I was fucking right in that suspicion, and that was before—way, way before—I screwed everything up.
As he catches sight of me, all of that warmth and affection drains from my father-in-law’s face, and with his work-glove-clad hands on his hips, he shows no inclination to move any closer or to welcome me.
Drawing in a fortifying breath, I make my way over to him. Might as well get this over with.
“Logan,” is all he says, arching his dark eyebrows almost all the way up into his salt-and-pepper hairline. He’s grown a beard since last time, and of course the neatly trimmed facial hair makes him look even more like a fearsome patriarch.
“How’s it going, Frank?” I ask lightly, genially. As if I can convince him everything’s all right by pretending that it is.
“Fine,” he answers. His inscrutable gaze bores into me, observing me calmly before he comments, “Been a while.”
“It has,” I agree.
Without another word, he goes back to picking rocks and twigs off the ground and tossing them into his wheelbarrow, and I’m torn between relief and irritation. A couple of years ago there’s no way I would’ve thought I’d ever miss him greeting me by asking, How’s the keeping-criminals-out-of-prison business going? in that not-entirely-joking way of his. This curtness is definitely worse.
He probably thinks he has some sort of apology due to him, but that’s an expectation he’s going to take with him to the grave, unfulfilled.
The only person in this family that I owe anything is my wife.
Chapter 24
Paige
“All right,” I say as I return to the kitchen after having gone to the bathroom. “I’m ready. What do we do first?”
Over by the sink, my mom and Mia exchange a glance. Without a word, my sister goes to the patio door, leaving it open as she disappears out into the backyard again.
Uh. Okay.
Seriously. What the hell is going on? Half an hour ago, Abigail announced to Logan that he and Jay were supposed to take her and her siblings to the park. At mine and Logan’s confusion at that very specific plan that we hadn’t been part of making, my mom offered a rushed explanation, saying that the kids had been inside too much today and needed to go work out some energy, and they’d thought the guys could take them because Mia wants to teach me and Mom how to make Grandma’s berry cobbler, since Mia was the only one she taught how to do it, and now Mia’s going to be gone for God knows how long, and—
Well, that babbling of Mom’s went on for a while, and it was clear by Logan’s skeptical expression that he was no more fooled by it than I was. But he left with Jay and the kids without complaint, throwing me a look before he went that was full of bewilderment and apprehension.
“Can you sit down for a minute first?” Mom says now, wiping her hands on a towel before walking over to the kitchen table. “We wanna talk to you.”
“We?” I squint at her as she pulls out the chair at the head of the table for herself. She does the same to the one next to it, watching me expectantly, and, because obeying my parents is like an involuntary twitch to me, I approach the table and take a seat.
The rest of my family files in the patio door, Mia entering first with Cam and Dad following.
“Wait.” I eye them all suspiciously, a knot forming in my gut. “What is this?”
“It’s an interrogation.” My brother takes a seat across from me, next to Mom. “You do not have the right to an attorney.”
Choosing the chair by his side, Mia punches his arm. “Shut up. Can you be serious for once in your life? Why are you even here?” With an exasperated look at Mom, she asks, “Why is he here?”
“Because he’s part of the family, and if we don’t treat him like a grown-up, how can we expect him to behave like one?” is the firm answer that comes from the woman who gave us all life.
“Yeah,” Cam enunciates, directing a smug look at Mia. “What she said.”
While Mia makes a face at him, my lips curve despite my sickening foreboding. He really is everyone’s nightmare of an irritating little brother, but he makes me laugh. Plus I know the clown act is mostly that—an act. Somewhere in there is a sensitive, caring, responsible man.
It’s just buried a little deeper than we all would like.
Dad is washing his hands at the sink, and as soon as he’s dried them and plunked himself down at the opposite end of the table from her, Mom clears her throat and tells me, “We just have some questions for you, honey.”
No. This is obviously an ambush, and I want nothing to do with it. Plus I’d have to be an idiot to not know it has something to do with Logan.
“Dad,” I say with an imploring look at my father. Because he usually takes my side.
Though his mouth twists unhappily, he still gives a small shake of his head. “It’s important.”
“Fine.” I blow out a breath, turning back to my mom. “What questions?”
She ignores me in favor of giving her husband a hard stare. Blinking, I swivel my head back and forth between them, and it takes me a moment to figure it out: she wants him to be in charge, and he’d rather not. But she’s insisting…because I’m more likely to answer if the question comes from him? Maybe.
Heaving a sigh, Dad finally caves and says to me, “You need to tell us what your and Logan’s problems have been.”
Ugh. I’m not at all surprised, but it still feels like a zap of static through my bones “Why?” I demand, and I’m watching my mom as I do it, because I know where this is really coming from. “That’s between me and him. It has nothing to do with any of you.”
Again, Mom’s mouth stays closed, and it’s Dad whose voice turns stern as he points out, “Actually, when you expect your mom and me to welcome him back into our house, it becomes our business.”
“What?” An incredulous laugh escapes me, but when I gaze around the table, I find only solemn expressions. Mia shifts in her seat, looking uncomfortable, and even Cam appears somber, sitting there with his arms crossed.
“We have to know what kind of person we’re allowing to stay here,” Mom supplies.
What the hell? My eyebrows crash down. “What are you talking about? What kind of person?”
My brother interjects with a grunt full of disgust and impatience. “They wanna know if he hits you.”
It’s like the wind is knocked out of me.
They what?
My jaw drops, and I’m panting for air, stunned and momentarily speechless.
“Are you serious?” I grind out when I find my voice again, watching my parents in turn. “Why would you even ask that?”
“That bruise on your face,” Mia says, pointing and speaking in a low tone, like she’s trying not to sound confrontational. “That story about your client hitting you with a cutting board sounds pretty farfetched, Paige.”
So…what? They think I’m lying, and it was actually Logan who did it?
This is so surreal. I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry. Forcing a calm voice, I respond, “Okay. Yeah, it does sound ridiculous. Because it was ridiculous, and it did actually happen.”
I gaze around the table, knowing I have truth and righteousness on my side, but all I get in response is expressions of doubt and concern.
“What about the marks you’re hiding under that shirt?” my mom questions.
“What?” I blurt out. The back of my neck prickles, and my heart starts pounding as I feel heat creep up my neck and into my cheeks. I know I look guilty as hell, but that only makes my face flame even more.
“It’s eighty degrees outside, and you’re wearing a long-sleeved shirt,” Mia points out in that same reasonable tone that’s making me want to strangle her a little bit.
“And,” Mom follows with at once, “I’ve realized I’ve noticed bruises on you before, honey. I just never thought that much of it.”
Wow. They’re just firing the bullets from all directions now, aren’t they? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I recognize that they�
��re not attacking me. I’m not on trial here; Logan is. But to cut through what they suspect is me covering for him—because that’s what battered wives do, right?—they have to break me.
Exhaling loudly, I fall back in my chair. “I bruise easily. You know that.”
“Why are you hiding it, then?” my sister challenges, sounding way more aggressive all of a sudden.
“I’m not—”
“For God’s sake,” my dad interrupts all of a sudden. Gesturing at me, he pleads, “Paige, if that man is hurting you, you need to tell us.”
“Dad.” The raw and urgent despair in his eyes cuts me to the core, and a strangled whimper wrings itself from my throat. “No. That’s insane. Logan would never—” I look around at all of them. “He’s not violent. God. How can you even think that?” Another thought occurs to me, and I shake my head in disbelief. “And how could you think I’d stay with him for so long if he were?”
That silences them. For a short while.
I mean, really. They think I’d put up with something like that? It’s insulting.
Mom is the one who decides to speak. “You know,” she muses, “my friend, Nancy? She finally left her husband after thirty-five years. Turned out he’d been abusing her the entire time. No one had any idea. She was so good at hiding it. Then he put her in the hospital, almost killed her, and her kids—who he had also abused—finally stepped in. She still defends him, though. Victims of domestic violence usually do.”
A chill goes through me. I’m sure what she says is true. But it has nothing to do with me and my marriage. Jesus.
“Logan. Does not. Hit me.” I pin my mom with a forceful glare. Then I do the same to my siblings, who are both staring down at the table, and finally Dad, who’s sitting there with hands folded on the table, his expression pained. “You’re unbelievable,” I say. “All of you.”
“No,” my dad fires back in his enough-is-enough voice. “We’re worried about you. You’ve told us nothing. Nothing!”
Chewing on my lip, I regard him, wide-eyed. Then my shoulders sag. He’s right. I’ve been too secretive, and that was clearly a mistake. “Okay,” I say. “All right. Fine.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I start to tell them everything I’ve been too embarrassed, too ashamed to share. Starting with getting married in Vegas because I was knocked up—they already knew the where but not the why of that part—and then continuing with birth control failure part deux, resulting in Abigail.
And when I reveal to them that after the birth of our second child, Logan had a vasectomy, I see all of their eyes going big, can smell their confusion, and I’m sensing their minds working overtime to figure out how that’s even possible. But, but, but, their faces say, and it reminds me so much of that day when I told Logan I was pregnant with Elliott, I start getting kind of queasy.
Explaining the rest is difficult. Mostly because, while the things Logan revealed about the reasons for his jealousy shifted my view on things, I haven’t really processed it or figured out how I feel about it yet. But I get through it somehow, and when I’m done, I lean back in my chair and shrug, saying, “That’s it. Now you know.”
No one says anything for a while. My parents look kind of dazed, uncertain. Across from me, Cam appears unimpressed, like he can’t figure out why he just sat through this whole melodrama.
Mia, though. In her countenance, there’s unadulterated incredulousness. “Oh, my God,” she breathes out. “You got pregnant by accident…three times?”
A knot of anger forms in my gut, and I let out an exasperated huff. “Really? That’s what you’re focused on? After you sit here and tell me you think I married and had kids with and stayed for years with a man who beats me up?”
“I’m just saying,” she comments, shaking her head defensively, looking at our parents. “I’m officially the most responsible of your kids.” She stabs at her own chest. “Never been accidentally knocked up.” Poking the finger against herself again, she turns a pointed look at Cam. “Never set anything on fire in the backyard. Case closed. Take that, middle child stereotypes.”
“Congratulations,” my brother says dryly, offering his hand to her. Which she ignores, of course.
While my parents arch their eyebrows doubtfully, I just roll my eyes. Something within me deflates, though, the pressure inside my head dissipating. I’ve satisfied their curiosity and eased their worries now, right?
No need to explain anything more. Right?
Mom reaches out, squeezing my white-knuckled fists where they’re resting on the table. “I’m sorry you’ve had such a tough time, honey. So what’s going on right now? Have things changed?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “Maybe. We definitely worked through some stuff the past couple of days.”
“Still doesn't explain the bruises,” comes my dad’s rumbling voice.
God dammit. I turn to him, warning him with my eyes. “Stop. Please.”
“No.” His face contorts. “We’re the ones begging you. Do you have any idea what we’ve been going through? We’ve had to try to guess what was wrong between the two of you, and let me tell you, we have pretty vivid imaginations.”
Oh, Dad. I don’t think I’ve ever despised myself as much as I do right now. It never occurred to me that my need for privacy could hurt these people so much, and especially my father. Who dotes on me. I know that. I’ve exploited it, basked in it. It’s a heady feeling, to know you’re loved, unconditionally.
But how can I tell him what he wants to know?
Then again, how can I not?
“He doesn’t hit me,” I assure him quietly, feeling like a broken record. Swallowing hard, I force the words out, the ones I’m pretty sure right now are going to kill me. “It’s just…things can get pretty rough sometimes.” Weakly, I amend, “Most of the time.”
And now the silence feels pressurized, like it’s building and building, getting ready to blow. I avoid everyone’s gaze, scraping lightly at a chip in my nail polish. Guess it’ll be time to get my nails done when I get back home. Maybe I’ll make it a mani-pedi. Or a whole damn spa day. That sounds incredible right now.
“Aw, shit,” Cameron is the first one to comment, sounding amazed and amused.
“Rough?” Mom inquires, obviously bewildered.
“What are you talking about?” Dad barks, equally perplexed.
And of course, my brother sees it as his duty to clarify, snickering as he says, “Sex, Dad. She’s talking about sex.”
“Oh, my God,” Mia squeaks, and I raise my eyes to see her clap a hand over her mouth, her gaze sparking with…what? Shock? Laughter? Both, probably. She would think this is outrageously hilarious. The little pest.
God, this is the worst. I’m trying so hard to hang on to my dignity here. What happens between consenting adults is no one else’s business, right? They don’t have the right to judge, and I shouldn’t be feeling so damned mortified. But I can’t quell it. I kind of want to die right now.
“You have bruises from rough sex?” my mom asks, and a glance at her reveals her looking crestfallen. “With Logan?”
“No, Mom,” I say, exasperated. “With Santa Claus. Sheesh.”
“Don’t talk to your mom like that,” Dad snaps. “This is ridiculous. You’re saying he hurts you—and you want him to?”
While my head is swimming with misery, Cam practically cackles as he says, “Yeah, Paige. Give us all the details. Does he tie you up? Use tools? What’s your safe word?”
I’m going to kill him. Fury takes over, swallowing up my embarrassment. Scowling at him, I spit out, “Mia and I know where you used to hide your weed.”
At that, my sister perks up. “Yeah,” she says with a grin, “it was in a balled-up sock in your sock drawer.”
“What?” my parents exclaim in unison, whipping their heads toward their son.
Cam rolls his eyes, as if he thinks he’s up against amateurs. “Come on,” he says to Mia, smirking. “Let’s not get distracted from the
fact that apparently our perfect big sister likes it rough and dirty.”
Dad’s chair screeches on the hardwood floor as he pushes away from the table. “I’m done.”
“Frank…” Mom cajoles as he gets to his feet, turns, and storms out of the kitchen. Seconds later, the front door slams, rattling the windows.
Wow. Closing my eyes, I release my breath. This day sure went downhill in a hurry.
“Any more questions?” I ask wearily. When my brother raises his hand, I point at him and snarl, “Not you.”
“Jeez,” he says, pretending to be offended. “Don’t be mad at me because you’re into all that Fifty Shades shit.”
I slide down in my chair and kick his shin under the table.
And there’s not much else to say after that.
Chapter 25
Paige
I lie in the dark, wide awake, in my childhood bedroom. On the floor by my full-size bed, my girls are asleep on their air mattresses, and I can hear their shallow breathing, their occasional snuffling, and even some soft snoring. It’s just us in here; Logan is downstairs in the guest bedroom, and Elliott is sleeping in my parents’ bed. Which they’ve apparently allowed him to do all week.
Normally I’d put a stop to that, but tonight I just didn’t have the strength. Partly it’s guilt, since I’ve been letting him sleep in my bed at home way too much. He wakes up in the middle of the night, comes to my room, and gets in with me—and I let him stay. Not only because I’m too tired to carry him back to his own bed. I don’t want to admit it, but having his warm little body snuggled up against mine is comforting, actually makes me wake up feeling more rested.
Because I hate sleeping alone.
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