Starving Faithful

by Amy Lynn

  I shoved in a big bite of Garcia. I came here to talk about Brad, and instead we’re talking about Abram Kent. Seriously?

  “Well, since you’re here,” Caroline successfully changes the subject adding, “How about we go over a few things? Get the ball rolling on project TOC.”

  “TOC?” I tease back.

  “Oh come on, you know it’s better than saying Tourism of Chicago.”

  “You got me there.”

  Caroline wraps one arm around my shoulder as we make our way into the den. “It seems like Brad’s just going through a rough patch. Hang in there. I’m here if you want to talk about it, but it doesn’t seem like you’re ready.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t think it was as simple as that. I felt it deep in my stomach. In that place that refuses to listen to excuses and accepts only logical reason. That place that hears everything and speaks loudly without any voice. That place that aches with sorrow, yet can be filled with such happiness when nurtured with love and affection. That place I so desperately beg to ask so it will tell me what it knows.

  But it’s silent. The dull tone almost deafening.

  The drive home from Caroline’s was even worse, and the buzz of sheer silence was enough to give me a headache. Brad was sound asleep when I got home as I figured he would be. I changed and carefully slipped beneath the blankets as to not wake him. I don’t know how long I lay there awake, but long enough to watch the moon make the path from one side of the window to the other until it disappeared behind the bedroom wall.

  My alarm buzzed with enthusiasm on Sunday morning for church, and I quickly rolled over to silence it. The day was dreary and stormy and coincidentally so was my mood, proof I really needed church this morning.

  Rubbing my tired eyes, I slid from the bed, remembering how Brad had begged me to stay the week before, and how, so suddenly, things had changed.

  I walked slowly to the bathroom, hoping by some chance those words would slip from Brad again; knowing deep down they wouldn’t come.

  And they didn’t.

  I could barely see out the windshield as rain fell in angry sheets around me. Parking the car, the rain seemed to fall harder and faster, and I wondered if I could even make it inside the church without becoming completely drenched. I grabbed my umbrella, took a deep breath, and opened the door and the umbrella to the elements.

  Moisture collected on my clothes immediately, and wind blew in gusty bursts underneath my umbrella. I had managed to take about ten steps before the umbrella completely turned itself inside out, my jacket and hair becoming instantly soaked, and I debated on going back to the car and forgetting the whole thing. After all, this was my first time ever visiting this church, and I really didn’t want to make my debut looking like a saturated hot mess. God would understand my struggle, right?

  Then out of nowhere, a large black umbrella settled over me.

  “Morning, Angel. Rough day?” Abe asks while trying to cover me as best he can.

  Seriously? What are the odds of me picking Abe’s church as my place of worship? I had no idea he even attended church!

  “You have no idea,” I laugh.

  Abe takes my windswept umbrella and gives it a hard, quick shake, the flimsy gadget easily falling back into place. “We’ll use my umbrella. It’s built for weather like this.”

  Pulling me into his side so that both of us could fit under the shelter of his umbrella better, we walk to the entrance of the church, Abe’s hand resting around my upper arm.

  “Thank you so much, Abe,” I involuntarily shiver and say as a hard gust of wind blows into us.

  Abe’s grip tightens around me, pulling me even further into him. “Anytime.”

  When we neared the heavy arched wooden door, Abe opens it and ushers me inside softly asking, “Are you alright?”

  I nod. “Just a little cold.”

  “I can see that,” he whispers and briefly touches my bottom lip with this thumb. “Your lips have lost their color.”

  I bring my fingertips to my lips, not out of embarrassment, but rather to extinguish the fire that Abe’s gentle touch ignites.

  “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” I don’t want to assume he will sit with me during service.

  “Tomorrow,” he says and hands me his umbrella.

  “Abe, I’m not taking your umbrella,” I reach for my pitiful excuse for one in his other hand.

  “Ava, I insist. You need it more than I do.” He takes a step closer and holds the umbrella out to me. “Please.”

  After searching his eyes for a moment, I cave. “Alright, but only because you said please.”

  Abe’s eyes grow dark as he closes the distance between us and leans down to whisper in my ear. “One day, I will hear the word ‘please’ from your lips, and when I do, it will be followed by ‘don’t stop.’”

  I stare open mouthed as he strides away, stopping to dip his fingertips in the holy water basin. The whole idea of him touching anything that was holy after he just whispered a sinfully sexual implication in my ear is wrong on so many levels. And in the Lord’s house! Perfect, now I had to add playboy Abram Kent to my prayer list.

  Jerk.

  After the morning service, I head home and find Brad, to my surprise, preparing breakfast.

  “Hey,” he says when I enter the kitchen, taking in my sodden appearance. “Everything okay?”

  “Better now.”

  “Hungry?”

  I take a seat at the kitchen island. “Starved.”

  Brad turns to meet my eyes. “Well then, you’re just in time.”

  The smile that lights his face before he turns his attention back to the stove is warm and tender. The Brad I had always known. I didn’t care who or what was responsible for this sudden change of events, whether Brad had somehow managed to overcome his dark issues overnight, or more simply the power of prayer, I was just glad to have my husband back.

  “Mind if I change first?”

  “Not at all.”

  I slide from the stool and I’m quickly caught around the waist from behind. “I missed you this morning.”

  “I missed you too. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you,” I say as I settle my hands onto his forearms.

  “It’s probably best that you didn’t. After all, I stopped you last week from going.”

  Brad lets out a small laugh, the first I had heard in days, and after loosening his grip, he gently pushes me away by my hips. “Go change, and then we’ll eat breakfast.”

  I take a few steps but turn around to watch Brad walk back to the stove, his pants low on his hips, the smoothness of his bare back, the way his muscles move beneath his skin as he turns the scrambled eggs in the pan. I truly did love this man with my whole heart. I just wish I knew what was going on with him.

  After breakfast, Brad and I sink into the couch and enjoy a lazy Sunday as the rain continues to fall beyond the pane glass windows.

  Brad nuzzles into my hair and inhales. “You smell like the rain.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say and pull away.

  “No I like it,” Brad says pulling me back. “It’s refreshing. Pure.”

  In this moment as my head is lying on Brad’s chest, I felt so loved. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin the mood, but I really needed to tell him about Abe being on the Tourism project.

  “Can I talk to you about something?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he answers as he grabs the remote, flicking on the TV, an episode of Mad Men lighting the screen. One he had seen too many times to count.

  “Really?”

  “What?”

  “Brad, you can’t watch TV and listen to me at the same time.” A lesson I learned the hard way. I lost count how many times I was in the middle of a story where he would stop me halfway and say, “Okay what now?” or “Run that by me again.”

  “I’m listening. What did you want to talk to me about?” he says looking at me.

  Even though I am skeptical, I begin to hell him about Abram Kent joini
ng project TOC. Although my story starts off rather slow, Brad’s eyes are fixed on John Hamm and thirty seconds into my story, I already know he isn’t listening. “So,” I say dramatically, “What do you think I should do?”

  “Man, that sucks babe.”

  “Brad!”

  “What?”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “I heard you!”

  “No. You didn’t. I asked you a question and you replied with ‘that sucks.’ Explain how that is listening?”

  “I tuned you out for one second during the really good part, and that’s when you decided to ask me something. It was bad timing on your part.”

  “You’ve seen this episode, Brad. As a matter of fact, you own this episode.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. Tell me again.”

  I huffed in annoyance. I was so tired of repeating myself. “No. Forget it. It’s not important.”

  “Ava, I said I was sorry.”

  “You always are.”

  Brad catches my wrist as I rise from his side, but I don’t turn to face him. He stands up pressing his shirtless body against my backside. Easily finding the opening of my robe, his hand slides slowly across my stomach, pulling me further into him. “Ava, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Just forget it.” Even as I say the words, I know it isn’t true. It isn’t fine. I am hurt that he couldn’t give me a few minutes of his time. I am tired of always competing with the TV. He knows nothing about my career and never seems to take any interest in the projects I am working on unless Abe’s name is attached to it.

  If he only knew.

  Brad pushes my hair aside and kisses my neck softly in a super sensitive area he is completely aware of. He really is sincere in his apology, and I instantly feel guilty. I close my eyes letting him kiss me in the forgiveness zone, while my toes curl into the floor. Damn him for knowing all my weak spots!

  “Brad….you have to stop.”

  He laughed against my skin. “Not until you say the words.”

  I knew what he wanted me to say, but I couldn’t form any words as his lips worked the skin behind my ear. He paused to inhale my hair and I took the opportunity to squeak out. “I forgive you.”

  He spun me around. “That’s better.” He kissed me swiftly on the lips. “Now, come sit with me.”

  He pulls me down onto the couch, and I sit down next to him. What I thought was a gesture of giving me his undivided attention was actually him wanting to get closer to the happenings of Mad Men. He reaches for the remote, turning up the volume, and sinks back into the plush sofa. Within seconds, we are back to square one, and I am fuming mad all over again.

  Brad hits my leg. “Ava, you gotta watch this part.”

  He moves to the edge of the couch, more absorbed than any human should possibly be in television, tuning me out for several very long minutes. Again.

  My brain works overtime to keep up with the remarks that flood the conscious part of my mind. I knew what I was about to do and say was excessive, vindictive, and completely uncalled for, but I didn’t care.

  I moved to the edge of the couch. “Brad, since you clearly don’t want to talk to me, I’m going to call someone who does.”

  “Okay,” he said dismissing me quickly. “Tell your mom I said hello.”

  I scoffed at his assumption. “I wasn’t talking about calling my mom.”

  A crease formed between his brows as they drew together. “Then who?” he asked still not bothering to look away from the television.

  “Abram Kent.”

  It was lightening quick and hard across the cheekbone with the back of his hand. My neck twisted to the side causing me to bite down on my tongue, the copper metallic taste of blood instantly filling my mouth. I covered my cheek still stinging with his touch and faced him. The realism of what just happened sinking in at the sight of him, and I scrambled away sprinting for the stairs.

  “Ava!” Brad yelled after me, causing me to slip and loose my balance on the stairs. My heart thudded so loudly in my ears. I had no idea if he was coming after me, and if he was, I knew he would catch me.

  Quickly gathering myself, I scrambled to my feet and ran into the master bedroom, slamming the door harder than necessary, locking myself inside.

  I collapsed against the floor near the bed and broke down, crying uncontrollably. Within seconds, Brad turned the knob, found it locked and knocked lightly against the door, “Ava,” he said desperation in his shaky voice. “I’m so sorry.”

  When I didn’t answer, he knocked lightly again. “Ava, please let me in.”

  I listened to him pleading on the other side of the door until I could no longer take it. Picking myself up from the floor, I went into the bathroom and closed the door quietly behind me, turning Brad’s voice into an inaudible muffle.

  Carefully avoiding the mirror, afraid to see my own reflection, I lowered my trembling body down to the floor. The cold tile cut through the thin fabric of my white silk robe, instantly chilling my skin.

  I felt so alone and afraid. As much as I wanted to call Caroline, I couldn’t. I was ashamed of what I had done. This was all my fault. How would I even begin to explain to her? It terrified me to think about any action she and Paul would take once they heard about what Brad had done, and I didn’t want that. Perhaps I would never tell her. This was something I had to handle on my own no matter how hard it was going to be.

  On the nightstand, I heard my cell phone begin to ring and echo off the quiet walls of the bedroom. The moment it stopped, it quickly began again, a pattern that would continue for the next thirty minutes.

  I lost track of time, the bathroom silent except for the sound of my shallow breathing. The bedroom was no longer filled with my ringing cell phone, and the pleading muffles from Brad in the hall fell silent. Exhaustion and sleep weighing heavily on me, I carefully eased open the bathroom door and made my way over to the bed.

  I heard a sniffle escape from Brad. The sound was clear, no barrier to muffle like there should have been, and I stiffened. I whirled around and saw the bedroom door had been unlocked, the door open wide. Brad sat in the hall, his head buried in his palms, shoulders shuddering as he silently sobbed. He never moved even though I knew he heard my movements. I stood watching him for a moment, having never seen him so emotionally raw. Brad slid his hands from his face his eyes locking onto me, and I took a step backwards to the bathroom.

  Brad threw out a hand that was meant to calm me. “Please don’t be afraid of me. I won’t come in unless you tell me to.” He began to pick at a loose thread at the hem of his pants. “I’m sorry I used the key to unlock the door, but I had to see that you were alright.”

  I didn’t respond, and I wasn’t sure I would I have been able to find my voice had I wanted to. I sat down on the edge of our king sized bed and watched Brad. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as he wiped at his visibly red eyes. He wouldn’t look at me even though I knew he felt my gaze on him. He was broken, and so was I. The world as we knew it had been shattered. How would we ever get past this?

  After an agonizing mental debate, I knew what I had to do. Even though I was scared to death, I had to trust he wouldn’t hurt me if we were to ever move beyond this mess I created.

  I slid a tissue box across the floor, and it skidded to a halt inches from Brad. He leaned forward and immediately took two.

  “Brad.”

  He stiffened at my voice and whispered back, “Yes?”

  “Look at the clock.”

  After a few seconds, his head rose, his eyes red rimmed and bloodshot. “When the clock says 12:01, a new day begins,” I said softly. “Every ten minutes, I want you to take one step into the bedroom. One step,” I clarified. “And under no circumstances are you to touch me. Understand?”

  “Yes,”he answered.

  He did as I asked, following the rules as I had precisely laid out to him, opting to sit on the floor between steps. Ten minutes seemed quick when you were engrossed in a
can’t miss super epic episode of Mad Men, but tonight they were eons long.

  I sat perched at the end of the bed, watching Brad as he took steps into our bedroom. He was halfway into the room, another ten minutes had passed, and when he should have taken another step forward, he didn’t.

  “Brad—”

  “I can’t come any closer,” he interrupted. “Please don’t ask me to.”