“I’ll wash up. If this crap totally sucks, there’s leftover Chinese in the fridge we can eat.” Without so much as a glance my way, he headed straight for the bathroom, taking my dreams of a romantic evening with him.
I increased the temperature to 450° on the eggplant to brown the top, setting the timer for five minutes. I slumped against the counter, my arms folded, and wondered what it’d take to please him. What was wrong with me? It felt like I was back in ninth grade taking dance from Ms. Liddy again. Trying and trying, yet never quite meeting her expectations.
“Terese, come here, please.” Garen’s voice echoed low and threatening through the small townhome. I swallowed hard and ran to him. This couldn’t be good. I entered the small bathroom to find him standing in front of the linen closet, his arm pinned to the doorframe, his face, blood red, his breath, heavy.
“What’s wrong?” I stayed out of reach. I knew what was coming.
“How many times do I have to explain how the closet is to be organized?” His eyes met mine. Fire burned within them. He answered before I could. “This closet is twenty-six inches. If the towels are folded properly into thirds, each measuring eight inches across, then we can have three stacks of towels, with an inch between each stack.” He drew in a deep breath. “Having space around the towels allows for airflow, thus keeping the towels from smelling stale and musty.”
“I did measure them. They’re eight inches.” I made sure. I always made sure.
He stepped back and jabbed his hand at the towels. The center stack had tipped over to the right, knocking all the towels out of alignment. “But . . . I . . .” I shook my head, then remembered. I’d placed the center stack on the shelf as the timer on the dryer went off. I hurried to remove his shirts before they wrinkled. I meant to come back and align the towels, but got busy with dinner and completely forgot. I didn’t dare explain it to Garen. He hated excuses. He considered them weakness.
“I’m sorry.” I dropped my head and stepped to the closet to fix the towels.
“You did this on purpose, didn’t you?” He stood so close to my side his breath beat on my cheek in short puffs.
“No, I swear. It was an accident.” Garen’s hands fisted into balls. I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” I straightened the towels using the ruler Garen had tacked to the inside of the door.
He turned to the sink and washed his hands as I measured and refolded. He shaved his face again, not an uncommon thing for him. He often shaved twice a day. Only today the hum of the electric razor drowned out the beeping of the timer in the kitchen. Garen smelled it first. The unmistakable odor of burnt food filled the air. He darted out of the bathroom and turned for the kitchen. I stood frozen. I knew what had happened. The eggplant was burnt.
The sound of the pan crashing into the sink jolted me. I busied myself with the towels again, hating that my hands shook as I did. Garen’s thundering footsteps did little to quell the fear rising inside me.
“Ruined. Burnt to a crisp. What possessed you to turn the oven up so high, you moron?” He shoved his face into mine as he railed. “Eggplant is expensive this time of year. At least ten dollars now gone,” he snapped his fingers in my face, “just like that.”
“I—I was going to be right there. I set the timer, but didn’t hear it over your razor.” I replaced the ruler on the nail inside the door and bravely turned to face him, even though I felt anything but.
“So this is my fault?” Spittle flew from his mouth and I flinched back. “I suppose the skewed towels are my fault, too?” I shook my head. He shoved his hand toward me and I flinched, only he didn’t hit me. Instead, he grabbed a handful of towels from the pantry behind me and tossed them across the room. He repeated the action until all the towels lay scattered across the room. “I will not be blamed for your shortcomings, do you understand?”
“But—”
“Also, I thought we had a deal,” he interrupted. “You’re to clean the bathroom on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in the morning so I won’t have to smell that horrible cleaner you insist on using. What day is it, Terese?”
“Friday. And I did clean it,” I lied. So busy preparing for our anniversary, it slipped my mind.
“Oh? Where’s the dirty rag then?” He pointed to the empty rack he’d installed on the inside of the bathroom cabinet door for drying soiled rags so they wouldn’t mildew.
Before I could answer, he grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me to the toilet. He lifted the seat and shoved my head into the bowl, stopping an inch short of the water. “Does that smell clean to you, Terese?” I didn’t dare move, afraid my face would touch the water. “I guess this won’t bother you either since it’s clean.” He shoved my head down into the bowl, submerging it. I grabbed the rim of the toilet and pushed upward, desperate for air, but he held me firmly.
“I. Will. Not. Be. Lied. To.” His words were muffled by the water that filled my ears, but I still heard each and every syllable. My head hit the bottom of the bowl with each anger-filled word. Finally, he jerked me back and shoved me to the floor. “Clean up this mess. And don’t ever lie to me again.”
I lay on the floor, gasping for breath as he stomped from the room. My silent tears mixed with toilet water as I cleaned up the mess. How could I go on living like this? How?
After rechecking three times to make sure I put everything in its proper place, I stripped off my wet clothes, hanging them on the hook on the back of the bathroom door to dry, and slipped into the shower.
Hopelessness enveloped me as the water ran over my trembling body. He was never going to get his temper in control. I cried into my hands, feeling like a complete failure. I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.
After exhausting my tears, I dressed in pajamas before quietly slipping onto my bed and staring mindlessly at the ceiling of the dark bedroom. Only a few minutes passed before a soft knock at the door jolted me back from my stupor.
“May I come in?” Garen asked softly. He had a tray of Chinese food in his hands along with the roses from the table. “I thought you might be hungry.”
I carefully sat up quickly as he set the tray on the nightstand. “I cleaned up the mess and refolded the towels, Garen. I triple checked everything. And my wet clothes are hung on the hook to dry so they won’t mold in the hamper.” My heart beat like a caged bird.
“Yes, I saw that. It looks very nice.” He sat next to me and took my hand in his. “Terese, I’m so sorry for losing my temper.” Tears tumbled down his cheeks as he brought my hands to his lips and gently kissed them. “Work’s been a beast lately. Then coming home to all of this just set me off.” The tears flowed hard now, followed with breathy sobs. “I’m begging you to forgive me. I don’t know why I went crazy. It’s not like me. I promise it’ll never happen again.”
“You’ve said that before, Garen.” My tears began. “You scared me. I thought . . .”
“Shhh.” He pressed his fingers to my mouth. “It’ll never happen again. I’ll get counseling if you’ll just say you’ve forgiven me. We can get through this, Terese. Just give me another shot, please. I’m begging you. It’ll get better from here on out. I promise.”
I stared into the sad gray eyes I’d fallen in love with back in high school. The eyes I still loved, despite his temper. I didn’t want to let him go. I didn’t want to fail. I hoped to make our marriage work. I knew I wasn’t the first person to be in this situation. Certainly there had to be a way to make it work.
I wiped the moisture from his face. “If you promise to get counseling, I’ll stay. I can’t live like this, Garen. I just can’t.”
“I will, Terese, I promise.” He smiled. “Things will be better around here from now on.”
Chapter 8
Present day
“Four boxes?” Booker asked, placing the boxes in the back of his pickup. I came home after work yesterday and packed my apartment. It felt good to be moving. I’d lived here since escaping Garen and wanted to move on
, let the nightmares go. Having a new place with my new job would be a fresh start. This apartment was my escape from Garen. The new place would be my new beginning.
“Yes.” I laughed at his frown. “Remember, it’s a furnished apartment. All I need are my personal belongings and linens. Even the kitchen came furnished.”
“Oh yeah. Didn’t think about that.” Booker set the last box in the truck and the top popped open. “Sorry.” He started to intertwine the flaps on the box and then stopped. “Is this entire box full of shoes?” He pulled the flap back as I reached inside and grabbed my favorite pair of flip-flops.
“I sort of have a thing for shoes.” I waved the bright pink and blue sandals at him.
“You haven’t even worn some of these.” He held up a black spiked pump. The tag flapped in the breeze.
“I have no place to wear them.” I took the shoe from him and placed it back in the box alongside the flip-flops.
“Now those you could wear.” He pointed to the knee-high black boots. They too had tags.
“Those are a little ostentatious. I shouldn’t have bought them.” I quickly twisted the flaps shut.
“Ostentatious?” His mouth ticked up in the corner. “I like ’em.”
Embarrassed and not knowing what to say, I pushed the box up next to the others as he closed the tailgate. He opened the passenger door and held my hand as I climbed into the black F-350. What a contrast to the POC.
“I don’t think Maggie’s place has pots and pans.” Booker turned the key in the ignition and the truck roared to life. “I have some extras. Do you mind stopping by my place to pick them up?”
“If you’re sure,” I said hesitantly, buckling my seatbelt.
“Positive. I believe I have some dishes you can have also.” He turned the radio on low and slipped in a Tim McGraw CD. “Do you like country music?” he asked as we rounded the corner near the center of town several minutes later.
Hated it. I smiled and lied. “Sure.”
He chuckled. Okay, so I didn’t lie very well. “How about Lifehouse?” He inserted another CD.
“You can listen to country. I don’t mind.”
“No big deal. I’m a song person more than a genre. If I like the song, I listen,” he insisted. “Do you have a favorite?”
“Neoclassical,” I admitted. Garen hated neoclassical and I seldom listened to it. He insisted on straight classical. After moving to Port Fare, I purchased a few CD’s for the car. My new favorite was Jennifer Thomas. I loved to put on her CD and blast the music. I’d choreographed several dance routines in my head that I was dying to try out in the gym at the local recreation center. My tiny apartment made yoga impossible, let alone dancing. I missed dancing.
“Neo what?” Booker asked.
“Neoclassical. It’s classical crossover,” I said. “Oh, yeah! And I just discovered Lindsey Stirling. She’s a dubstep violinist. She’s incredibly talented.” Never in my wildest dreams would I’ve imagined mixing classical violin music with dubstep to be a good thing. But it was. “I love her music. It has incredible energy,” I gushed.
He cringed. “Dub . . . Well, I don’t have either of those.”
“Don’t judge without hearing them, little Sammy,” I teased.
“If you promise not to call me that in front of Magpie, I promise to give them a try,” he said.
“Deal.”
The leaves on the trees had turned from green to golden yellows, bold reds, and burnt oranges. They tumbled to the ground with the slightest breeze. It seemed to rain leaves as we drove down the road. He pulled into the driveway of a beautiful red brick two-story home with white colonial pillars. Gold and burgundy mums framed the front yard, and a huge oak tree that still held its leaves despite the cool autumn air. “This is the abode. Come on.”
The inside was lovely. Clearly, Booker loved wood. The dining room had a stunning dark wood table. I’d never seen anything quite like it, sporting detailed carvings on the legs. A matching China hutch stood against the wall. He led me to the kitchen. Breathtaking, dark gray cabinets showcased the room, and white marble countertops with veined gray streaks topped them off. A row of windows above the sink made the room feel part of the backyard.
“This is beautiful.” I caressed one of the cabinet doors.
“Thanks. When I’m uptight or bored, I build,” he said with a shrug.
“That’s right. I forgot you worked with wood. Lilah showed me the cabinets you built for Cole.” I nodded to the handcrafted kitchen island. “Incredible. You could make a fortune doing custom cabinetry.”
“No. I’m too slow.”
I laughed. “I find that hard to believe. You set your office up in two days. You drive . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to offend him.
“I drive like a madman?” He chuckled as my face flooded with color. “When I’m doing something I enjoy, I never rush. Some things shouldn’t be rushed, not if you want it done right.”
I couldn’t help but stare at his mouth, with his full bottom lip and his sexy dimples as he spoke, and wondered if that included kissing. I imagined it did. I need to stop imagining that.
“I’m game if you are,” he said.
“Game?” I swallowed hard, jerking my eyes from his mouth.
“I said we’ll need to dig through some of the boxes in the basement to find a set of dishes for the trailer, but I’m game if you are.” He pointed to the basement door.
Oh yeah, completely embarrassing. “That’d be great, if you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
“Not at all.” He opened the door.
“Would it be alright if I used the powder room first?”
“Nope, sorry.” He went down two steps and angled back, a grin filling his mischievous face. “Second door on the right down that hall.” He pointed to a hallway off the family room.
“Get your hormones under control,” I lectured my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I washed my hands in the marble sink. A pink liquid soap bottle with a picture of Hello Kitty sat on the counter. Maggie, no doubt.
I made my way back down the hallway, noting the collection of pictures on the wall. He had some from both Maggie and Seth’s wedding, and Cole and Lilah’s. A picture of Booker with an older gentleman caught my eye, too. They stood in front of a car that all through high school my brother insisted was the best car ever: an Aston Martin. The older man had a grin from ear to ear.
Another photo, slightly yellowed with age, one I assumed was his family, hung next to it. Booker and the man in the photo looked almost identical, from their dark wavy brown hair to their soulful brown eyes. It had to be Booker’s dad. The woman was pretty, and tall, almost as tall as her husband. What I assumed was a young Booker and a girl, probably his sister, stood in front of the parents. Booker couldn’t have been more than eight. His teeth were too big for his face, having not grown into them yet, but you could tell he’d be a looker even then. His sister had dark hair and eyes, but she was quite a bit smaller. I guessed her to be about six.
“That’s my family,” Booker said, startling me. I stepped back. He held out a glass of lemonade.
“Thanks.” I took the glass. “You look like your dad,” I said, sipping the delicious drink.
“Everyone tells me that. He smiled. “He died when I was ten. Cancer.” He let out a hard breath. “And my mom and sister were killed by a couple of thugs who broke into our home looking for drug money. I was sixteen.”
“Booker, I’m so sorry.” I placed my hand on his arm as pain twisted his face.
“My sister and I were twins,” he said.
“I’m a twin, too. A sister. And I have an older brother.” We softly bumped fists. We were both twins. What were the odds? I missed my family something awful. I ached to hear their voices, to hug and hold them again. Afraid of tearing up, I pointed to the picture of Booker’s sister. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were twins. Your sister’s tiny.”
“Sara had asthma. The doctors struggled to control it. It stun
ted her physical growth. If that wasn’t enough, when she turned twelve she developed juvenile diabetes. The poor thing just couldn’t catch a break.” The sadness in his eyes broke my heart. I couldn’t imagine his loss; at least I had hope of seeing my family again, someday. Hopefully.
Time to change the subject.
“So, I take it those are the dishes.” I pointed to the box sitting on the counter.
“Yup. They were in the first box I checked. Guess it’s meant to be that you have them.” I followed him into the kitchen and he opened the box, pulling out a white plate with a thin silver line around the rim, and blue flowers in the center.
“Forget-me-nots.” I traced the pretty blue flowers with my finger.
Booker’s eyes widened in surprise. “Correct. Most people mistakenly call these violets. My grandfather gave the plates to my grandmother for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. They were her favorite flower.”
“My dad’s an avid gardener. He has the most beautiful flowerbeds I’ve ever seen. He also grows vegetables. You should taste his tomatoes.” I closed my eyes, remembering the taste. “I used to help him plant the garden when I lived at home.”
“The trailer only has a small yard, but there’s enough room to grow a few things if you’d like.” He wrapped the newspaper around the dish and set it carefully into the box.
“Maybe I will, although the growing season is quite short here. Did you know this area gets on average ninety-two inches of snow a year? Yuck!” And the exact reason why I chose the Rochester, New York, area to escape to. Garen knew how much I hated the cold. He’d never think to come looking for me here . . . at least that was my hope.
“Ninety-two inches? I didn’t know that. Sounds like you’re not a fan of the snow. Why stay?” Booker pressed.
I stammered for a minute, not knowing what to say. “It grows on you, and it’s beautiful. Green and lush.”
“When it’s not snowing,” he pointed out, closing the box. “Look, I know these plates have seen better days, so if you’d rather buy new, it won’t bother me in the least.”
Unbearable (The Port Fare Series) Page 7