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We are at the dark moment. Everything Rhett knew about her is about to change, and they have to face the truth and what it means for their relationship.

~*~

And the entire beast folded up upon itself again–he didn’t really know her, and had sensed since the beginning there was more under the current, more about her, and now his face smashed into the wall of his stupidity. “You see what the problem is?” he murmured.  “I don’t really know you.” 

“I’m sorry, but it didn’t occur to me I had to rattle off whatever happened to me since my birth for you to think you knew me.”

“And if you want to be honest, I never asked you to. But the painting hit you. Hard. That’s the present, Florence, it’s you and I already together. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He walked toward her, the table acting as a wall between them. “Why did you not tell me?”

Those tears, the pain shimmering in her eyes, killed him. 

“Because it hurts.” Florence took in a hitched breath. “Because when I came here, I swore I would close the ugliest chapter of my life. I didn’t want it to stain what we had, not yet.”

“Okay.” It was reasonable. It was a human reaction, just like his had been. “If–if we go on, you must understand I’m in this to the fullest. I do expect you to share your life with me as I share mine with you. And yes, it includes present and past. It covers everything, Florence.”

“I hope you have the next day free because going through my life might take some time.”

“I’m not saying we have to sit down and recite our lives. You have your secrets, I have mine, and it’s fair. But if something happens, and it makes you sad, angry, or whatever, I’m here for you. I am here, and I’ll give you all I’ve got. I won’t settle for less from you.”

~*~

Let’s go to a little further because it’s taking us to the breaking point.

~*~

She nodded. 

A shiver ran down his spine, chilled his warming heart. Because the look in her eyes was not one of relief for a fight winding down, or even emotions for words of love–his words of love. It was guilt, raw and gnawing, and his doubts grew fangs. “Is there anything else you want to tell me right now?”

She shook her head. 

“Are you sure? Nothing you feel it’s worth saying?”

“No.” But God, her voice trembled, held more unease than assurance. 

Following a faceless stupid impulse, he walked around the table, grabbed her by her shoulders to stand in front of him. “Look me in the eyes, Florence.”

When she did, he wished he’d never asked. So much pain in it. But he had to push through if they wanted a chance, she must trust him with whatever she held back. “Is there anything else you’re not telling me?” 

“No.”

His heart shriveled and bled. “You’re lying.”

“No.”

“The hell you’re not. I might not know crap about your life, I sure realize it now, but I know you. And you are lying.”

Caught between his anger and hurt and her distress, he fought the will to shake her until she’d talk, to hold her in his arms until her pain was gone. Survival instinct won and made his fingers tighten on her, turned his voice into a whisper. “Talk to me.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, took a step back, away from him. For an endless moment, she stood there, head down, shoulders hunched. Only a step away from him, it felt like watching as she fell down a precipice. Far away, where he couldn’t grab her. Save her. Then she turned around, walked in the laundry room. 

Florence came back with her suitcase, set it on the table. 

“What are you doing? Are you leaving?”

Relentless, she didn’t say anything but shrugged in irritation now. She fished out items from the black luggage–a small box, a bag with keys in. A little painting, the squared canvas of a childish heart. 

His heart slowed to the point of not hearing its beat anymore. “What are you doing, Florence?”

She tore a sheet from the kitchen paper roll, dried her face. Calm, eerily calm and collected, she said, “you want to know more about me. Who I am,” she concluded with something very close to derision. “Well, this is who I am.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This little guy here,” she said picking up the box. “Is a kit to reproduce keys.” She put the kit down, took the sandwich bag between thumb and index finger, let it dangle down. “These are five copies of Aidan’s house key.” She dropped them on the table and pointed to the painting. “And that, it’s the forged copy of my Painted Love, currently owned by Aidan Murphy.”

She opened her arms wide, let them fall. “I am a thief.”