Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 94436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94436 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 472(@200wpm)___ 378(@250wpm)___ 315(@300wpm)
A feeling that I really wanted to share with Jay. Something I wanted to give him. More than anything. Especially now, with all of the stress of this conflict on his shoulders. He’d been more tense than usual. More inside his head. And the way he fucked me was with more urgency, more desperate intensity than ever before. Like he feared that each time might be the last.
This news would give him something different. Something positive. Hopeful.
So I got home earlier than I’d told him I’d be home. I put on music. I even cooked. His favorite. Osso Bucco. Which I did despite the smell of the cooking meat turning my stomach, despite the fatigue that was dragging down my body and the fear of what this news might bring.
I didn’t hope for any joy at this news. Not at first, at least. Whatever vague vestiges of happiness I had roused within Jay were nowhere to be seen these past months. He kept the majority of what was happening from me. And I hadn’t pushed because I truthfully couldn’t handle it. The specifics. I trusted Jay. Trusted him to take care of whatever he needed to take care of, keep me safe.
It was selfish, not pushing him, not giving him somewhere to turn, to be the place he could vent, offload. But the only way I could do that was to fight him, corner him and yank it out of him. I didn’t have the strength for that. I was hoping that this news would do something, help him somehow.
But the second he walked through the door, I knew this was not the night. A black cloud followed him. Engulfed him. His face was drawn, cold, eyes shuttered.
Instead of going to me in the kitchen like he normally did, he went straight for the bar. I watched his back move, biting my lip, switching the stove off.
My movements were unsteady, unsure, as I walked toward him.
Jay didn’t look at me, instead going to one of the white chairs in the living room. One of the chairs, a lifetime ago, we’d often be curled up in, talking about the wedding and our future like it was something to look forward to.
He’d brought the bottle of whisky with him, settling it on the side table. Not a good sign.
Everything radiating from my husband was prickly and dangerous, so despite the urge I had to touch him, I settled gingerly on the arm of the chair.
Then he looked at me. My gorgeous, cold and deadly husband. His eyes were an abyss, yawning yet not empty. Full of things that brushed up against every exposed nerve I had, pain radiating to my fingertips.
I pursed my lips, shaking, unsure of what to say to him, the man I’d married.
“I know how to handle pain,” he spoke before I could, draining his drink. “I’m not immune to it but used to it. Being used to it means I can withstand it.” He lifted a hand to brush my hair from my face. “There was a time when I longed to hurt you. Because you didn’t know it. I wanted you to be hurt so you’d never forget me. So I’d always own a part of you.” He leaned over to pour more whisky into his glass. “This was back when I was trying to keep a part of me good, with intentions of letting you go. Of course now, I’m utterly and entirely wicked by keeping you here, with me. In this life. Now you are getting used to pain that isn’t mine. That’s a result of my life. And I cannot find a way to get right with that.”
My blood turned cold, my stomach lurching at his words. At what threaded through them. A finality.
A goodbye.
I snatched the glass from his hand and placed it on the side table. I climbed onto his lap, straddling him and grasping his neck, forcing his gaze to mine.
“You get right with it,” I demanded. “Because you have no other choice. I am your wife. You made vows, Jay. No matter how wicked you are, you stick to your words, Jay. Your promises. And you promised to stay with me forever. So you get right with all this.”
I didn’t tell him that night.
Or the one after that.
Three Weeks Later
He hadn’t noticed.
They were small, miniscule things in the grand scheme, but Jay usually noticed everything. Even the miniscule. Especially the miniscule.
But he hadn’t noticed that I didn’t come home and pour myself a glass of wine, which was a routine I held almost sacred. When he poured me wine, which he always did, I would sip it daintily, wait for him to leave the room so I could pour it down the drain. I realized that was pretty much sacrilege, considering how much the bottles were worth and how scarce and coveted they were, but I wasn’t taking risks. Not with something this precious, something that I was convinced I would lose at any moment.