have are ones I wasn’t interested in. It just didn’t happen for me. Sometimes it’s like that for people. I finally had gotten to the point where I wanted to make it happen, so I did. I just did.”
“Yes. You did.” He leans down so he can press a kiss into my hair. “You’re amazing.”
I smile against his shirt. “Thank you. I don’t think I’m that amazing, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know.”
“Well, I didn’t want you to know. I wanted to... to feel like I knew what I was doing. So I... I played a part. Acted like someone who did. I feel like I’m doing that a lot. Pretending like I know what I’m doing. Like I’m competent and confident, even when most of the time I’m completely clueless and really afraid that today is the day when the world is going to finally discover it.”
Richard chuckles, his fingers still playing in my hair. “Imposter syndrome.”
“What?”
“Imposter syndrome. That’s what it’s called.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess that’s what it’s called. I feel that way all the time. Not just with sex. With everything. Like maybe I’m not really an adult. I’m just pretending to be one. Even in my work. I know I’m good at what I do. I know it. But I still sometimes feel... I try to do better, be more confident, but it’s hard to shake the feeling.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“How would you know?”
“Are you serious? You think you’re the only one to feel that way?”
“No. I don’t think I’m the only one. But I didn’t think you would feel that way.” Because this feels emotionally important to me, I pull away from him and sit up so I can look at his face.
“Why not?” His eyes are holding mine in some kind of unspoken challenge.
“Because you’re... you’re you.”
He exhales in dry amusement. “Right. I’m me.”
“Are you really saying you feel like you’re playing a role sometimes?”
“Sometimes?” He sits up too. His face twists slightly, so I know he’s feeling something deep. “Gillian, are you serious? You know better than that. Think about what you just said about me earlier. You were right. There was no maybe about it. You were absolutely right. I’ve spent my whole life pretending to be someone different. Someone smarter, more successful, more confident, more impressive than I actually am. But it’s all an act. It’s not really me.”
“So you’re saying...” My voice is cracking again. Emotion has risen in my throat and eyes, and I have to fight not to give in and let the tears come. “You’re saying you’re not really rich and successful?”
He gives a hard half shrug. “Yes, I have money. A lot of it. Yes, I’m good at my job. But you should know perfectly well that who you are in your job isn’t all of who you are.”
“Then who’s the rest of you?”
“I don’t know.” He’s staring just over my shoulder, gazing at something invisible as if the answer might be found there. “I have no idea. I’ve been running from him all my life.”
I reach down to take one of his hands in both of mine. I have to touch him. I have to. And his hand is the most easily accessible part. “Why have you had to run from him? You said you’re from a small town and you wanted to get away. Was your childhood really that bad?”
“No. Not compared to some kids. I was never abused or...” He shakes his head and adjusts his hand so his is holding one of mine. “My parents died early, and I went to live with my aunt and uncle in that small town in Maine when I was five. They were...”
“Were they bad to you?” I ask in almost a whisper.
“They could have been worse. They took care of me. They just didn’t love me.” He slants me a look that’s almost sheepish. “I’m not trying to have a pity party here. I was fed and clothed and educated, and I was never hit. But they didn’t love me. They didn’t want me. I felt like a burden on them all my life, and in some ways it... it shaped me. I felt like I had to prove myself. I felt like I had to be someone different, better. That I had to... deserve what everyone else seems to get without trying.”
“Richard.” I squeeze his hand.
“Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m just trying to explain that you’re not alone. Everyone feels that