Need.
Lifting me in his arms, he carried me to my bedroom and placed me back on my feet next to the bed. “I don’t want you gone,” he whispered, reaching down to pull my shirt over my head. “I want you with me.” He pressed soft kisses over my shoulders, up my neck. “Don’t you understand that? You’re my wife, my family. I need you.”
Need.
Peeling the rest of my clothes off, he laid me back on the bed and climbed over my body, his mouth teasing and tasting along the way. Then he kissed my mouth, his passion and tension brimming. I let myself fall into it. Allowed myself to quiet my mind and just feel everything he was trying to convey with his movement and his body. The way his hands touched my skin. The way his fingers teased my sensitive areas and brought me to climax. The way he paused when he pulled his shirt off because he knew I liked to run my fingers over his abs. And the way he locked eyes with me as he pushed inside me.
He took my hands in his, intertwining our fingers before he held them above my head, his hips rolling as he thrust inside me, causing my mind to go numb and my body to cry from pleasure.
“This,” he whispered. “This is everything I have.” He thrust his hips a little harder, his voice gruffer. “Isn’t this enough for you?”
Need. Not love.
A tear formed in the corner of my eye. I felt so much when I was with him. My body surged and heated beneath his touch, my heart beat quicker when he entered a room and my mind went quiet at his closeness. I wanted to believe that we were put in each other’s paths for a reason, that perhaps divine intervention did exist. But I struggled to believe that a man as beautiful as Sam could possibly want me, could want to be with me. Sex was wonderful, and I felt a deep connection whenever we lost ourselves in each other. But the physical faded. I might not have had a lot of experience with relationships, but I did know that. This heat we were experiencing, one day it would fade. And then what would we be left with? I didn’t want to become his obligation.
I felt the tear slide down, so I closed them and turned away.
Immediately Sam stilled. “Am I hurting you?”
I shook my head, unable to stop the emotion that was bubbling up inside me. He released my hands and pulled out, collecting me in his arms and wrapping us both in the warm covers.
“I don’t know what to say, peaches. I don’t know how to make this right.”
I pulled his arms tighter around me, pressed harder against his chest. “Just h-h-hold me,” I sobbed, and he did just that. He held me until I cried myself to sleep.
“Hey.” He pressed a kiss to my shoulder as I woke up still wrapped within him. It seemed we hadn’t moved all night.
The moment I realised he was still there, emotion pricked my eyes. Why on earth am I still crying?
He shifted his weight and pulled me towards him so I rolled on my back. I covered my eyes because they wouldn’t stop leaking.
“Are you still upset with me?”
I shook my head.
“Do you still feel like I don’t want you enough?”
Again, I shook my head.
“Then what? What do you need from me?”
I wiped my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. The answer had been a screaming voice in my mind for months. I’d tried to ignore it, tried to reason it away, but it was eating away at my sanity. I wouldn’t be OK until I knew if it was possible.
I inhaled a shaky breath and forced myself to meet his eyes.
“I need you to love me,” I whispered. Then I felt my heart crack as I watched his face fall. That was the only answer I needed.
Jumping out of bed, I grabbed my old robe from over the door and wrapped myself in it as he called my name.
“You need to go,” I said, my arms folded around my waist and my eyes focused on the floor.
I could hear the tension in his breath as he slid out of bed and got dressed. It was the longest minute of my life.
He stopped in front of me. “Will you look at me?”
I shook my head, keeping my eyes on the floor.
“Please,” he said, hooking a finger under my chin until I caved and lifted my head, my gaze to the side. “Alesha.” I forced my eyes to his. His weren’t filled with joy. With love. No, they were filled with something much worse than that. In his eyes, I saw pity.
“Why are you still here?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“Because I don’t want to leave you like this.”
“Well, I want things too. It doesn’t look like I’m getting it either.”
He pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. “I’m not saying I don’t love you, peaches. I’m just not going to say I do.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Do you or don’t you love me? We’ve spent the best part of a year together. Surely you have some clue.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and I shoved his chest.
“Don’t say sorry. You’re a Cartwright. Just say what you mean.”
“Fine. I don’t know how I feel. I want you. I don’t want to be without you. That’s all I know.”
“So you like fucking me and you’re not bored yet? That’s not good enough for me.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“That’s what it sounds like.”
“Jesus, Alesha, what the fuck do you want from me?”
“I want you to love me! I just fucking told you that.”
“And you can honestly say you love me? The man who essentially kidnaped you and forced you into a life of crime. You’re in love with that man?”
I lifted my chin and met his eyes. “Yes, Sam. I’m in love with you. And I’m not going back with you until you can say the same.”
His eyes searched mine and his jaw tensed, his breath coming hard. “If I leave, I might not be able to come back. This could be it for us.”
“If that’s the case, Sam, so be it. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your family, and God forbid you stand up for yourself and go after what you want.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Maybe. But it’s the truth.”
He stared at me, and I could see the war of his mind behind his eyes. “I don’t want to leave without you.”
“I’m not spending my life with a man who doesn’t love me. It’s not fair for either of us.”
“I could put you over my shoulder and force you to come with me.”
“I’d only run away again.”
“I could lock you up. Keep you so you can’t leave.”
I placed my hand on his chest. “That’s not the kind of man you are.”
His brow knitted and he looked away. “Just come back with me.”
I shook my head. “How about you come back for me. Fight, Sam. Figure out what you want, how you feel. Then fight for it.”
He withdrew from me in a flash, striding through the living room in a few steps. Then he opened the door and slammed it so hard the windows rattled.
I dropped to the floor and cried.
Why can’t he love me?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Perfect Job
“Alesha Ward?” The courier stood at my door with one of those handheld machines, the stylus dangling off it.
“Yes?” I sniffed as I opened the door a little farther.
“I have several boxes for you,” he said, looking at me warily. It was understandable. My eyes were swollen from crying all day and barely sleeping. I also hadn’t brushed my hair. I must’ve looked a fright. He either thought I was horribly contagious or that I’d break down in front him and claw at his shirt like a maniac.
“Several? What are they?” Considering they were addressed to my maiden name, and I hadn’t been back in my own place long enough to order anything, I was at a loss.
“I don’t get to see inside them. I just deliver ’em,” he said, returning to his van and opening the back door. When I heard him click open a trolley, I knew he was going to be a while. I propped the door open with a little statue of the Virgin Mary—my fathe
r’s idea of the perfect gift—and went into the bathroom to wash my face and make myself look somewhat decent by pulling my hair back into a knotty ponytail.
When he finished piling them up inside the door, I signed his tablet and he left, leaving me to stare at the pile in front of me. When I’d chewed my thumbnail down to the quick, I decided to open the box on top. The first thing I saw was the dress I’d worn on my date with Sam. My heart actually stopped beating.
They’d sent me my things. They’d addressed them to Alesha Ward. Ward. I wasn’t a Cartwright anymore. Sam wasn’t going to fight for me. He didn’t want me anymore.
He doesn’t want me.
Picking up the dress, I held it between my hand, the anger and injustice of never being good enough rising up and manifesting itself in a blinding rage.
“Motherfucker,” I screamed, holding it above my head and tearing it to pieces. Once I started, I couldn’t stop, I kicked and shoved, threw and stomped on every single one of those boxes, crying and screaming the entire time. It wasn’t fair. I’d loved him. I’d been a good wife, a good daughter-in-law, a good sister-in-law, and the moment I stood up and said ‘what about me’, they turned around and walked away.
Putting my hands over my face, I stepped back until I hit the wall and then slid down to the floor. Too upset to cry, all that would come out was an open-mouthed gasp. I could barely breathe.
What is so horrible about loving me? Why am I never enough?
If a professional was to break down my personality and align it with the events in my life, they’d probably diagnose me with an anxiety disorder stemming from the fact that my mother abandoned me when I was young. They’d probably say that I also had trust issues, never believing other people’s words and actions, always expecting the worst from them. Because why wouldn’t I? Even my own mother didn’t want me, and my own father didn’t trust me. I didn’t see my own self-worth, which was why I was so easily moulded. I wanted people to like me, and I was willing to change myself for their validation. And why wouldn’t I do that too? The first time I demanded to have my say, I lost everything I’d grown to care about, proving once again that I was worthless. Nobody needed or wanted me. They let go far too easily.
Was it too much to ask for someone to fight for me? Was it too much to want someone to love me above all else? Or was I the one who was too much? Did I expect more than I deserved?
I probably should’ve gone to see a professional, but I chose to spend the next couple of months self-diagnosing via articles I found through Facebook and Google. It seemed like a productive use of my time, something to fill the hours when I wasn’t working.
That’s right. I’d gone back to work. Gone to my father with my tail between my legs, begged my uncle for another chance, assured my brother that I was fine and of course I was eating—if eating cereal straight from the box could be considered a meal. Essentially, I shut myself down. It was like my heart didn’t work anymore.
At least I finally had something in common with my mortuary clients—I was as dead inside as they were. Suddenly, it was my perfect job.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Despite Everything
“I’m glad you’re back,” Trevor said as I helped him dress a corpse before we placed them in their silk-lined coffin. It was a woman who’d died of old age. She didn’t have a lot of family, so they weren’t doing a viewing. She was being buried in her favourite pair of pyjamas, a framed photo of her and her late husband in her hands. It was taken on their wedding day, and the way they looked at each other melted my heart. They seemed so happy. I hoped their marriage had been a happy one too.
“Hmm,” I said, slipping the frame beneath her hands.
“It hasn’t been the same without you. No laughter.”
I straightened the cuffs of her sleeve and stepped away, surveying our work before I helped Trevor close and seal the lid.
“I thought Jenny was doing my job while I was gone?”
“She was. But it’s hard working with your spouse all day and then going home to kids.”
“Do you think that’s why Mum and Dad couldn’t make it?”
“Mum and Dad couldn’t make it because she was an addict,” he corrected.
“They fought a lot.”
He shrugged. “At least they cared enough to fight. Being kind all the time isn’t the ideal either.”
“Are you and Jenny having problems?” I asked, reading between the lines.
“Don’t all couples have their problems? Jenny and I aren’t perfect. We fight. And sometimes we feel like giving up.”
“But you don’t.” I sprayed sanitiser all over the work area.
“No. Because at the end of the day, we love each other.”
I put far more effort into wiping down the stainless-steel surface than was necessary, trying to keep my thoughts even. “I guess that’s the difference between your marriage and mine. You love each other. Sam doesn’t love me.”
Finishing up, I turned to walk away and put an end to the conversation. Trevor had been trying to get me to tell him what happened between Sam and me for weeks. I didn’t think he could believe my marriage wasn’t salvageable.
“Did he tell you that?”
“He wouldn’t say he did. That’s pretty much the same, right?”
“I don’t know. Some people struggle with the words even though they have the feeling.”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t have the feeling, Trevor. He never did.”
“Then why did he marry you?”
I met his eyes. “Because he had to.” Then I turned around and walked away. That was all I had to say.
“I’m heading home. I’m done for the day,” I said at my father’s office door.
He remained focused on the paperwork on his desk. “Is Mrs Barnett ready for tomorrow?”
I nodded. “So is Mr Henry. The morning services are all ready to go.”
“I’ll need you to help Jenny pick up flowers in the morning.”
“Sure. We can use my van.”
“That’s fine.” He waved me away but I didn’t move, just stood there until he finally looked at me. “Do you need something?”
I twisted my fingers around each other, struggling not to slip back into the obsequious daughter I was before. Part of walking away from the Cartwrights was fuelled by my desire to learn exactly who I was and how I fit into this world. And to do that, I needed to revisit my past and understand why everything went so wrong. One thing I’d learned from the Cartwrights was to be bold, to unapologetically go after what you wanted.
“What happened to Mum?”
He froze completely, perhaps even stopped breathing. Then he looked me in the eye. “She left,” he said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone.
“And then what happened?”
He looked down. “We never saw her again.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He picked up his pen again. “Well, that’s what happened.”
I took a step forward, that clawing feeling taking over my chest again. “You’re lying,” I said in a harsh whisper. “I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you never looked for her. I don’t believe you don’t know where she is or what happened to her. Maybe you’ve been keeping that information from us to protect us, but we’re not kids anymore. We deserve to know what happened to our mother.”
Suddenly Trevor appeared beside me. “Is she right, Dad? Do you know?”
Dad took a deep breath, then placed his pen back on the desk before clasping his hands. He let out a heavy sigh. “We tried to save her,“ he said. “Did everything we could, spent everything we could in the hope she would recover. But she was sick, and not just from the drugs. She was just never right in her mind. Chronic depression. We couldn’t save her.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes.
“What does that mean?” Trevor asked.
“You were both so young,” he said, lost in what I was sure was grief.
“What does that mean?” T
revor demanded, his eyes wide.
I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. “It means she’s dead, Trev. It means she overdosed.”
“Fuck.” I’d never heard my brother swear before. He placed his hands against his forehead and released a sob. “Fuck.”
Dad met my eyes, his shining with emotion. “Now you know.”
Trevor shook his head, his voice quivering as he spoke. “You should’ve told us. We had a right to know.” He stormed out of the office, and I heard the back door slam.
I closed my eyes to the sound. “He’s right, you know. You should’ve told us.”
“You were already so heartbroken. I thought it best….”
“You were wrong,” I said, turning to head out the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said to my retreating back. I turned around, the apology seeming almost as strange as Trevor swearing.
“What?”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Where is she?” Even as I said it, I think I already knew the answer. “And what happened? I need to know everything you know.”
He gave me a tiny nod. Then he began.
Growing up, you could frequently find my father working in the garden of our home, specifically the roses that grew underneath our kitchen window. I had a memory of my mother planting them when they were but tiny shrubs in pots. That’s where he’d spread her ashes. Turned out, he was out there talking to her. Why? Because despite everything, he loved her.
Sitting on the wooden bench that had been there for as long as I could remember, I stared at those bushes, my eyes brimming with tears. My mother was dead.
I’d always assumed, but to have it confirmed was so much bigger. Dad had told me that she’d left to spare her children the anguish when things got too bad. She checked herself into rehab and then a private mental hospital. There were times when they thought she may be getting better, but then she’d take a turn for the worse and they’d be back at square one with her self-harming to try and end whatever demons she carried in her mind. In the end, she saved up her medication, hid it inside her toothpaste tube. Then she took it all and never woke up.
Fools Rush In Page 22