Tell Me a Truth (The Story Series Book 5)

by Tamara Lush

  “I hope you aren’t thinking I was out there flirting with your brother. Because I wasn’t. I felt like getting away from all the people. You know that Colin’s friends and neighbors aren’t exactly my social circle. Well, you probably don’t remember that. But they aren’t.”

  “I did see how you looked a little uncomfortable when we walked in. And the thought crossed my mind that you were flirting. But something in your voice tells me I should believe you.”

  “You should. So why are we going somewhere private?”

  “So only I can admire that dress on your body.”

  I smiled. Now that sounded like the Caleb I used to know.

  He spanned his hand on the small of my back as we walked down another hall on the third floor. Each step made my heart quicken. He pointed at a closed door and turned the knob, allowing me to enter first.

  I scowled when I looked around the gigantic bedroom. A dark wood, four-poster bed done up in gold and red linens was on the back wall, facing a bank of windows overlooking a tall palm tree and the lake. There was a desk in one corner and other assorted furniture, all matching the walnut hue of the bed. It was right before sunset, and because it was a clear January day in Florida, the sky was ablaze with reds and oranges, making the bed look like it was practically on fire.

  “This is Colin’s bedroom.” I only knew this fact because he’d taken us on a tour earlier in the night, probably to job Caleb’s memory.

  “Mmhmm. Indeed, it’s my brother’s bedroom.” Caleb’s hand was firmer on my back now, guiding me toward the back wall. When we reached the edge of the king-sized bed, I stopped and looked into Caleb’s eyes, which looked unusually flinty that evening next to the royal blue of his polo shirt.

  “Why are we in here?” My heart was pounding.

  My husband didn’t say anything, pressing his mouth to mine. His kiss was feral, demanding. His hands tangled in my hair, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. Even though Caleb didn’t remember what made me intrinsically me, he somehow knew how to inspire craving in me: by kissing me with an open-mouthed hunger.

  “Mmm, you taste good,” I said, running my hands under his shirt so I could feel his bare chest. I lifted the bottom edge of his shirt and tugged it upward. He stood, bare-chested, only in jeans.

  The way I ran my hands and mouth over his chest inspired a half-smile of pleasure on his lips, an expression that was both grateful and naughty. An expression that made me want more.

  When I went to sit on the bed, he put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around, making a little tsk-tsk noise with his tongue.

  Roughly, he grasped the hem of my dress and pulled it up, then pulled my white lace thong down with an equally brutal tug and unwound it from my ankles. His hand splayed on my mid-back, and he pressed me forward. I leaned on my elbows, now breathing hard.

  “Is this what you’ve been wanting, Emma? Something rough? Something dirty?”

  He slipped a finger into my wetness and exhaled loud. I laughed low. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  I was bent over and exposed for him. And wet. So wet. I whimpered when he took his finger out of me, and I heard the sound of his belt buckle, then the zipper of his jeans.

  “Ah. You want to claim me in your brother’s bedroom, do you?” I murmured.

  He didn’t respond. This was a symbolic fuck. And a primitively erotic one, too. I arched my back slightly, so my ass was a little higher. I spread my legs, feeling sexy in my heels. I knew my pose had an effect because Caleb’s breathing was ragged.

  I felt his cock at my entrance, and then he plunged in, making me cry out. He didn’t take his time, didn’t try to stroke my clit into orgasm, didn’t pull my hair.

  I whispered the word yes. Many, many times.

  He fucked me, hard. And for the first time since he’d returned, he spanked me, the full of his hand on my flesh. I shuddered and leaned into my shoulder so I could reach down and touch myself.

  While deep inside of me, he stilled. Then spanked me again. I let my eyes slip shut and toyed with my clit. My orgasm was paired with a shuddering, heaving gasp. The waves of my climax lasted for long seconds as Caleb resumed his deep thrusts. I felt like I was falling off a cliff.

  He spanked me again, and I felt perspiration bloom on my skin.

  “Emma, if you’re my wife, you’re mine and only mine,” he growled.

  I responded with a gasp. “I’ve always been yours. And I always will be.”

  If you still want me, I almost added. But I didn’t because it would sound too pathetic.

  Caleb came with a low roar, a guttural sound that made me come undone. I was gasping now, my chest heaving as I felt him pulse inside of me. Almost immediately after he was done, he pulled out.

  My body was tender, raw, and I eased myself to standing. Caleb had already zipped his pants and sank onto the bed, still shirtless.

  I sat in his lap and he circled his arm around me. Resting my head in the nook of his shoulder near his neck, I sighed and closed my eyes. The warm skin of his chest comforted me. I kissed his neck.

  “I love you,” I whispered. Then my lids popped open.

  I hadn’t meant to say that. The therapist had cautioned me about allowing Caleb to say it first, to not pressure him. But it felt so normal, so natural, so instinctual.

  I nuzzled him, feeling the warm, post-sex connection between us. He was my husband, and I adored him without question.

  “I love you,” I repeated.

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he rubbed my arm. Up and down, down and up.

  Caleb didn’t love me. Or couldn’t say the words. I didn’t know which was worse.

  I stared out the window with heaviness in my chest.

  There was definitely something missing between us, if I compared the present with what we’d once had. Maybe it was because he didn’t remember me, didn’t remember us. Maybe because our shared history had been cut off at the knees.

  Or maybe because something in me had changed.

  Now, we were like friends-with-benefits who were also parents. And yet, I still loved the old Caleb with an ache that made me sometimes double over and sob in the shower when I was alone.

  He’d been back for months and still hadn’t told me he loved me.

  Those three all-important words.

  He put his arms around me, and we sat in silence for the longest time, I with my head against his shoulder, my vintage dress rumpled. He was still shirtless, his skin radiating heat.

  Could I grow to love this new man? Would he ever love me? Would it be as good as it once was? Should I stay with him?

  Of course I would stay. For our family. And because I was an optimist.

  I would continue to fight.

  For us. Or, at least, for our family.

  Caleb was sticking by me for Charlotte, and I would do the same. Because that’s what adults did in their worst moments.

  The only way out was through, I figured.

  In romance novels, at least the ones I used to write, the darkest moment happened late in the book, and usually the characters broke up. It happened when there was a crisis. When all hope was lost and hearts and souls were crushed to bits. It was usually a huge, blockbuster event, with a big fight or some Hollywood-like blowup. It’s when angst, drama, and shame robbed the characters of their happily-ever-after.

  In my life, in my relationship with Caleb, the black moment didn’t shout.

  It murmured.

  In my life, my blackest moment came at sunset, in my brother-in-law’s bedroom. It didn’t explode or crash. It slithered, sinfully, following an orgasm.

  I realized that in marriage—this marriage with the new Caleb—I needed to change my expectations. Lower them, even.

  Black moment, indeed.

  While sitting in Caleb’s lap, I watched the sunset. The orange hues vanished, and the green fronds of the palm tree disappeared against the inky blue of the night sky.

  Chapter 13

  A
month later, we started the morning as usual at the breakfast table, the image of a happy family.

  “You know, I was thinking,” Caleb said, easily slipping a spoonful of scrambled eggs into Charlotte’s mouth, “I’ll take today off so you can pick up your dad at the airport and spend time alone with him. Come to think of it, I was planning on going into the office tomorrow morning, but since it’s Saturday and since it’s Charlotte’s birthday and we’re having a late-afternoon party, I won’t. I’ll be around to help.”

  I scowled. “You don’t have to do all that. My dad and I can catch up later in the week. He’s here for ten days.”

  “No, I want to. You deserve time with him. And I can help with Charlotte tomorrow if you need to do any last-minute party things. Or if you want to relax and let the party planner take over. That might be hard for you, though. I’ve noticed you don’t like to give up control of stuff when it comes to certain aesthetic things.”

  “I want the house to look a certain way. Are you saying I’m a micromanager?” I smiled when I said this.

  “Not exactly. But I’ve noticed you have very detailed instructions for how the house should look for the party. And you’ve been pretty specific when it comes to your new bookstore. Don’t get me wrong—I like a decisive woman. I like your decisiveness in particular.”

  I grinned and gazed at him and Charlotte. He’d been doing this, flirting with me, off and on. He’d also gotten good at feeding the baby over the months. Lately she only wanted Caleb to feed her breakfast. Not me.

  “Dada, cooh, cooh.” She pointed at Higgins the cat, who ambled across the concrete floor.

  “That’s right baby. Cat. Cat.” Caleb meowed and Charlotte laughed. So did I. She squealed as he made an airplane noise with the forkful of eggs.

  “This is what my mom used to do with me and Colin,” he said to me.

  I nodded because I knew. Years ago, he’d showed me photos of his mom feeding his brother in a high chair, fork in mid-air.

  “Charlotte’s really expanding her vocabulary. I think it’s all the reading you do with her, Emma.”

  Charlotte actually spoke about six words, but it was adorable how proud he was of her, of how he thought she was a walking dictionary. I smiled and nodded and sipped my tea.

  As I watched him wipe Charlotte’s chin, everything seemed normal. Perfect, in fact, if an outsider were to observe us. We were all gorgeous and healthy, with Charlotte in her little green dress with a pink flamingo on the front; me in my pink-and-white striped pajamas; and Caleb in his cargo shorts, his white T-shirt that stretched over his broad chest, and his Miami Marlins baseball cap. He was still so damned handsome.

  And he did truly love Charlotte. It meant more to me than almost anything.

  Almost.

  Our relationship still wasn’t what it used to be. Oh, sure, he made me laugh. And he was smart and made more money than we’d ever need in three lifetimes.

  The sex was good, too. He fucked me every night and made me come. Lately he’d been spanking me, tying me up, and kissing me breathless. But sex wasn’t everything, I’d discovered. Caleb and I used to share an intimacy, a connection, an ethereal love thread. The thread was still there, but it was gossamer-thin. Or maybe it was a different strand, altogether.

  I still woke every day with a mixture of hope and fear. Hope that things would return to normal. Fear that they wouldn’t. And then sometimes Caleb would do something amazing and make me melt, make me realize that I was falling in love with this new version of him. Make me realize that he was still the best man I’d ever met and that I needed to stop worrying. After all, he’d taken my revelation about Colin with more grace than most men would have.

  I stared at my family as if I didn’t recognize them.

  Charlotte pursed her lips and refused to eat more. Caleb finished the last of Charlotte’s eggs himself, then turned to me.

  “Yeah, so you pick up your dad, I’ll take Charlotte to that new aquarium. While you’re on your way to the airport, I’ll pull some strings and get tickets to the hockey game in Tampa later this week, since I know your dad is dying to go.”

  I tilted my head. “How did you know my dad likes hockey? We haven’t talked about that since you got back from Brazil. Did you and my dad talk on the phone? Email?”

  Caleb shook his head. “No. I just knew. It’s true, right? Or am I remembering incorrectly?”

  I nodded. This happened occasionally. Caleb would remember some obscure detail—but not something important about me. And so I held hope that Caleb’s memories would continue to return in drips and drops until he was whole again. Anyway, did his memory even matter at this point, now that we were forging a new path together?

  “It’s true, he’s crazy about hockey.” I rose and kissed him on the top of his head. “Thank you for doing that. He’ll appreciate it. I love you.” I walked away. I’d been telling him every day for weeks. The words made me feel better, even though he hadn’t returned the sentiment.

  “You too, babe,” he said.

  I stopped and whirled. He was wiping Charlotte’s mouth with a napkin and didn’t see me gaping at him. As he undid Charlotte’s bib, it was as if everything was normal. Like what he’d said wasn’t monumental.

  Maybe to him it wasn’t. But to me, it was everything.

  * * *

  “You seem perplexed, bookworm.”

  It was hours after Caleb had almost-kinda-sorta told me he loved me and I was having a difficult time hiding my confusion. Did he love me? Or had he said it out of duty? My father and I were at my favorite vegetarian café downtown, and I was uncharacteristically silent.

  “What makes you say that, Dad?”

  “Those lines between your eyebrows. They’re deeper than I’ve ever seen them.”

  I shrugged and said nothing. My BBQ tofu-topped salad suddenly seemed fascinating. I pushed a leaf of lettuce around, wishing I’d brought Charlotte with us instead of leaving her home with Caleb. She would have acted as a buffer to my dad’s inquisitiveness.

  “C’mon, bookworm. What’s wrong? I can tell something’s up.” My dad knew using my childhood nickname would draw the truth out of me. Or a smile.

  “I don’t know if Caleb loves me.”

  I looked up to see my dad scowling and munching on salad.

  “Dad, you’ve got a piece of carrot in your ‘stache.”

  “Oh.” He dabbed at his face. “Gone?”

  “Yeah.” I hoped that would derail the conversation.

  “Emma, Caleb is a different person now.”

  Shit. No derailing here. My dad, a longtime pot smoker, no longer indulged when he was in Florida because he said he didn’t want to bring Caleb any potential trouble. Which was kind of him, but his sobriety made him unusually philosophical. Exactly what I’d wanted to avoid. I jabbed a forkful of tomatoes into my mouth and chewed.

  “Is he treating you well?”

  I nodded, still chewing.

  “Is he kind?”

  “Yep. Very.” I thought of all the little things he’d done recently: lined up contractors to finally finish my second bookstore, gotten me a gift certificate to my favorite spa, talked about going on a family vacation to Montana in the winter.

  “Do you love him?”

  I nodded slowly. “I do. I love him for who he used to be, and I’m starting to love the new Caleb, too. It’s not as intense as what we used to have, but I do love him. It’s a different love.”

  “So he’s different. And your love is different. Maybe it’s deeper. More meaningful. More mature. Have you considered that? You two have gone through a lot. Is that so bad?”

  I shrugged and swallowed. All those kind things he’d done for me in the past couple of months? Maybe he was telling me he loved me, only in a different way than before. “That’s a good question. Maybe not. Maybe we’re finding a new reality.”

  “Everything sure seems to look normal. You two were laughing today when we stopped at the condo to drop off my bags. And
Caleb was so accommodating about taking care of Charlotte today so we could hang out together. Charlotte’s obviously thriving and he loves her.”

  I shifted in my seat and waved my fork in the air. “She is thriving. And he does adore her. He tells her all the time how much he loves her. But I tell him that I love him and he doesn’t say it back. Today, he kind of said it, but not all the way. It hurts, you know? And he’s not the same person. He doesn’t remember anything about us. Our history. I’m not sure he cares. Or that it matters to him.”

  My dad sighed and set his fork down. “You’re a smart woman, so you need to figure out what this means to you and how it fits into your life. How much does it matter to you? Can you accept him as he is now? He might regain his memory. He might not.”

  I shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to, right? I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want Charlotte to grow up without a father in her house. And I do love him. We’re compatible. It’s…I don’t know…different.”

  “Remember, honey, everyone changes during a marriage. Your husband changed a little more than most do, and your marriage changed a little earlier than most marriages. There’s an old saying: ‘Whoever you marry, you’ll wake up the next day with someone else.’ That’s what’s happened to you and Caleb, only on a quicker timetable.”

  I sipped my green smoothie and eyed my father warily. “You know, for an old, stoned hippie, you’re pretty smart.”

  He dipped a piece of pita in a bowl of edamame hummus and took a giant bite. I waved a napkin in front of him.

  “Now you’ve got hummus in your beard.”

  He grinned and so did I.

  Chapter 14

  My eyes opened slow and early the next morning. It was that space between darkness and sunrise, and I lay in bed on my side. I had so much to do. Charlotte’s party would dominate the day. Two dozen adults and five children.

  I blinked into the bluish morning light. All of my upcoming responsibilities and tasks for the week unfolded in my head. When was the charity auction? Did Charlotte have a pediatrician appointment on Monday? Was Caleb going to New York this week or next?