Someday, I hope I can explain to our daughter the man her father became; however, until I admit the man he was—the man whose eyes burnt my soul—before those eyes found the light—I can’t relish the man I lost.

So here I go. I’ve lived this story, and I’ve told this story. Now, I’m going to try to do both, because without reliving it, even in my mind, I can’t possibly explain that I’m not crazy...

I met Anthony Rawlings March 15, 2010. That night I worked the 4:00PM to close shift at the Red Wing in Atlanta. He came up to the bar and sat down. I remember thinking...

Tony peeled his eyes away from the page. This was so much different than reading her official typed statement. This contained Claire’s raw emotions—in her handwriting. He wasn’t reading—he was listening. Fluttering the pages of all four notebooks, he noticed every page of every book was filled with writing. Glancing up, he saw Claire leaning against the wall, her arms folded over her chest watching him. Her stoic expression failed to reveal her thoughts; however, in her eyes—her damn green eyes—he saw the fire he’d missed. The one he’d doused too many times, most recently with his talk of divorce.

He truly thought she’d pushed their past away, glorified him in some unhealthy, undeserving way, yet on these pages, she’d recounted everything, and despite it all, she proclaimed unyielding love. Her words were correct, especially when she wrote, Anthony Rawlings wanted me. Tony didn’t realize how much at the time, but he did. The shrink at the prison helped him see that the terrible things he did—and he did some awful things—were his way of keeping her away—keeping her at a distance. He never intended to become emotionally attached. Blame it on anything from his past—there was no excuse for his behaviors. Anthony Rawlings never anticipated being emotionally vested in anyone. The psychologist also said, no one can come back from that kind of relationship. It can never be healthy. Is that what her therapist said too? Could they all be wrong? Could they be the one-in-a-million?

Staring into Claire’s eyes, Tony fought the urge to touch her, comfort her, and apologize for ever thinking they should be apart. Once again, his desires overwhelmed him. The self-control he’d elicited for the last two weeks dissipated with each beat of his heart. If he’d truly wanted to maintain their distance, then he never should’ve walked up the stairs. He wanted her more than he wanted life. How did he ever think he could let her go?

Claire waited. She wondered how he’d react—what he’d say. She hadn’t read that notebook in a while, but she knew it was the first one—the one explaining why she wrote everything down. Tony told her she needed to face their past. She wanted him to see—she had. She’d faced every minute. Although he hadn’t said a word, his eyes pulled her in. She wouldn’t look away—she couldn’t. At the sight of the familiar black gleam, her insides tightened to a painful pitch.

The temperature surrounding them warmed as his unrelenting stare bore through her. Claire felt heat radiate from every molecule within the room. While maintaining their unbroken gaze, he laid the notebooks on the dresser. The only reason she wanted to show him the notebooks was to show him that she’d already obeyed his directive. Besides, she reasoned—she’d told him to stay downstairs. This overwhelming sensation of lust wasn’t what she had planned. Her mind fought her body. He’d already rejected her. She couldn’t bear to have him do it again, yet without thinking, her feet moved his direction.

Did he move forward too? She didn’t know. Somehow, they were mere inches apart.

Willing herself to stop, Claire broke their gaze and looked down. Seconds later, she felt the warmth of his finger and thumb lifting her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. Obstinately, she lifted her chin, but kept her eyes shut.

The rich baritone voice commanded, “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Tipping her forehead against his broad chest, she inhaled. His cologne filled her senses as she mumbled, “I can’t.”

She felt his words rumble from his chest. “Look at me”—it wasn’t a request—“I want to see your damn eyes—now!”

“Please, please, Tony—don’t. I can’t take another rejection—not from you.”

Lifting her face, his lips brushed hers just before his words softened and he asked, “Why did you show me that?”

He hadn’t released her chin when her eyes finally opened. Looking up, she knew, despite her claims to the contrary, not only did he control her chin—he controlled her heart. “So that you’d know...I have faced our past—multiple times. Even knowing that past, I wanted a future.”

His words dripped with heat, each one blowing a warm breeze against her cheeks, “Wanted? Past tense?”

She wanted to say, no, I want, but she’d been hurt too many times. Her indignation rose. “You don’t want me!”—“You left me in the Iowa jail!”—“You told me two weeks ago you wanted a divorce!”—“I can’t live in a fantasy! You don’t want me”—“or a future with me!”—with each phrase, her volume grew—“let go of my chin and stop pretending!”

He obeyed her demand and released her chin; however, relinquishing his hold wasn’t even feasible. Forcing her to keep her face tilted toward his, Tony slid his hand to the back of her neck, while his other hand wrapped around her petite frame. He didn’t think or reason as his lips captured hers.

For two weeks, he’d tried to let her go. He’d wanted to release her and give her the freedom she deserved—the freedom he’d taken away so many years ago, but—each day, each hour, each minute, each second—was agony. When Tony wasn’t near Claire—he thought about her. When he was near her—his energy was devoted to fighting his desire. It was exhausting. With his lips against hers, he no longer wanted to fight. His chest pushed against her, moving them, step by step, until they were flush with the wall. His needs intensified as he felt the sensation of her breasts against him. He told himself to stop—he was no good for her—but he didn’t listen—he couldn’t. Unapologetically, his tongue penetrated her lips, and his grasp pulled her hips against his.

Momentarily, Claire’s fists pushed in protest. Soon, she realized resistance was futile—mostly because—she didn’t want to fight. His actions had her on the verge of forgetting any reasonable arguments. All she wanted was the present, then Tony’s voice rumbled like thunder, and his fist pounded the wall above her head, “I told you before, I’ve never pretended to love you! I do love you! That’s present tense!”

While the wall vibrated, she watched the illuminations of darkness dance through his eyes. She’d wanted to see emotion and now she had it! Before she could respond, his body pinned her against the wall. The scent of cologne mixed with musk overpowered her olfactory senses. Her body liquefied at the sensation of his lips and hands. She heard the sound of her own heart beating as the rush of blood pulsated too quickly through her veins. Soon, their ragged breaths filled her ears, and she fought to regain the breath he’d taken. Her body was mindlessly responding to his touch as his desires became more pronounced and her moans echoed through their large suite.

Before long, he led her to the bed, and her world tilted as he followed her onto the mattress. Her body ached for everything he could offer, but her mind couldn’t take another disappointment. While his hands found their way under her blouse, she found the strength to speak, “Stop.” When he didn’t respond, she repeated herself, louder, “I said, stop!”