Breathe

by C. L. Matthews

  He purposely doesn’t shower. It’s his punishment to me, making me smell them on our sheets, on him, and everything in between. If he knew I’d never fucked Francis, would he hate himself more? Not that he could feel a single fucking thing. He drinks so much it’s a miracle he could see at all, let alone think enough to hate himself. How he works every day, fully functioning while polishing off bottles in his office, is beyond my understanding.

  Alcohol is his medication, his loaded gun, and he continues to fill the chamber with bullets, pulling the trigger on his personal roulette game. He hurts himself more than I ever could. But we stay. We fucking stay, and it makes no sense.

  It may never.

  But he keeps going back to other women, and I just lie here with my battery-operated boyfriend and find peace knowing I never crossed the lines in which he has.

  “Divorce me if you think I’ve betrayed you,” I hiss, pushing at his chest with tears welling in my eyes. It hurts. It fucking hurts knowing he believes I’d choose Frankie over him. I couldn’t do that. Ever. Toby saved me. He mended my most broken parts, soothed the scars, and eased the pain. He did that.

  I’d never ruin us for something as simple as sex.

  Deep-seated resentment takes residence in my bones, infiltrating my love and rotting it with each harsh word he snaps at me.

  “Fuck. I can’t even look at you,” he bites, turning away from me. I reach out for his arm, but he yanks it away as if I’ve hurt him by touching his skin. Tears spill free, painting my cheeks with warpaint I didn’t realize I needed. How could they not? He won’t look at me. Toby is a man all about connection. With mind, soul, and eyes. He made sure to let me know that eyes are the windows to the soul every time he made love to me.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Stop talking!” he barks sharply, turning all that loathing onto me. His hand raises to grip my face but drops deftly before the skin connects. “This is how this will work.”

  I stare at him, dumbfounded. What does he mean? The way he straightens his spine with resolve, narrowing his eyes with concentration, and clenches his jaw austerely has me on edge. He’s almost too calm, masking his emotions like he’s a marionette and no person pulls his strings any longer.

  “From now on, you’re not my wife, Joey. On paper, sure. But in the real world, where it matters, where marriages are of love and bullshit? That’s not us anymore.” His contentious mask drops for a twinkling moment as pain pigments his features with agony. Worrying his lip, he lets out a Herculean exhale. “You fuck who you want, Joey. And so will I.”

  “Nonono,” I whimper. “That’s not—”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he growls so deadly that I hiccup, feeling my chest deflate as it loses every ounce of love it ever attained. “We’re done. We won’t become Lo and Jase. They both cheated. Us... this won’t be that. No. There won’t be any love or feelings involved.”

  “Then why stay?” I cry, my chest aching beyond repair. I grip it, wondering if it still beats, still thrums even as his words slice deeper than my razors ever could. Wes couldn’t have ever hurt me this bad. My dad abandoning me never ached his much. Mom disappearing doesn’t compare. This inherent torment, swirling with sorrow inside my soul, is not attainable even as my body carries it like a thousand-pound dumbbell.

  This is savagery in living form. Corrosion. Destruction. Pure decrement.

  I fall into a heap of sobs and instead of comforting me like he always did, he turns his back on me. “I’m going out. Don’t fucking expect me to come home.” As the door slams, I break.

  Absolutely.

  Entirely.

  Forever.

  He didn’t hear my side of the story, I tried. I fucking tried.

  For nearly six months, I kept trying. That’s when he made it noticeable that he’d been fucking other people. He’s paraded his hickeys, lipstick stains, and the way he smelled like them. Sex. Perfume. Booze. Then he’d come home and fuck me with their scent wrapped around him as sure as their legs were.

  And I let him.

  I let him.

  I let him.

  He was a train wreck I couldn’t stay or look away from. Still, I’m here.

  Hate is my darkest lover, cosseting me with twine, branding me its slave.

  I know why I stay, but why the fuck does he?

  She needs you. Come by? Francis’s texts ping as I cry from the memories of my darkest days coming to light. Looking down at my bare arms full of inch to two inches of raised healed flesh, I feel. Pain is a blossoming flower, rooting in the veins, sprouting itself through the skin and flourishing in the tears of pure agony. Beautiful. Ugly. Damning. I bring the wine bottle back to my lips, kissing the glass as its comfort is all that ties me here.

  When? Toby isn’t home. I have time.

  It’s true. I could drive over, be there for her, and maybe get a night’s sleep where Toby isn’t here to hurt me with his disheveled appearance. As words blur together with my tears and wine, it’s apparent that driving isn’t in my future.

  Have you been drinking?

  I bite my lip. He knows me well. Whenever my husband is gone, I drown myself in his vice, knowing full well that it’ll destroy whatever is left of us both.

  Maybe a little. I barely type it before bubbles are coming and going from his typing and stopping.

  I’ll come to you.

  He cares. Maybe he wants more? It wouldn’t surprise me. Men can be fickle and one-dimensional. Even someone as charming and kind as Francis Satoray.

  Okay. It’s all I offer. If he wants love, I have none to offer him. If he wants sex, I’m taken. If he wants to be my friend, I’m all for it.

  So many minutes pass before he’s arriving. By then, I’m nearly polishing off the bottle. You see, while I waited, my phone beeped. When my notification said Tobias, I got excited and opened it right away. Maybe he was apologizing, telling me he loved me, that he hates this separation as much as I do.

  But no.

  Nothing could prepare me for the image that hit my inbox.

  Like all the memories of me doing this exact thing with him, in every country and state we visited, he’s continuing our game. Tainting it. Just like everything else he touches. That fucking bastard!

  He’s on top of a brunette woman with a butterfly tattoo, her eyes are closed in rapture and so are his. They must have snapped this as he orgasmed inside her. They’re both sweaty and entirely naked. It fucking guts me to see him like this.

  I stare at it as I down the very expensive and nasty wine. It no longer possesses a flavor, though. I’m too far gone. And by the time Frankie shows up, using a spare room card that I’ve given him, he sees me. He’s too late. I’m already a mess on the floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Present

  Francis

  Never knew I’d see a day when I hated Toby as much as I currently hate his brother, but alas, here we are. Someone always has to be a villain in another person’s story, so that’s probably why Toby made me his. In reality, if we take a step back and truly look at this particular picture from an outsider’s glance like I can, it’s easy to spot that Toby is his own villain.

  Respect. A foreign word to many, especially in this day and age. People believe they deserve something that isn’t theirs. They take with no regard to the ones they hurt, and they don’t cart guilt around for their misdoings. It’s a word that holds a vow for my friends and family. One that pushes me forward to only ever be honest and kind. Once upon a time, that wasn’t me. Not that the world lived with that version for long, but we all make mistakes.

  The only thing that separates me from this sad woman on the floor in a heap is that one word. It doesn’t come from a deep admiration for my best friend, nor does it derive from a pedestal I see Toby on. It simply has been ingrained in me to treat the street sweepers the same way they treat royalty.

  In my eyes, we’re all the same. Only our circumstances are different.

  My eyes strain to see in
the mostly darkened room, the only light coming from the kitchen night lamp. Joey lays barely coherent, mumbling about how she deserves to die and it’d be easy. “Please, just do it,” she slurs. “Take away my misery.”

  Her eyes are droopy as she’s holds the bottle like it’s her only weapon, shielding her like her husband should be doing. Pain this gruesome shouldn’t be worn every day, tattered and decrepit, bleeding the spirit dry with pinpricks of antipathy.

  This is the problem with Toby; he doesn’t realize he fucked up and continues to do so. He has such a beautiful life, woman, and future, but he allows alcohol to rule over him. He lets fear and his past and insecurities own every semblance of reality.

  Did he not realize when he believed I was fucking his wife that he already sucked the bottle like a goddamn tit? He slurped and savored and regaled, not seeing his life falling apart around him.

  But no, I’m the bad guy.

  “Josephine,” I coo softly. She tries opening her wet, red-rimmed eyes, but she scrunches her face in displeasure instead. “I’m so sorry, Ladybug.” She cries more, and I can’t help but want to fix her. I’ve kept my distance. She chose Toby, and I respect that, but I’ll continue to stay by her side. Because she deserves to be loved and cherished. She deserves to be fucking worshiped.

  But not by me.

  I’m not that guy.

  I’m not Jase or Toby. I’m me. The person who knows his limits and worth.

  Crouching down, I wipe her eyes and wish to ease her struggles. How can someone claim to love her yet continue to hurt her at every turn? If she was mine, I’d literally kneel at her feet. She’d be my queen, and no one would ever come between us. Petty differences, stubbornness, and every other emotion wouldn’t stop me from fixing it. Does Toby not see how he’s depleting her? How with every push, she falls apart even more? Does he not understand she lost, too?

  It’s not one-sided. A marriage never is. Where she swallows it all, he acts like a child. As if he’s the only one who lost and surrendered.

  She gave up more, sacrificed everything, and yet still, he walks away?

  He’s not the same person who kept my secret for fifteen years, protecting me, my daughter, my legacy. No, he’s less than that man now. A shell that somehow still exists. At least Nate tries to battle his addiction. Even now, as none of us can reach him, he’s trying. He broke when Lo tried killing herself. He literally relapsed from the guilt, but he’s pushing through. That’s the difference between my two best friends. One wants to make a difference while the other wants pity.

  Until he mans the fuck up, I’ll be here like a goddamn father figure for him, scolding him, taking care of his wife, and hoping that he finally pulls his stupid ass out of the clouds and loves her. Does he not see Lo in Joey? The dejection, the ruining, the barely-there woman who was once a goddess? The one who fought back, battling, conquering as if fighting was her only sustenance? Does he not realize the patterns are nearly mirrored, desperate, seeking help, and he’s just too goddamn stupid and stubborn to save her?

  What made him save Loren? What made her special?

  Because as I cradle my daughter’s best friend in my arms, holding her to me to keep her warm and watched over, I’m not sure what the fuck changed to make Loren more suitable for his love than the woman he vowed to cherish.

  He’s despicable.

  His behavior is unacceptable.

  She’s a tree infested with beetles that harvest each livable root, consuming and devouring until it eventually dies due to its gluttonous actions.

  “The fuck are you doing here?” Toby’s loud bark slices through me, rattling my cage like an aggressor. The way it hits me isn’t with fear but more with worry. His words are slurred and heavy. He’s fucking tanked, and the way he staggers toward us with a bottle clutched in his hand has anger rising inside me.

  Since I left America for France, I’ve kept my temper in check. It’s what’s necessary for someone in my political position. Being stupid and aggressive isn’t acceptable, and as I watch him trip over his own two feet, I want nothing more than to punch him in his face. Screw my image, he needs to fucking learn.

  He’s past his normal drunk. Toby can hold his liquor. When a normal person gets to the point of no return, bordering on alcohol poisoning, that’s when Toby is at his calmest. When a normal person would be dead, that’s when Toby is incoherent. Like now. He can’t focus, but his rage is barely tamed. Haunted eyes stare back at me, desolate of morality, readily corrupt and damning to vanquish.

  I don’t let Joey go. Even as she whimpers in her sleepy daze, I hold her and wait out the storm that is Tobias Hayes.

  “You’re n-not fucking welcome, F-Frankie.” His words are getting choppier. Messy like his disheveled hair and attire. Who was it this time? Bry? I bet it was her. She’s the only one who willingly drives here at a moment’s notice.

  “Neither are you,” I bark. The harshness lacing my tone comes off deadly. It’s venomous, leaking disgust and hatred. What has he done to himself? To his wife? With his red-rimmed glossy eyes and his strained face, he’s hopeless.

  Looking at him with his sadness seeping from his pores like the whiskey, I feel bad. But right now, he doesn’t need me. She does. She’s the one hurting. He hurts her. He always fucking hurts her.

  “S-She okay?” He stumbles, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. For the first time in a year, I see worry behind that loathing. Actual tangible care. It’s slim and muddied by booze, but maybe that’s when he’s most honest.

  “Would you be?”

  His eyes fly to mine, challenging but riddled with loathing, and he shakes his head. “No. She d-deserves better.”

  “You’re goddamn right, she does. You fucking twat.”

  With a pinched expression, he comes closer, but I halt him with my palm. “Take a fucking shower. You smell like a washed-up drunkard who fondled one too many whores.”

  He scoffs at me as if me telling him what to do is blasphemous. Maybe it is, but he’s not getting a single step closer. I’ll knock him out easily. I refuse to let him taint her even more. She’s already broken. So goddamn broken.

  Right now, she’s his rag doll that got taken from orphanage to orphanage. Hit way too many times, spit on, kicked, and buried in the dirt. Lifeless, but hanging on to hope.

  What hope is there?

  Toby doesn’t look like he’s ready to change, but seeing the way his eyes are glazed over with emotion makes me wonder if he’s not a lost cause after all. Maybe he only needs a push in the right direction.

  “Shower. Now. Or I won’t let you see her.”

  He nods, staggering into their bedroom. Good. Because beating him was in the cards if he didn’t listen. He may be my best friend—even if he’s an absolute dickwad—but unlike him, I don’t give up on people. Right now, though, Joey concerns me most. She uses pain to drive her to live. She cuts to satiate the numbness. She bleeds to cleanse herself of loss. Toby does this to himself, and Joey doesn’t know how to stop. She’s young, unused to the brokenness of the man in the other room.

  Now if I can somehow mend these two or sever them completely for their better interests... Now that’s the biggest and truest challenge, isn’t it?

  I need to fix them.

  Somehow.

  Any way physically possible, it’ll happen.

  Especially since they don’t seem to know how to do it themselves. But I won’t be Toby. I’ll keep my love platonic, even if I could love Joey better. There’s no corruption in my future, and I refuse to wreck another marriage. I already did that once. Even if I had to walk away to make sure I didn’t ruin myself, too.

  I wonder if she still thinks of me. I do, especially when I’m on the isle where we met.

  Some romances aren’t meant to be written about.

  “I’m going to fix this, ma coccinelle. I promise,” I murmur against Joey’s forehead. Leaving a kiss as she’s finally lost the pained expression. Maybe she’s dreaming of a ha
ppier life. A safer one. I’ll do anything to prevent these two from killing themselves, if it’s the last thing I’ll ever accomplish. They matter too much to me to not intercede.

  When Toby sobers up, he’s going to either fight me or he’s going to listen. No matter how much I repeat the notion in my head of him being settled, it’s more than likely he’s going to choose the former. Good thing I’m not the dainty kid I was in high school, so he’ll have a good partner to spar with.

  And maybe when this is all said and done, the isle will call me home, and I’ll finally find peace.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Present

  Gray

  A little birdie mentioned you were in town. The first text comes through, making my heart run rampant.

  I’m coming for you, Storm.

  My hands are clammy as they grip the bottle of kombucha I’ve forced myself to drink. Its little chia seeds having me internally gagging. Eating has never been easy for me because I’m picky and textures set me in a spiral of heaves.

  Something about the texts have me trembling. Deep and strong feelings of abandonment rise inside my chest. They beat and puncture the walls of my flesh, pressing forward, begging for access, and unless I battle them, he’ll win. That’s what he does, isn’t it? Win.

  You can ignore me all you want, Gray. I will come for you, then after I’ve broken you, you’ll come for me too.

  I shiver, swallowing back another gulp. The glass feels heavy in my palm while my phone feels like a brick in comparison. Dad said he’d be right back. That was hours ago.

  It’s Joey.

  Something’s wrong.

  We haven’t been hanging out as much as we should. Doesn’t help that Ace breathes down my neck whenever I’m most vulnerable. It’s why leaving the house is a feat in itself.