of guilt. She didn't regret being with me.

I went upstairs to cut off Ashley and her husband from fucking in my hallway bathroom, then used mine while Mia searched me out. Her presence flipped a switch in me. I was so thankful, so relieved she was there, that my body erupted in reactions. She bolted at verbal confessions, but I thought she was all in. That's why she was there, wasn't she? And she needed to show her how affected I was. I was all hers if she said the word.

Instead, she tore out of my house like it was on fire.

Maybe she came to share the truth about her ex. Or, maybe she came to tell me we made a mistake. I hadn't cared then and didn't care now. Too focused on how fucking beautiful she looked and the happiness her presence filled me with, I acted on raw, physical impulses.

Sam, you fucked this one up.

Worse than dried kindling, my patience snapped under Mia's hot-cold yanking. She went from moaning my name, her sweet arousal slicking both our thighs, to the back of her head flying out my house. The way I bragged about her efforts helping my shoulder, calling her the secret to my contract's success, melted under the heated anger that burned in my chest when she left.

In my frustration, I pushed what I thought she needed to hear. I wish I could take those words back. Underserved words, spoken in the wrong tone and under the wrong circumstances, were the icing on the cake I smashed into her face.

All because I wanted more while she battled a depression that I couldn't wrap my brain around.

Her erratic behavior dug under my skin, and I snapped. I wanted to hear that I mattered somewhere in that cracked heart space, that I was worthy of knowing whatever the fuck secrets she thought I couldn't handle.

Her admission about having a husband, I didn't see coming. Before I processed that shocking information, she tore off like a wild, unbridled mustang that escaped captivity.

My actions weren't justified by the reasons behind them. Michael was right. She didn't deserve my low blows. Heated in the non-argument moment and burned by her rejection of leaving, I didn't mean those words. Fuck, I wished I could take them back. I replayed every second of that night. Images from first seeing Mia to Michael stepping between us haunted me for days that followed.

"Sam, she didn't deserve that!" Mike rubbed his forehead. "You have no fucking clue what you just did, how much pain you inflicted on her."

"That's the problem!" I wanted to rip my hair out or tear something apart with my bare hands. "I don't fucking know anything. She won't-"