Willful Vulnerability

Trust is a strange thing. On the surface, it seems so simple, so cut and dried. It’s something we either give or withhold. It’s something so intensely powerful… yet, at the same time, immensely fragile. Something that can be earned—or not. That can be nurtured—or betrayed. Repaired and even revisited, or completely shattered.

To me, the seemingly clear-cut gift of trust is a much more complicated thing—for both giver and recipient. Because to trust someone is to knowingly give them something they can use against you. A confidence, a secret. A fear.

Your own heart.

Maybe that’s why many of us are slow to trust. It’s a willful vulnerability. And it’s frightening. Because, by placing our trust in someone, we give them the power to destroy us. Slowly, with an apparently innocent betrayal here and there, or in grand style with aim directed to where it will hurt us the most.

The Wounded Heart

For Jaxton Carter, hero in my romantic suspense novel, Duplicity, this is a lesson from long ago that he learned once. And well.

Why Cass’s tears affected him, he didn’t know. Maybe because hers were real, or because they weren’t for herself. Or maybe because she tried to keep them private and not use them to wound or manipulate.

Why? How?

Somehow, despite the risk, we trust anyway, convincing ourselves that the person we’ve decided is trustworthy will never use our trust against us.

That’s what interests me the most. Not whether we trust, but why.

And how.

If we’ve trusted before, and were burned because of it, how can we trust our own judgment to trust again?

Or is a better question not whether we can be sure of someone, including ourselves, before we trust again, but what if we’re wrong and trust the wrong person? Again. We’ll be hurt once more, yes. That’s a given. But will we stay down or will we find a way to stand on our own two feet? Again.

“Do you remember your very first words to me?” she asked.

 

He did, she saw the memory register on his face.

 

He shook his head.

 

“We had never met, but you said, ‘Trust me’.” She raised herself to her toes and slid her arms around his neck. “And I did.” Doubt cast a quick, pained shadow over his eyes. Doubt that ran deeper than she had realized. Pain she wished she could ease. “I know you better now, Jax. And I trust you even more.”

 

He touched his forehead to hers.

 

“You know me now, too,” she said on a breath. “Trust me.”

 

“You’re keeping secrets.”

 

“So are you.”

 

He drew back slightly, and she instantly missed the feel of him, the heat. “My secrets aren’t—”

 

“How do I know what your secrets are or are not unless I hear them?” she asked. “How do you know about mine… that aren’t mine?” She slid her fingers into his thick short-cropped hair. Resisted the urge to draw him yet closer, wanting him to come back to her on his own.

 

“Jax,” she whispered. “Trust me.”