Love Hurts by Brenda Grate Page A

himself at his legs. “Wanna wrestle?”
     
    Gregg laughed and ruffled Matthew’s hair. “How about after dinner? We need our strength, eh?”
     
    “Okay.” Matthew climbed into his chair with the special booster seat. “What’s for dinner, Mommy?”
     
    Jilly set his plate in front of him. “It’s your favorite, spaghetti.”
     
    “Sgabetti!” Matthew crowed and grabbed his fork.
     
    “Hold on, partner,” Gregg admonished. “Wait till Mommy and I have our dinner.”
     
    Gregg and Jilly seated themselves, and Gregg poured them each a glass of wine then some milk for Matthew. All the while, Matthew wiggled in his chair, staring at his plate.
     
    “Gregg?” Jilly whispered.
     
    He grinned at her. “Okay, son, go ahead and eat.”
     
    Matthew dug in with relish, soon smearing the red sauce from chin to forehead. Jilly always marveled at his enjoyment of food and how he managed to get it into every nook and cranny. Sometimes she imagined he would love to climb right into the plate and enjoy it with his whole body.
     
    “Anything interesting happen today?” Gregg asked then took a sip of his wine.
     
    “No, not really. You remember my old friend, Amanda?”
     
    Gregg nodded.
     
    “She was in town, so she came over for a while. We had a nice visit.”
     
    “Anything else happen?”
     
    “No. Not really. I read a lot today.” Jilly looked at her plate, feeling her cheeks heat up.
     
    “That’s nice. What book?”
     
    Jilly looked at Gregg, expecting him to have an irritated look, but he just wore his normal serene expression. She told him about the book and they discussed the plot while they finished their dinner. Matthew interrupted them as soon as he’d finished bathing in his spaghetti.  
     
    “Done.”
     
    Gregg turned to his son. “What do you say to your Mommy, Matty?”
     
    “Tanks Mommy for the sgabetti.”
     
    “Was it good?” Gregg prompted.
     
    “Mmmmm.” Matthew rubbed his tummy, now including his shirt in the mess.
     
    Gregg and Jilly laughed, then she got up to clean her son.
     

     
    That night, as they lay in bed, Gregg asked, “Do you feel guilty when you do something for yourself?”
     
    “Why do you ask that?”
     
    “Because every time you don’t spend the day working or cleaning the house or doing something useful, you get this look on your face. It’s like you’re afraid I’m going to be mad at you if you don’t do everything perfect. You’ve known me a long time and still you make me feel like an ogre.”
     
    Jilly stared at the ceiling, tears pooling around her ears.
     
    “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I do that. You’re not an ogre. You’re a good man.”
     
    Gregg pulled Jilly into his arms and tucked her head under his chin. “What happened to you, honey?”
     
    She stiffened. “What do you mean?”
     
    “I mean what happened to you as a little girl that makes you feel everyone is judging you, blaming you?”
     
    Gregg waited for her to speak, but she said nothing. “Honey, please, talk to me.”
     
    “I can’t talk about it.”
     
    “I think if you do, it will help.”
     
    “Well, that doesn’t matter because I can’t.” Jilly tried to move away, but Gregg tightened his arms around her.
     
    “Please, don’t push me out. You can trust me, you know that. You’re safe.”
     
    The tears came in a rush, soon soaking Gregg’s bare chest. Jilly sobbed and Gregg held her tighter, the two of them entwined in their bed.
     
    The tears stopped, and Jilly rolled over to grab her box of tissues. This time Gregg let her go. After she’d mopped up, including Gregg’s chest, he asked her again, “Are you going to tell me?”
     
    Jilly sat up and leaned against the headboard, her body turned toward the wall opposite the bed. “It’s water under the bridge, Gregg.”
     
    “No, it’s not. You’ve never talked about it, and I can see it eating at you every single day.”
     
    “How can you say