A Husband's Regret

by Natasha Anders

  “You still with us, Bronwyn?” Bronwyn blinked when a slender hand was waved in front of her face and she saw that the four other women sitting at the restaurant table were staring at her expectantly. They had been discussing Theresa’s marriage renewal ceremony, which was coming up later in the year. The other women were excitedly exchanging ideas for the event.

  “Sorry, I missed that,” she muttered, and Alice snorted.

  “You’ve missed large chunks of the conversation from what I could tell,” the other woman said with raised eyebrows. “What’s going on with you? You checked out of this conversation before it even started.”

  “I’m divorcing Bryce,” Bronwyn told them after taking a fortifying sip of alcohol. It had been a difficult week. She and Bryce had barely spoken since Monday even though he had tried to approach her on numerous occasions. She’d spent her time actively avoiding him and felt like a rank coward because of it.

  “Seriously?” Lisa looked stunned by the information, and the other women were all staring at her sympathetically.

  “Yes. I’ve spoken to a lawyer.”

  “But I thought things were getting better.” Lisa looked devastated by the information, and Bronwyn sighed quietly before shaking her head.

  “No, the plan has always been to get a divorce. We’re living together because it’s convenient right now and less stressful for Kayla, but as soon as I graduate and find a job I’m leaving.”

  “But that will take years.” Theresa unknowingly echoed the words Bronwyn had spoken to Bryce when he’d first suggested his house-sharing idea to her.

  “Yes and it does bother me. I really don’t want to take advantage of Bryce’s generosity . . .”

  “Oh bullcrap,” Theresa cut her off with what for her was uncharacteristically strong language. “You’re the mother of his child and you spent the first year and a half of Kayla’s life struggling to take care of her at the cost of your own health. So don’t you dare feel bad about accepting the aid that you’re entitled to receive from the father of your child. It’s the very least he can do.” The other women stared at Theresa in surprise, and she looked a little uncomfortable before shrugging. “It’s something I feel strongly about.” Bronwyn smiled before nodding her agreement.

  “You’re right, Theresa, but Bryce has suffered too. He missed the first year and a half of Kayla’s life, and he had that accident while following me and we all know how that ended.”

  “All things that could have been avoided if he’d acted less like an arse after he discovered that you were pregnant,” Lisa pointed out reasonably.

  “Yes, what married man reacts like that to the news that he’s going to be a father, anyway?” Alice added her two cents worth. “I like Bryce but seriously, that was a jerk move.”

  “I think that everything will seem a lot less complicated after a couple of drinks,” Roberta Richmond, who had joined their group for the first time that night, suggested with a decisive nod. She wasn’t quite up to speed on the Bronwyn and Bryce situation, but she showed her solidarity by ordering a round of drinks—even though she kept herself restricted to nonalcoholic cocktails. The woman, at twenty-six, was a couple of years younger than Bronwyn and was a friend of Theresa’s. Apparently they had met at some football thing that Sandro, Theresa’s husband, attended regularly. The tomboyish young woman was now the only single, childless member of their group. Theresa had informed them before inviting Bobbi—as she preferred to be called—that the other woman had very few female friends. Bronwyn liked her positive energy. She was a good addition to their little group.

  They spent the rest of the day tossing back cocktails, and, in an effort to cheer her up, the other women started offering Bronwyn all kinds of increasingly bawdy advice on how she could bounce back from her divorce. One of them suggested Bronwyn hook up with a male stripper, which actually made very little sense, but they weren’t very sensible by that point.

  “I guarantee a male stripper would know what to do between the sheets.” Lisa nodded knowingly.

  “Please, like you’d know,” Theresa scoffed.

  “I heard they are mostly gay,” Bronwyn ventured.

  “No way.” Alice looked disappointed by the very idea.

  “We should do some research,” Bobbi mused, licking the salt off her margarita glass. “Find a stripper and ask him if he’s gay.”

  “Where are we going to find a stripper?” Bronwyn asked, curious, more than a little tipsy.

  “I know a place,” the very shy and straitlaced Theresa, of all people, volunteered.

  “Stop it,” Lisa gasped, scandalized. “You do not!”

  “I do,” Theresa maintained smugly. “I saw a documentary about it last week.”

  “Well, what are we waiting for then?” Alice asked eagerly. “Let’s go find us some strippers!”

  Bryce always positioned himself in a room that would get hit by any car headlights whenever he knew Bronwyn was going to be out late. That way he could be certain she was home safely before heading to bed. He would never be able to sleep if he knew she was still out. He always worried about whether she was safe when she was out late with her bunch of gal pals. Unfortunately the women were all quite adamant that security not be present at their gatherings, but the men had collectively agreed to always have at least one guy incognito and keeping an eye on them. Still, it didn’t prevent Bryce from getting stressed out every time it got a little too close to midnight on these girlie Saturdays. Right now it was after midnight and the responses he’d received to the frantic SMSes he’d sent to both Rick and Pierre—whose guy had security detail that night—had been pretty similar: Chill out bro, they’re fine and Relax! I’ve checked. There’s nothing to worry about. He supposed he would have to be content with that.

  At long last, close to one in the morning, the headlights swept up the drive, and he leaped up from the sofa in the den and headed to the front door, fury mixed with the relief he felt.

  Strangely enough the headlights were sweeping back down the drive just as he got to the front door, and he was still trying to figure out what that meant when the door swung open. His wife staggered, that was the only word he could think of to describe her movement, into the foyer. Her face lit up when she saw him, and he blinked in surprise until the fumes hit him.

  “You’re drunk!” he accused in disbelief. That explained the headlights; she had probably come home by taxi. She said something that he didn’t quite catch, and he imagined that she was probably slurring her words. She held her hand up, thumb and forefinger an inch apart, and he shook his head. “More than a little, Bronwyn. Where the hell have you been?” She winced and rubbed her ears and spoke again, and he caught enough of her words to comprehend that he’d probably used a little too much volume on the question. He took a deep, calming breath like his speech therapist had taught him to and repeated the question in what he hoped was a quieter voice. It was always hard to judge when he was feeling this riled up.

  “. . . With girls.”

  He caught just the tail end of that, but it was enough.

  “You’ve been out with ‘the girls’ before but never till nearly one in the morning,” he said, seething.

  You’re not my dad! she signed sloppily before trying to weave her way past him. She lacked the necessary coordination though and instead walked right into him. Bryce grabbed her upper arms and steadied her. She smiled blindingly up at him before quite unexpectedly running her hands over his bare forearms and then up over his biceps. He was so distracted by her touch that for a second he didn’t know that she was speaking. Her eyes had glazed over with familiar desire, and she seemed to be talking more to herself than him. He tried to focus on her lips and not on his burgeoning erection, but it still took a few moments before any of what she was saying sank in.

  “Stripper?” Okay, this time he knew he was bellowing. “What stripper?” To his utter disapp
ointment, she stopped her seductive stroking of his skin and frowned up at him. She lifted one of her hands from his arm and raised a forefinger to her lips in the universal shushing gesture.

  “What stripper?” he asked again, in what he knew was a whisper, and she rolled her eyes.

  “Massive Marvin,” she informed him helpfully, but then removed her other hand from his overheated skin to say the rest in clumsy sign language. But he’s not that massive. You’re much bigger than he is . . . She paused thoughtfully while she ran her eyes over his body and then switched back to words. “Much bigger, all over!” Right. That last gesture was not exactly standard sign language but accompanied by the look she directed downward it was quite unmistakable and very flattering. He felt his face heating and his body hardening even more. He watched as her eyebrows sprang almost all the way to her hairline as she recognized what was happening to him. She raised her glassy eyes to his once more and licked her lips hungrily. God, he knew that look. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, but she was so drunk that he knew it would be wrong to act on their mutual need right then.

  Sleeping with her while she was wasted was not part of his reconciliation plan. Okay, he still had no real idea what the hell his reconciliation plan was, but he was pretty sure that sleeping with her right now would not be the best first step.

  “He’s gay,” she said. Her lips formed the words clearly enough, and he frowned in confusion at the non sequitur.

  “What?” he asked. She was so bloody enchanting like this, but at the same time utterly confounding.

  “Massive Marvin. He’s gay.”

  “And that disappointed you?” he asked levelly, trying not to sound jealous at the thought of his wife ogling some other guy. Of course, he had no idea if he succeeded or not, but he hoped that he managed to sound as neutral as he was pretending to be.

  “No, it was more of a scientific experiment.” Her eyes were on his lower lip, and he wondered what the hell she found so fascinating about it.

  “Going to a strip club was a scientific experiment?” He knew that he sounded like a complete idiot, but he wasn’t sure he was following this weird conversation correctly. He kept feeling like he was missing something.

  “You have such a gorgeous mouth.” She totally threw him with that one. “Much better than Massive Marvin’s.”

  “Are you going to compare me to this Massive Marvin guy all night?” he asked resentfully, feeling ridiculous even saying the stupid name.

  “No . . . not fair, he’d lose.” She went up on her toes and completely slammed him by kissing him. Her arms crept around his neck, and her body was flush against his. He could feel every single curve of her body through their clothes. His arms went around her waist and his hands cupped her firm butt and lifted her until he could feel her feminine heat against his aching hardness. God, it felt amazing having her in his arms again. It would be so easy to strip her naked, push her up against the wall, and . . .

  Whoa there, buddy! He lifted his head and his hands, raising them up with his palms out in a gesture of surrender, and wondered, with the slightest hint of hysteria, why he was always the one calling a halt to things. One day he was going to give her what she so desperately wanted and to hell with the consequences. But, he conceded wryly as he looked down into her frustrated face, that day was not today. She was weaving on the spot and if not for the fact that she still had her arms tightly wrapped around his neck, she would probably have fallen.

  “Babe, you can’t keep torturing me like this,” he could feel the hoarseness in his throat and wondered if he’d managed to get the words out loudly enough for her to hear. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.” Her expression brightened at the word “bed,” and Bryce rolled his eyes, dragging her arms away from his neck and assisting her up to her room. After another frustrating battle in her bedroom, where she seemed to have grown at least six extra arms and put them to good use, he thankfully managed to get her into bed.

  He stared grimly down at his passed-out wife, his body hard, aching, and heavy with suppressed lust. He couldn’t live like this anymore; it was enough to test a saint, and he was no bloody saint. He shook his head in disgust before heading for his usual cold shower.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When Bronwyn joined them in the sunny kitchen for breakfast the following morning, she was wearing a gigantic pair of sunglasses and moving gingerly, with the caution of someone nursing a hell of a headache. She was dressed in a faded shirt and an ugly pair of sweat pants that had seen better days. Her hair was a complete mess. She tried to swallow down her nausea when Bryce gestured toward a pile of pancakes with a raised eyebrow.

  “Coffee,” she grunted as she sat down carefully in the chair immediately to Bryce’s right. His lips twitched as he poured some of the hot, dark brew into a mug and placed it on the table in front of her. Kayla was staring at her mother curiously.

  “Mummy sick?” she asked worriedly, and Bronwyn shook her head before wincing as the movement set off the annoying little drummer gremlins that seemed to have taken up residence in her brain.

  “I’m okay, sweetie.” Her voice was hoarse and she cleared her throat self-consciously before smiling reassuringly at her little girl. Satisfied with her answer, Kayla went back to playing with her food and singing her off-key little ditty.

  Bronwyn flinched at the noise before daring to glance up at Bryce, who was still watching her quietly. She remembered embarrassing bits and pieces of what had happened after she had returned home the night before and didn’t quite know what to say to him this morning.

  “You know, Bron,” he said, breaking the awkward silence between them, and she looked up a little too quickly at the sound of his voice. She bit back a groan and looked at him fully, bracing herself for his censure.

  “Yes?” she prompted when he remained silent a little too long.

  “I’m all for it if you want to use me for . . .” He glanced over at Kayla before lowering his voice. “S-e-x, as long as we come to some sort mutual of agreement over it. No more of this coming-on-to-me-in-a-moment-of-weakness crap. At least that way we both know exactly where we stand, and I won’t feel like an utter bastard when I act on these mixed signals that you’re sending.”

  “I’m so . . .”

  He made a rude sound, cutting off her apology.

  “Don’t. Just don’t apologize. I don’t think I can handle it right now.”

  “Bryce, I think that I should move out. Not far from here, close enough for you to have access to Kayla. You’ll still have her when I’m at school of course, and she could have a sleepover here at least once a week. I’ve been thinking about it . . .”

  “Clearly.”

  “. . . and it’s a workable solution,” she continued, ignoring his sarcastic little interruption. “One that would suit our lifestyles.”

  “And how can you afford a place of your own on the salary you’re earning?” He looked shell-shocked by her words, but Bronwyn refused to allow her resolve to weaken. Theresa’s vehement words the night before had made her think that maybe she did deserve something more than this warped arrangement that he had suggested.

  “Well, you’ll have to pay for it,” she told him resolutely, and his eyes narrowed. “You will pay for my new place, my studies, and child support. I think that it’s the least you can do. I don’t want hundreds of thousands or half of your company or any other kind of payday, but it would be stupid of me not to ask for your support until after I’ve finished my studies.”

  “I don’t want you to move out,” he said grimly.

  “I know, but if I don’t move out, we’ll keep repeating the same cycle. I don’t want to want you, Bryce. But I do, and if I stay here we will wind up in bed together again and that’ll be a huge step backward for us. For me.”

  “Bronwyn, what will it take to convince you that I don’t want to lose you, or Kayla? That I honestl
y want to save our marriage?”

  “Bryce, there’s nothing left to save,” she said with a bitter smile. “Yes, I’m physically attracted to you, but we can’t base a marriage on that alone.”

  “That’s all you feel for me? Physical attraction?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Yes,” she lied, happy that the sunglasses hid her eyes from him.

  “What about Kayla?” he asked.

  “Kayla will be fine; we’ll all be fine, Bryce.”

  “Bronwyn.” His voice dropped to an urgent whisper, rife with despair. “Please, don’t do this. Give us a chance. I know that I’ve done horrible things and behaved reprehensibly, but . . .” She held up her hands, hating to see him beg and knowing that if she allowed it to continue, she would cave.

  “Bryce, you’ve hurt me and I’m finding it . . . a little difficult to move on from that.” She removed her sunglasses, grimacing a bit as the bright light burned into her retinas, but she wanted him to see the truth in her eyes. “I’m trying to forgive you, but I’m only human, and the mistakes you made were enormous. Try seeing it from my point of view. Try to imagine how it felt to be so completely rejected for getting pregnant. Imagine how lost I felt when you didn’t call, when you refused to take my calls, when you seemed to reject me at every turn.” He opened his mouth to say something but after a quick, painful breath closed it again, and he allowed her to speak. “You’ve made some cruel comments about the clothes and toys Kayla had when you found us again. But every single cent I made went into keeping her clean, clothed, fed, happy, and healthy. It was a huge responsibility that I had to bear by myself. You weren’t there, Bryce. It was just me and I had to make the best I could of our situation.