And chaos really was the only way to describe what I was feeling. So many conflicting feelings about what just happened. Shock. Horror. Shame.
Arousal.
And that brought about even more shame because I knew, while it'd been wrong for him to kiss me, it was even worse that I’d let him. I was trying to teach him to be a Dom, but I was truly the one in charge.
Or at least, I should've been.
I closed my bedroom door behind me and locked it. X wouldn't come barging in here, but I did it anyway. It felt more like I was locking myself in rather than him out. Because I was the one who failed. Father O'Toole brought me here to make X better, not to kiss him.
Okay, so technically, I wasn’t the one who'd initiated the kiss, but I sure as hell hadn't stopped it right away. A few seconds I could write off as shock, but it'd lasted beyond that. And I had absolutely no excuse.
My stomach churned as I sank to the floor, my back against the door. I closed my eyes, pulling my knees up so that I could rest my forehead on them.
I was far from perfect, but I'd never fucked up as badly as I had just now. I didn't have anyone to blame but myself either. It'd been my crazy idea that had gotten me into this mess. If I'd kept things entirely professional, this never would've happened. I should have just focused on taking care of things like I was supposed to. Cleaning the house, making meals, changing his bandages. Maybe being there for him if he ever decided that he needed to talk.
What happened between us destroyed any trust we'd had. He'd never come to me with anything personal after I'd rejected him. It didn't matter that I'd given him boundaries. I'd known I was walking on thin ice the moment I accepted the priest's job offer, because even then, I'd been too involved.
My chest hurt as I struggled to breathe. If X did something to hurt himself it'd be all my fault. Just like Logan had been my fault.
I didn't like to think about the months between Logan's return from overseas and his suicide, but it wasn't just because of how different he'd been. It was because I'd sensed that something was wrong and hadn't done anything about it.
That was the secret I'd held on to all these years. I told Tanner and X both about Logan's death, how I'd found the body. I'd shared other personal things with Tanner too, but I'd never told him that I blamed myself for Logan's death because I knew what he'd say. That it wasn’t my fault. I'd been a teenager. I couldn't have known.
Except a part of me had, and that was what killed me. Logan and I had been close before he'd enlisted. I'd known him better than I'd known myself. So, when he'd come home, I'd felt the loss of who he'd been more keenly than my parents had. I'd tried talking to him, tried to make him laugh and care about living. Care about me.
But he hadn't. He'd sunk deeper and deeper into depression, and I'd been helpless to do anything. Or so I'd told myself. But I could've done something. I might not have been able to help him directly, but I could have gone to our parents. He'd sworn me to secrecy the night I caught him in a suicide chat room. He told me that he'd just wanted to talk to people who understood and that if I told our parents, they'd put him into the hospital and I'd never see him.
I hadn't been an adult then, but I hadn't been a child either. On some level, I knew he was emotionally manipulating me, but I'd accepted it and kept my mouth shut.
That was my biggest fear with X, the thing that had driven me to extreme measures to try to help him. I hadn't wanted another body on my conscience. I hadn't wanted to stand around, doing nothing, while someone I cared about killed themselves.
Now I was afraid I'd only made things worse, and I didn't know how to fix it. Or even if I could.
I had no idea what I was supposed to do now. Should I go back downstairs and apologize for my reaction, but still stay firm in the fact that he shouldn't have kissed me? I couldn't be too harsh about it since I'd kissed him back. It wasn't like I could act all indignant or anything, not when my lips were still tingling, not when I could still feel the ghost of his mouth on mine.
How had things gotten so complicated so fast? I'd been here less than two weeks. The two weeks I'd promised to Father O'Toole. Was that some sort of sign? A way of some higher power letting me know that I needed to tell the priest that when the week was up, I was going home?
Despite what happened, I didn't want to leave. Part of it was fear of what X would do if I took my rejection of him so far as to actually move back to Texas, but another part – though I wasn't quite ready to admit how much – didn't want to leave him because I cared about him. Not just his physical well-being, but all of him. Over the past week, even though I’d performed some nursing duties, I'd felt less and less like his nurse, and more like a friend.
It wasn't an excuse for letting the lines between us blur, but it was a reason. I doubted it was one my job back home would've understood. That was another thing, if I told Father O'Toole that I wanted to leave, he might ask why. Even if he didn't, returning to my job at the medical center would probably prompt questions. I could be vague and say that it wasn't a good fit, but I couldn't know for certain that they wouldn't call X. And I had no way of knowing if X would protect me...or throw me under the bus.