Until the End of Time

by Nikki Winter

  Until the End of Time

  Nikki Winter

  Copyright © 2014 by Nikki Winter

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Published by: Nikki Winter Publishing

  Cover Art: Bree Archer

  http://breearcher.com/

  Copyright Acknowledgement

  Bridge to Terebithia

  Gucci

  Ken doll

  Macy's

  Maxim

  Nikes

  Ruby Woo

  Twitter

  V8

  Dedication

  “A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.”—Mignon McLaughlin

  One

  It was the wait that had become the hardest. It was always the wait. The void of silence filling the room, widening in a chasm of borderline desperation that made every movement feel like a chore. Time ticked by in an unhurried pace, oblivious to its anxiety causing affect. Yes, it was the wait that had become the hardest.

  She couldn’t unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth to even attempt to ask the simple question of, “How was your day?” Instead, she sat there dumbly, staring at the wooden pattern of their bedroom floor, her husband casually propped against a mauve colored wall. His chest was all that moved to disturb the stillness of his form. She appreciated the stillness; it gave her an anchor. If he’d sat next to her on the area rug, his knees bouncing in time with her own, it would’ve simply ratcheted up her own inability to just…be.

  Lifting her head, she caught his stare on her. His eyes weren’t pale, but their effect was just the same. Dark and hypnotizing. A raise of his lashes and she melted. So many years, so much time, and a simple glance could push a soul deep sigh from her throat without much effort. It was a gift that she cursed. That gaze was reaching, could curl its fingers around her heart and cinch down before making her confess every sin lingering on her lips.

  But at the moment, that stare was simply hopeful, imitating her own. He turned away from the wall and took a step forward, his lips parting. “Cara—”

  Jingle! Jingle! Jingle!

  They jerked at the noise, starting when they realized the alarm they’d set minutes ago had finally sounded off. Nyssa Blackwell-Sultana felt her tummy bottom out and placed a hand to it.

  “Would you like me to look?” her husband questioned softly.

  She gave a sharp nod, unable to even consider standing at the moment to face what laid on the other side of the bathroom door.

  Sansone—Sunny to his friends and family—ambled towards the master bath, always willing to play knight when it was requested. She remained on the rug with her legs drawn up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly about them while her chin rested on her knees.

  Relax and wait, she coached herself. Don’t tense. Don’t. Tense. Breathe.

  A huge gulp of air stopped the burning in her lungs and she sat there impatiently, listening for the sound of Sansone’s soft footsteps as he re-entered the bedroom. When they finally came, the slow drags of his bare feet made her raise her eyes. One look at his stoic expression and she knew…

  Negative, he told her without saying a word. The pregnancy test is negative.

  Nyssa gave herself a moment under the crushing disappointment. It was a feeling she’d become familiar with over the last year. So why did it hurt? Why was it so acute?

  Because all the signs had been there this time. All of them. The achy breasts, the aversion to his favorite cologne and the missed period. A week and a half and she hadn’t seen one clue that pointed to a cycle coming her way. So naturally she’d assumed…

  You assumed wrong.

  She swallowed and placed her palms to the floor to push herself up. Standing on legs that just about vibrated, she brushed the back of her yoga pants and gave a brave shrug. “Hey, it happens. We’ve been through this before so…”

  Sansone came forward and she took an involuntary step back. He stopped in his tracks, his expression darkening. He didn’t understand. She didn’t want to be touched right now. She didn’t want soft whispers of reassurances against her temple. She didn’t want to be told again that things would be okay. She just...air. She wanted air.

  Nyssa spun on the balls of her sock clad feet and headed for the door.

  “Cara,” her husband called, following her. “Where’re you going?”

  She couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t she breathe?

  His tone sharpened. “Nyssa.”

  The stairs were a blur as she moved through their home, her goal simple. Get outside. Get away. Go. Go. Go.

  The brass of the doorknob was cool against her hand. She twisted and was almost out onto the porch when strong arms banded around her and jerked her back. She flinched.

  “Wait a minute,” Sansone soothed. “Just…wait a minute.”

  No. She didn’t want to wait. She wanted to leave.

  “Let me go, Sunny.” The command was low and toneless.

  “To do what?” he questioned.

  She didn’t have an answer for him.

  “Come back inside and let’s talk.”

  Nyssa shook her head. “I don’t want to talk.”

  Stubble gently scraped the nape of her neck and a warm puff of air blew past the lobe of her ear. “You may not want to talk, baby. But you need to.”

  No, she really didn’t. She went to pull away but he held fast. “Listen to me,” he tried again. “This isn’t a you problem. It’s a we problem. And we can’t fix it if you are running.”

  A we problem. Right. For it to be that, both of them would have to struggle with the feeling of being woefully inadequate. Color her a cynic, but Nyssa didn’t believe for a moment her spouse was suffering from that weight—this weight. The fight of reaching for something, feeling it brush your fingertips, just to have it snatched away. The fight of consistently pacing the floors while wondering if it is, indeed, a you problem despite the repetitive vow that it isn’t.

  He’d been told that he was fine, in flawless health even. Caramel curls, a face reminiscent of Michael Angelo’s Italian Renaissance works, and six-foot-four with a body fat percentage that would make male models absolutely sick, Sansone could be considered the perfect specimen. Nyssa couldn’t recall coming across anyone that was immune to the rumbling, gravelly lug of that Philly accent. It was touched just enough by his upbringing in a family of second generation Italians to make one perk up and take notice.

  To look at him and not imagine a smart-mouthed, dark eyed little girl with skin the shade of sienna and lean slashes in her cheeks was impossible. Nyssa had been doing that very thing from the day she’d met him, even if it had taken her eight full years to realize it. She’d gotten there, that was all that mattered. But now she questioned if perhaps she’d taken too long. Maybe if she’d admitted her feelings sooner, had been less hesitant—less career-oriented—their timeline would have been different. Maybe—

  Sansone sighed against her cheek and squeezed her briefly. “You torme
nt yourself,” he murmured. “And all for something that couples experience everyday. This isn’t an uncommon issue. You aren’t to blame.”

  His perspective was such a simple one. Because he wasn’t a woman. Proudly rooted in feminism, Nyssa had always thought herself above this niggling insecurity. She’d never even considered the possibility that it would be so hard to do something her body had been literally designed for. And yet, those misogynistic thoughts that taught a woman from birth that her sole purpose on earth was to reproduce would not quiet.

  Baby dolls and carriages, plastic kitchens and tea party sets, all of it had told her that this was so simple. But every negative pregnancy test mocked that theory, unraveled any ground she’d gained in confidence and efficiently pissed all over it. Bullshit. Those baby dolls and carriages, plastic kitchens and tea party sets were bullshit. Giving a false sense of aspiration. Having children wasn’t an aspiration; it wasn’t a goal line to cross. It was a choice that freethinking adults—ready for the responsibility of another life—made together. So why couldn’t two freethinking adults, ready for the responsibility of another life, do it? Why couldn’t she control this one aspect of her life like she’d been able to do everything else? Why couldn’t she shake the horrifying thought that it would never happen?

  With slow, steady steps, her husband moved backwards, pulling her away from the edge of freedom and closing the door with a flick of his wrist. “You can’t shoulder the responsibility for this, cara. No one can. Whether we tried two years ago or eight,” he told her, reading her mind as always. “No one’s to say we would’ve been any more successful then than we have been now.”

  Turning, he grasped her by the shoulders and marched her forward into the sunken family room, placing her down on the couch. As soon as he turned his back, Nyssa was standing. He twisted around and put a palm against her forehead, firmly pushing her back into the cushions.

  Scowling, she slapped at the hand, annoyed that he could manipulate her so easily. Sansone simply switched his hold while dodging her attempts to get free.

  “I can do this all day, baby,” he announced; now covering her entire face with one of those huge, irritating palms. “You’re well aware of my stamina.”

  Nyssa dug her nails into his forearm until he grunted and took hold of her wrists with his opposite hand. “You’re feeling vicious and frustrated, so I’m going to ignore your attempts to mar my perfect, beautiful skin and refrain from smacking your ass until it’s tender like the cattle cuts Brian uses for his veal parmesan.” He released her and wagged a finger. “I’m also going to ignore how you thought you were getting past me and out the door.”

  She snapped her teeth towards that finger, wanting a fight. If she fought she wouldn’t contemplate the test and she wouldn’t listen to the infernal tick tock of her biological clock.

  “Not fighting with you,” her spouse sung, walking towards the double doors that led to the kitchen. “I will, however, make you tea and get your stash of thin mint cookies.”

  Barely resisting the urge to lob an extremely expensive vase at the back of his skull, Nyssa burrowed into the throw pillows behind her back and closed her eyes. And sadly, all she could see was that little girl slipping away from her…

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sansone muttered under his breath, his hands clutching tightly to the stone counter beneath his grasp. He wanted to sink down onto the tile and just stay there for a little while, linger on the floor until the strength returned to his legs but he knew he couldn’t. Because he had to be the brick wall. He couldn’t falter for even a moment or that meant everything would crumble around him. So he sucked down a breath or four and waited for the moment that he could rationalize that his disappointment couldn’t be nearly as poignant as his wife’s.

  He wasn’t even remotely naïve enough to believe she wouldn’t bundle all of this up and carry it. There wasn’t a sentence that he could whisper or scream to keep her from doing so. No matter how many times he told her she was enough, that she would always be enough, his cara wasn’t entirely convinced. She didn’t see what he saw or feel what he felt. There were very few prayers he’d had answered in his lifetime but his pseudo-Catholic heart had seen what it was to finally have a door opened that couldn’t be closed. He clutched onto that with gusto, hoping that he never failed to acknowledge what he had, but as of late that was being overshadowed. His wife was in some silent race against, what seemed to be, the rest of the world. And with each setback, she got hungrier for a victory. It was eating at her and spearing him.

  The natural chemistry of them had been offset dramatically and spun into starts and spurts of moments like the one they’d just had. He’d hoped that this time would be different; he’d hoped that the little plastic stick wouldn’t shake the ground beneath their feet, but for the eighth time in the last year, it had. Each reaction was harder to witness. The way Nyssa’s face fell…

  “Hey, it happens. We’ve been through this before so…” she’d said. Sansone knew better. The nonchalance and the shrug couldn’t help her hide from him the way she so desperately wanted to. Before her feet had even moved, he’d known she would run. It was such a transition from the woman he’d built his life with. His Nyssa wasn’t that volatile. She was a thinker, slow in action, fast in reason. The first time that they had sat on the opposite side of that door had been different; very, very different…

  “Luuucccy! I’m hooome!” Sansone called in the midst of pushing open the front door while attempting to balance an extremely hot paper bag full of Cuban food from a local eatery in one hand. The other held his leather work satchel. Luciano, his brother, kept referring to the bag as his purse. He’d taken said purse and beat the big bastard with it until he’d grown tired.

  Silence greeted him. Nyssa’s eco-friendly sedan had been in the garage when he’d pulled up and her keys were in their usual place—thrown onto the accent table in the foyer. They would more than likely be knocked behind the piece of furniture and she’d complain later about losing them. Words like, “goddamn,” “bastard,” “fucking,” and “large-headed,” would be tossed at him. All this because he still hadn’t found the time to put up the sleek—yet entirely too feminine for his liking—key holder near the front door.

  Sansone shrugged and kept walking, stopping in the kitchen to unload the food from his now red palm and place down his satchel. He briefly thought about moving it to the hall closet where his wife had asked him to put the bag time and time again. But his wife also didn’t seem to understand the convenience of leaving it in the kitchen so he could enjoy the comfort of having it on hand during breakfast. Resigned to ignoring her annoyance later, he stuffed it into one of the informal dining chairs and went about washing his hands.

  He couldn’t hear the shower going from upstairs and since he was expecting to be called names later for the loss of her keys, he knew Nyssa hadn’t gone for a run or a walk around the neighborhood.

  “Look for the tiny woman who yells at me about things or take a bite of the cubano?” Cracking open the lid to the container in his hands, he took a peek at the griddled bread, slow roasted pork shoulder, Swiss cheese, and pickles. “Oh sweetheart,” he whispered. “Don’t you look absolutely beautiful?” Sansone stared for a moment longer before growling, “I want you in my mouth. I want to feel you on my face.”

  “Firstly,” Nyssa said from just over his shoulder, causing him to jump at least two feet in the air. “As twisted as this ideology may seem, I think I would’ve preferred to have walked in on you saying that to someone with actual tits or, at the very least, something adjacent to tits. And secondly, how many times have I asked you to put your man-purse in the hall closet?”

  The container buckled slightly in his hands as he turned around. His voice was higher pitched than he would have liked when he responded due to the fact that she had almost sent his young, virile body into early cardiac arrest. “It is not a purse. It’s an extremely beautiful piece of Italian craftsmanship formed from the fine
st of bull’s hide to be stylishly worn by me on any and every occasion because of its versatile design.”

  Curling lashes fanned twice. “So…a purse.”

  The container rumpled for a second time. “Why can’t you leave me in peace?” Sansone demanded. “Why can’t you let me have my moment?”

  “Mainly because I have the feeling that if I leave you in peace, it’ll lead to you touching yourself while you eat that sandwich and I really don’t think our marriage would survive that.”

  He leered. “It would if you watched…”

  Nyssa’s lips twitched a bit. “You’re getting to be such a strange man.”

  Moving towards the cabinets, he took out plates and glasses. “Save your concern for when I begin to call hats chapeaus while keeping a calorie index for daily meals.” Sansone turned back and leaned down slightly, meeting his wife’s upturned face. His mouth brushed across hers in what should have been an easy “Hello” but her lips parted and he found himself curling his palm around her nape and pulling her in.

  After a day of absent-minded meetings and whining phone calls from clients, this was such a simple pleasure; one that he’d come to greatly enjoy. The lazy movement of tongues made the muscles in his forearms twitch. He walked forward, backing her up into the island.

  Nyssa placed her hands against his chest and nudged until he released her. “Hey, hey, hey André Leon Talley, calm yourself.”

  He waggled his brows and dipped his head, murmuring against her ear, “I want you in my mouth. I want to feel you on my face.”

  She gave an open palm slap to his middle of his back and smirked at his yelp. “Really?”

  “What?” he questioned, frowning. “You said to deliver the line to someone with tits and,”—he glanced purposefully down at her braless state—“you’re just swinging them around.”