Until I did.
She sets my soul aflame and burns me, leaving me with scars on every inch of my skin. With her, the pain doesn’t ease. It cuts and digs, burying itself inside every crevasse my body offers. My new love—turned hate—absolutely devitalized me.
My run, like every day since coming back, is tremulous and exhaustive. My heart pounds in sync with the soles of my shoes smacking the gravel road. It’s like the patter needs to be in unison or I’ll collapse. I’m doing too much, I know I am, yet I can’t stop. It’s like my newest binge. Instead of booze or drugs, it’s exhaustion. A high I can only get from nearly crumbling. Though that doesn’t stop me from voraciously swallowing every drop of Jameson we own.
Today, I don’t stop at the coffee shop. I can’t. It’s burdensome on my heart, and no matter how much I’d love the extra energy, it’s too painful. Every time while passing it, her eyes haunt me, the child’s face haunts me, and then the hatred for my wife grows more cancerous.
That shop holds horrors and memories like a personal scrapbook of my past on constant display. I can’t count how many times we experienced a smile, a laugh, or a small touch in that little place. There’s no way to explain how it retains all the good and bad and in between. The only thing I can offer is that it was once my home away from home, but no resurfaced trigger is worth the brown liquid gold.
As I run past it, my stomach feels empty of food and everything altogether. It’s not like me to eat anymore. If I didn’t keep up my protein, exercise, and water intake, I’d be scrawny. It’s unhealthy what I do to myself, dragging my body through as much as it can take, and even sometimes going past what it should be capable of.
My life’s a mess.
My heart’s non-existent.
My soul was lost long ago.
Worst of all, I no longer have any fucks to give.
My legs ache as my body pushes me toward Hollow Hills on the coast of the town. It’s where I’m staying. It’s not home, but after selling the house we bought for our future, it seems along with a failing marriage, we may as well have a place that isn’t a home.
As soon as I’m in the lobby, I’m using my special penthouse suite badge to get to where I’m staying. It’s a long sixty-floor journey, but it takes a lot less time than you’d think. When the elevator stops, I’m met with a hallway leading to hell. With a few paces toward the double doors, I’m face-to-face with her and immediately notice her glacial stare.
My worst enemy.
The biggest liar of all.
My goddamn wife.
“Where were you?” she accuses, ice lacing her tone like it does the windows when snow falls. Crossing her arms, I watch the hand that brands her as mine grip herself tightly as if it’s the only motion keeping her from raging out.
Our daily routine consists of not getting five feet before she’s grilling me and I’m spitting treacherous words in return. Round and round we go, killing each other with every lie we’ve spun. Does it hurt, Joey? Knowing you’re this fucking dangerous to me... because I didn’t know or I’d have never fucked you three years ago.
She started this war, not me. The only difference between her and I? I’ve decided to win.
She played dirty, only realizing too late that I play the dirtiest.
“Running,” I bite back, glaring at her. Her hands hold her hips like I’ve done many times. Her rich auburn hair is straight and as silky, long enough to pull but not as long as hers. Even though I hate my wife, she’s stunning. She’s fucking sexy even while she disgusts me with every fiber of my being. And God, the things I’ve done to her even while hating her... yet here we both stay.
I stare at her, mesmerized, while also lifting my nose in the air as if she’s lesser than me. With her petite but generous curves, tiny nose, and whiskey amber eyes, I’m enthralled. She’s a fiery siren waiting to hunt me down and steal my soul after she drags me beneath the black sea.
Too bad there’s nothing left for her to take.
Once upon of a time, she could have been everything to me. She was.
Fool me once... never again.
She can fight all she wants for this dead, binding relationship we have, but she’ll never own another piece of my heart.
When we met, I thought she was the perfect distraction. Now I know better; she’s the catalyst of everything I once held dear. And we’ll destroy each other eventually.
With my answer hanging in the air, she’s giving me the most disdainful look. She wanted this. Wanted me. Used me. Destroyed me.
“Is that all you were doing?” she nearly hisses. The venom spewing from her lips is enough to have my haunches up. She doesn’t get to accuse me. She doesn’t get to question my whereabouts. She doesn’t get anything from me.
“Whether that’s all I was doing or not, it’s none of your damn business. You lost that privilege when you fucked up this relationship,” I all but yell.
She closes her eyes almost in pain, but she doesn’t know my pain. She doesn’t feel what I’ve felt since that day changed our lives.
“I care,” she says, her tone bereft of all the anger she threw at me moments ago.
“Bullshit!” I call her out, knowing her true intentions, knowing she was never here for us.
She lets out a ragged breath, huffing like a child unable to get what she wants. “You’re still my husband, Tobias.”
“And you’re my biggest mistake, Joey,” I spit.
“I love you,” she barely whispers.
“I fucking hate you.” My words deliver the last blow as they usually do. It’s my only response before walking into the master bathroom, undressing and heading into the shower, hoping to clean all the dirt, regret, and grit away.
Maybe I’d call Bry and get some much-needed frustration worked out. I need to unwind, and my wife isn’t the one to do the job anymore. It only entangles us further, damaging what’s left of my soul.
Chapter Twenty
Past
Toby
I stare at you with temptation. Why is it something so beautiful and fierce came into my life when I needed it the most? That’s what you are, a cirrus of glowing fireflies with the capability of harm but instead chooses light.
You giggle. Your eyes alight with a glimmer of something I haven’t felt in years. It’s a reminder to be young at heart, even if life ages us. I love the way your smile is a little crooked, your teeth overbite the bottom ones, hiding them nearly entirely, but what gets me the most is the way your face lights up with the same rays as the sun, giving so much and asking for nothing in return.
“Do you want kids?” she asks me, throwing me out of the revelry of her. Her eyes are serious, but there’s also softness. As though she doesn’t want to push me even while wanting a response. We’ve been married a year and slowly getting to know each other. It’s weird. The hate we had for those short months before changed, morphing into something incredulous—something I couldn’t imagine experiencing with anyone else.
“I do,” I answer, unable to keep my grin at bay. Seeing little babies with my attributes has always been a craving of mine. When I was younger and Lo had Ace, my heart swelled so much. The love unfettered and unruly in its wake. I can only imagine what it’d feel like if the kid was my own.
Finally glancing at her, she has an unreadable expression, one that reminds me of grief. Not the kind like Lo experienced, where it overtook her entire mind, but a gentler, more subtle kind that has a meaning I’m not privy to. She licks her lips, distracting me from her change of mood at her own question. Did she want me to not want them? I’m nearing forty. That age in many people’s eyes is almost too old for children. To me, the craving won’t ebb until I’ve had my own. My desire to bring life into the world has never wavered.
“Oh.” It’s such a simple response as if it took her every ounce of energy to release that one syllable, and I want to know why. But again, she licks her lips, hiding whatever it is that’s bothering her.
“I’ve always wan
ted a child to hold, teach, and watch grow. Not that I’m saying I’d be a great father or anything,” I admit, shrugging shyly. Reaching behind my head, I rub my neck.
“You always do that when you’re embarrassed,” she muses with a flushed smile. Her cheeks are rosy like her hair, tinged with redness that shows how angelic she really is.
“I do, don’t I?” I don’t mention she told me that on many occasions, or that it’s something I’ve tried quitting for the simple fact that it reminds me of my past. I just enjoy the way her eyes zero in on me biting my inner lip.
She closes the short distance to me and presses a yellow-painted nail to my mouth, brushing the pad of her soft fingers across my sensitive flesh.
“Smile, old man. I want to feel it under my fingertips.”
Even with the desire not to give in to her for the old man comment, my lips break into a grin, making her eyes sparkle with joy. I’m finally getting used to her nickname for me. Albeit, it’s still sad. She’s nearly half my age, so the term is appropriate, but it’s still depressing nonetheless. Someone this young shouldn’t be with a man my age. It stunts her growth and life experiences. I’m already an adult and know what I want and need. She’s at the age where one day, she wants this, and the next, she wants someone like her loser ex-tool of a boyfriend. It’s how everyone is. Not me, I’ve always been driven to love—even if the love was unrequited most times, I still sought it.
She brings my thoughts back to her crinkled nose. The splashes of freckles dusting her cheeks and nose are more and more appealing with each glance. She’s enjoying this, teasing me. Her soft touch has me aching in other ways, ones I’ve kept at bay for weeks, unwilling to tarnish this new modesty we’ve grown with each other.
“Kiss me, old man. Show me how those lips feel.” I close my eyes at her words, knowing her kisses drive me to madness as keenly as her touch. Bowing my head, eyes still shut, I wait for her move. One thing I’ve learned about Joey is that she likes controlling the situation.
Her lips touch mine, tentative at first, then stronger, almost greedy with their pressure. She tastes like nature and lemons—like sweetness and joy—like mine, mine, mine. The tip of her tongue traces the crease of my lips, and a groan leaves me as I allow her everything she wants. Unlike the women from years ago, before I met Joey, she isn’t trying to be frenzied or sensual. She’s towing me into her radiant depths of twilight—not light nor dark—but effervescent, securing me and marking me as hers, hers, hers.
Her teeth nip my lips as a tiny moan leaves her throat, forcing my eyes open. I see her, those amber glazed domes reflecting brightly, soaked with delight and warmth. Our kisses split me in half. The half stuck on our bond, and the other thrust into fear of fully accepting it.
We know so little, feel so much, and battle between the challenges each day brings. Neither of us went to that fundraiser out to find whatever this is, but we did. We found each other. Whether it means something or not, she brings contentment and fear and exhilaration.
“Do you want kids, Sous?” Her face falls before she can catch it. One thing she told me that has stuck was how her dad taught her to school her features at all times. It’s where the newspaper got stuck on her title as the ice queen. She’s the youngest person I know who hides her emotions better than someone who feels nothing. Right now, as she gives me the fakest grin, I’m realizing she’s hiding something.
“Yes,” she finally answers. Her eyes gloss, reminding me so much of pain. Pain I know. Pain makes sense. Pain has many faces, and this one is the most common.
“Do you?” I prod a little, seeing that simple grimace barely contained.
“Toby,” she rushes out, her voice so small and scared. The way she utters my name makes a tightness form in my chest. It’s one of years of acceptance and tribulations. But she’s only twenty. How many trials of experiences could bring this kind of knowledge?
“Talk to me,” I offer, hoping it comes off soft and supportive and not demanding. She may be my wife, and we might even be learning what we feel for each other, but I care. Fuck, I care. Seeing her cry for the first time clicked with me. Seeing her agonize over what we did in Vegas... I witnessed and fell before I knew I tripped.
“I-I can’t h-have kids.” Her words are as choppy as the rise and fall of her chest.
Four words.
More damning than a gavel hammering down, more agonizing than letting a murderer free, more heartbreaking than any loss I’ve felt, yet I can’t cry with her. Because what I see in her distraught expression as sorrow leaks free from her eyes is need. Need for me to be okay. Need for me to be strong. Need for me to pick her anyway.
“C’mere, Sous,” I coax as she lets her grief free. Her peachy lips warble a little, the freckle—my favorite one—beneath her bottom lip trembles, but she finally comes into my open arms.
“You’re not mad?” she whispers, her voice smaller than I’ve ever heard it. No. How could I be? She shakes in my arms. My little warrior, who always fights tougher than any person I know, cries silently. If Joey could be described simply, it’d be impossible. She’s calculated and calm, unruly and incredibly sexy, captivating and consuming. She fights for everyone who needs a voice and doesn’t back down when pushed too far. In the year we’ve known each other, she’s only cried twice. This being the second.
The first... a time I wish I could take back. A time when I hurt her without knowing she cared.
“Hey,” I say gently, pulling away to tilt her chin up to me. My eyes catch hers, seeing the redness blotching her soft features. I kiss her, unable to see the torment in her eyes a moment later. She whimpers in a way that squeezes my vital organs, begging to fix it—soothe her—something. Anything. “How can I be mad at you?”
“You just said you wanted kids. That’s something even my twenty-year-old body can’t offer,” she explains, sniffling.
“How do you know?” I try, not meaning she didn’t know for sure, but what if fate decided differently?
Her eyes shut, the motion telling me she doesn’t want to answer. I can tell because her lips are tight and her body is stiff. I shouldn’t have pushed. It’s her body. It’s her choice. Almost as if she’s made a decision, she nods a couple of times, then stares at me. The way she bites her lips and pulls herself away from me strikes me with worry-filled tension.
“When I was seventeen, my dad shipped me off to Paris.” She inhales deeply as though a reminder to breathe is necessary. “He didn’t want to put up with the harsh reality that his new wife was only eight years older than me, and I couldn’t handle it.”
I nod, waiting for the punchline. She paces a bit, gnawing on her finger and avoiding eye contact with me.
“It was beautiful there. Not as they make it out to be in the movies, but it had an ethereal beauty. Something you feel deep inside. Inspirational almost, thoughtless expression within your reach, you only had to grasp it.” As she describes it, I know melancholy is attached, and she’s just avoiding narrowing it down to words. I can see it in her struggle and the way she switches from biting her bottom lip to grinding her teeth. The tenseness of her jaw is present with her rapid breathing. I step toward her, wanting to offer comfort, but then immediately see the shift in her. The jolt as she nearly jumps out of her skin when I reach for her has me halting immediately.
“Please,” she implores. “Let me get this out.”
I nod, needing her to know I’ll keep my distance. “Talk, I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
“Paris was everything I dreamed it would be. The art, the streetlamps... the food.” Her eyes lighten a tinge at the mention of food but fades just as quickly. “With its beauty came the dark. Like any other place on this planet, it had its downfalls.” She takes in a sharp breath, her eyes glossing again. God, what I’d do to hold her, reassure her, breathe safety into her disarmed bones.
“I’d just had a croissant from this little shop. It was golden, flakey, and delicious.” She chuckles lightly, and I watch as it fa
des to a sad, unimpressed smile. “No one makes croissants like the French...” Her eyes well with tears. They topple over, and my heart fucking breaks at the moment she stares at me with hopelessness. She cries as I watch from afar, unwilling to allow me to barge into her space. Space is something imperative at this moment, my gut pushing a pin into the problem, screaming, “Someone hurt her!” It knows—I know—and it fucking hurts feeling this helpless.
“It was early—five in the morning. I remember everything about that day so clearly. The coffee I’d been sipping with the croissant, taking it with me when I left. Hazelnut. Bitter but sweet at the same time. The day—dark but promising, little spurs of pink drifting over the horizon, waiting for the sun’s kiss, stuck on its lover, waiting more patiently like no man could be. The beige beret I wore, the wool cardigan, the plaid red, black, and white scarf. The black Vans, pleated black skirt, and leggings.” She huffs and sobs at recalling the memory. Fuck. I just want to ebb away this burden she carries. I want to kill the fucker who hurt her and make it all go away.
“To get to the flat my dad paid for me to stay in, I had to travel across several dank alleys, two of which I knew weren’t exactly safe.” She knots her hands together, her eyes shutting, but she doesn’t pause for long. “It didn’t have many rays of light, shielded by shadows. I knew, like my soul, it’d brighten with time. It took me only a few breaths to realize that day would be bad. Almost like an acrid odor or taste, I could sense it. I trailed the alleyway, holding my coffee to keep the breeze from chilling me.” Her eyes stare at the ground, focusing too hard, hating whatever came next. “I smelled him before I registered his grip on my wrist.”
I close my eyes, my stomach concaving with what she’s about to say. I already know. It makes me sick, bile rising, promising to release with so many words. It hits me, the scars, the ones I’ve loved and cherished, the ones I’ve touched and kissed, they’re from pain. They’re a mirror of what she feels because that man took from her.
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