Breathe

by C. L. Matthews

  I take a swig; I strike my skin.

  I take a gulp; I dig into my flesh.

  I choke back a sob, and repeat.

  My arms are vermilion and dark, but I don’t care.

  Nothing matters anymore.

  I have no life. No child. No husband.

  I have desolation and emptiness. If only my ice didn’t melt...

  My head fogs, my stomach clenches, and my body aches. I take the blade and put it to my thigh.

  With as much strength as I can muster, I carve a little heart, and before I know it, blackness is welcoming me.

  What took you so long?

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Present

  Toby

  She isn’t answering her phone. Avoiding calls from me. Her father. Lo. Jase. I even asked Francis. It’s been three weeks of searching. She’s gone.

  Something is wrong. I went too far. After talking to Lo, it all made sense. I fucked up and hurt my wife. My words were too strong, too hurtful.

  She’s struggling.

  Lo mentioned Joey’s arms when I asked if they heard from her.

  How had I not noticed she started cutting again?

  How did she hide the marks?

  Why am I such a fucking loser?

  My heart races as I stalk our accounts. Then, as if a siren is blaring, I see that our card was used at a fry shop. The one right by the cove she used to love to surf at. I get in my car and break every law known to man to get there.

  “What can I do—”

  “I need to find my wife. She’s not responding, and she’s suicidal,” I practically yell at the older woman before showing her a picture of Joey.

  “You have to help me, please. The cops are on their way.”

  And they are, I called them before driving here.

  “She came in a few weeks ago, sad little poppet. She had smears of make-up and tears so fresh my flowers bloomed from them.”

  “Please, ma’am. I need to find her.”

  “She’s in room twenty-one. The middle tower.”

  “Where’s that?” I question, feeling a deep-seated need to save her rush through me. She points and then hands me a key. I’m running, faster than I’ve ever done, and I head up the stairs. She’s only two floors up, and the elevator won’t be quick enough.

  This gnawing in my stomach is telling me something is god-awfully wrong, and I can’t stand worrying anymore. I haven’t felt this way since Lo overdosed. And even then, I didn’t feel this much of a foreboding, so it only solidifies my belief that Joey and I are soulmates. Inevitable.

  Fate.

  Not circumstance.

  I find her room and scan through. It’s silent. Not even her favorite heartbreak playlist is playing. She does that, goes on music binges to convey how she’s feeling. As soon as I see the hallway, I see red spots on the ground. My stomach heaves with a rush of nausea.

  Rushing into the bathroom, I see my wife. Jameson in hand. A knife on the floor, covered in blood. Her eyes closed.

  Her skin is covered in blood, red and sliced up.

  “Why would you do this?” I yell, unable to calm the frantic pulse of my heart. “Why, Josephine? Why!” I scream and feel my chest heaving with pressure. I cry, my fucking eyes burn with the tears and their rampant need to escape. It hurts feeling them bleed from me, and I lift my wife as I sob. She’s cold and as white as a sheet. I don’t know if she’s breathing, but I can’t seem to settle enough to check. I place my head at her throat and hear wheezing. She’s still breathing. But why is she so white? So cold? So numb?

  I bawl as I hold her to my chest, not knowing the protocol for this situation. Lo wasn’t a serial cutter. How do I prepare for this kind of depression?

  I barely survived when Loren went through it, but someone as vital to me as breathing? There’s no way I’ll survive if I lose her. The door bursts open, and I yell, “In here!” My voice cracks with the strain and worry.

  “Name, sir?”

  “I’m Toby, this is my wife Joey.” He checks her body and puts a pump mask to her mouth. “What happened?”

  “We got into an argument a few weeks ago while at my brother’s. His wife said Joey started cutting again, and it took me all this time to find her.”

  They nod.

  “She’s been drinking. There’s a bottle in the other room.” The words just keep rushing out of me, bleeding like my wife does.

  They lift her, taking her outside the room.

  “The police will want to get a statement.”

  “Can’t they do that at the hospital? I’m not leaving her side,” I nearly bite his head off. I’m not leaving her like this.

  He nods, and I follow.

  The entire way to Hollow Ridge General, I sob and wait for her eyes to open.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Present

  Joey

  My eyes feel heavy, and the smell of antiseptic sends me into a spin of nausea. It isn’t until I hear beeping that I realize what I’ve done.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  “Joey?” Toby’s timid voice speaks, and my eyes entirely open. He’s kneeling, holding my palm and looking as if he died.

  Did he?

  Did I?

  Is this hell?

  I try to talk, but my mouth is too parched. He reaches for the water and helps me take a drink.

  “I love you,” he promises, his tone deeper and surer, but mostly sad. “Don’t ever try to take my girl away from me.” It’s a threat, but the kind that are endearing and harmless. I try to smile, but my body aches. Instead, he gets a grimace.

  “Pain?”

  I nod.

  He grabs a little remote, and it lets us know a nurse is on their way. I can’t believe I’m in the hospital. I really fucked up this time.

  Toby stares at me in wonder, like he can’t believe I’m alive. Did I die? I only remember sadness and pain and alcohol.

  “You scared me,” Toby sounds out, gripping my wrist harder. “I think I died waiting for you to open those eyes.” Tears prick at the corners of said eyes, and I’m barely holding them in as he kisses my hand. “Living a life without you is impossible, Sous. I can’t do it.”

  “Then don’t,” I whisper, my voice hoarse and broken.

  “Why did you run? That’s my forte,” he says, his face sunken with stress and fear.

  “Because as soon as I walked out of that house, I died. Even with everything you put me through and what we struggled with, I already forgave you. It made me hate myself more.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Two Weeks Later

  Toby

  “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  “You say that now,” she whispers, her face filled to the brim with emotions. She’s been like this for days. I practically hired a new manager for my job, taking care of Joey since she left the hospital. We sit here in the front room of our home. She still doesn’t wear her ring, and I know it’s my doing.

  I watched my brother destroy his wife with words and actions.

  And I’ve followed his lead.

  Annihilated my wife’s trust, her heart, all because I couldn’t be a decent human.

  She stares outside, but I can see her pain, feel it as if it’s my own.

  “I’ll always say you’re beautiful. Even when I’m stupid.”

  She doesn’t respond, just hugs herself and nods.

  “They never kissed me,” I admit, needing to get this off my chest. Needing her to know. “I never kissed them either.”

  Tears slip past her eyes, and I know it’s because of pain, not relief. She needs to know how much I hated myself. At least, so that she can have the full picture.

  “It’s not really something I thought I’d ever be explaining, but we always wore protection. I never went down on them.”

  She shakes her head, closing her eyes as they pool with tears. My stomach seizes at the sight. I don’t want her to hurt, I
hate seeing her hurt, but I need her to know.

  “I’d watch our videos before... every time.” I cough around the words, not wanting to say what they blatantly are. Sex. Fucking. Cheating.

  “You mean to say, instead of staying in our room and fucking me, you allowed yourself to watch our times together and fuck someone else instead?” she spits. “How is that okay, Tobias? How does that make a fucking lick of sense?”

  I flinch at her words. She was never one for formalities.

  “Yes,” I admit, feeling that absolute despicable hate for myself rise.

  “It doesn’t matter that you never licked their pussies or that you never let your lips touch theirs. It’s the fact that you fucked them instead of me,” she all but hisses. “Was I not enough for you?”

  Her body shakes with her question, and I move to be closer to her. She doesn’t stop me as I lift her onto my lap. I’d never call my wife frail, she’s anything but. Right now, though, with her sobbing in my lap, looking at me with the utmost sadness, she feels so small.

  “You are enough, more than fucking enough.” I sound angry but it’s not directed at her. It’s directed toward myself. “And you’re right. I shouldn’t have fucked them in spite of you. But you agreed. That day when I saw you with Francis, you said okay. You accepted my deal.”

  “I thought it was a joke!” she sobs. “Who the fuck tells their wife that?”

  “I figured you wanted him. We signed a contract with your dad, so it’s not like we had much of a choice to stay. I spent my entire life being the second choice. Seeing you with Francis. His hands all around you... comforting you when we had just lost our child... I lost it. Absolutely and entirely. I couldn’t breathe realizing you were going to break me just like Lo did.”

  She vehemently shakes her head, her face full of pain. “I went there for Gray,” she explains, her face scrunches at the memory. “She was with your nephew, and they were fighting. When I went to talk to her, she ran after him.” I look at her, wondering when Ace drove all the way to Hawthorn when Hollow Ridge wasn’t close by any means. “Then I turned to enter the house and wait for her, but Francis found me.”

  I nod, knowing this part. I witnessed this part.

  “He held me and told me he was sorry that I lost our child. He wished he could fix it for me and you. He was worried about you, but mostly he wanted to know how I was handling everything.”

  I’m staring at her, not seeing the situation like she did.

  “He hugged me and told me I’d be a mom eventually. I cried a lot while he just held me. Then he said you’d be here for me and make me feel better. You just needed time.”

  “I was there,” I mutter, hating that she went elsewhere for comfort.

  “I know, but you weren’t. You were there in all the right ways except for the most important one.” She hiccups, her chest rising and falling with pain. “You didn’t grieve with me. It was like I was the only one who hurt. Our child was gone... dead. And you were working and being a doting husband without feeling a single ounce of pain.”

  “I felt everything,” I say in exasperation, not wanting to yell. She’s going through enough as it is. “I cried every fucking night. When you went to bed, work, or to Gray, I allowed myself to break down.”

  She stares at me dumbfounded, as if I’m a mystery to her. “You cried?”

  “Yes, Sous. I did. Every single day.”

  Her eyes shut as fresh tears leave her. “I thought you were a robot and didn’t care that we just lost our only chance at having a baby.”

  I grip her chin, adjusting her on my lap. “It’s not our last chance, Sous. Not by a long shot. We won’t stop trying.” With her pain-filled nod, I pull her face to mine and lay a soft kiss on her forehead, wanting to bleed emotion into her with every second our skin connects.

  “I cared about our child. When we got the news, it took everything in me not to break down with you. After watching my brother and his wife go through this, I knew one thing. My pain couldn’t possibly compare to your pain. You lost a child that grew inside you. You lost a life. Yes, I did too, but not like you did. How could I allow you to experience my hurt when you experienced it so much worse?”

  Our gazes meet, both of them wet with intense sentiment and pain. So much fucking pain. She leans forward and takes my lips with hers. She’s not soft but not aggressive. She’s pouring every ounce of her sadness into me, telling me we are meant to experience this together.

  She’s right.

  I grip her jaw and hold her to my mouth, worshipping her as best as I can. She moans when my hand slips into her fiery hair, massaging her scalp as I swipe my tongue between her lips.

  She starts rotating on my lap, making me hard as a fucking rock, but I won’t take advantage. She’s in a bad headspace, one that’s fueled by desperation and sadness. It’s not like she’d be into this otherwise. Not after what I’ve done and what she’s seen with her own eyes.

  “I need you,” she whispers against my lips. Pulling back enough to see her face and make sure it’s not the grief riding her, I wait for her to show anything akin to not wanting me.

  “You’re hurting,” I offer. She has to want this. I’ve fucked up too much to ever break that trust.

  “Make it stop hurting, Toby. I need this,” she promises, fusing our mouths together. She bites my lip, digging hard and nearly piercing my skin. “Please.”

  With that plea, I’m lifting us both off the couch. She wraps her thighs around me. We don’t break our kiss. Not even for air.

  When we make it to our bedroom, I lay her on the bed. Her eyes are filled with lust and something I feel too—the need to reclaim what’s mine.

  She’s so beautiful. Her eyes, those lips, and that fucking throat that makes me want to mark her for everyone to see. She’s tarnished perfection. I’ll spend the rest of my life fixing us. I’ll do anything. Love her harder. Love her deeper. Love her more than anyone else ever has.

  “Fucking breathtaking,” I breathe, pulling down her night shorts. Underneath, she’s wearing cotton panties. Something else I’ve always found absolutely intoxicating about my wife? Her sexiness when she’s comfortable. She doesn’t have to wear lace and satin. Not garters and nighties. She’s fucking sexy without all the added touches. It’s her. She does it for me. Every goddamn time.

  Tracing her pale legs and the little scabbed over heart on her thigh, I moan. She’s my reckoning, and I didn’t even know it when we met.

  Leaning down, I kiss her heart, making sure she knows it’s beautiful too. It’s a bearer of pain, an appendage of love lost; it’s strength when she could’ve been weak.

  She’s unravelling me, and we haven’t even started.

  She pulls my head away from the heart and shakes her head. “It’s ugly,” she whispers, embarrassment and fear tickling her features like a feather to the wind. “All of them are.” The way her voice breaks with those four words has me trailing kisses until I reach her mouth. She folds into herself. The long sweaters she’s been wearing for the past few weeks covering every inch of her upper body.

  “You’re absolutely beautiful, Josephine. You fucking kill me with your beauty every single day. If I wasn’t already absolutely gone for you, I’d fall to my fucking knees with your presence alone.”

  She shakes her head at me, her lips trembling with sadness. It’s tragic, really, that she can’t see how beautiful she is by simply existing. I kiss each of her closed eyes, her nose, her cheeks, and finally, when she’s breathing heavily, I take her mouth.

  She bends into me, her body molding to mine. It’s something I’ve wanted for months. Her entire body, pressed against mine, loving mine, being mine and only mine.

  I pull back, but only so she doesn’t deflect what I’m about to say. When I help her to sit, she hides her face. I tip her chin up, and she shuts her eyes.

  “What’d I say about those eyes, Sous? They’re meant to watch.”

  She lets out a deep exhale, shivering in my embrace
. I know it’s not from the cold. Not offering me those pretty amber eyes of hers, I start to undress her anyway.

  She wiggles, trying to keep the sweater on. “Can’t I leave it on while you fuck me?” Letting out a little scoff, I continue to wrestle the sweater off her small frame.

  “And waste the perfect opportunity to both ogle and grope your tits? Fat chance.”

  She smiles at me, fully smiles, and I know I’ve hit my mark. My girl is competitive, and brash, and so goddamn sassy. It’s her confidence I’ve always loved. From the second our eyes met across that room to the moment we woke up next to each other the following morning. We’re meant to be. It’s us. She battles me, and I fight her tooth and nail. We clash, yes, but when we both bend for each other, our resilience snaps like a fucking rubber band about to burst.

  We aren’t opposites at all.

  We’re the same.

  She hates, and I hate.

  She loves, and I love.

  She fucks, and I fuck right back.

  Not listening to her groaning as I lift the material, I see her tattoo. The one I still haven’t asked her about. We’ve been together for nearly three years now, and I still don’t know what this vital quote means. One that had to matter enough for her to mark her skin.

  Tracing my fingers over the simple line, I decide right now is a good enough time as any. “Be free, not still,” I recite, thumbing her ribs. She shivers, goose bumps rising to the surface of her perfectly pale skin. I love them on her. “I’ve never asked what it means to you.”

  She bites her plush lip, grinding her top teeth over it like it’ll divulge her secrets so she doesn’t have to. “When I was attacked in Paris, I lost all hope to be free. Exploring was the one thing that brought me all my hope and desire to become a chef. It drove me to want to taste weird things and experience all the bad just in case good came along.”

  I smile at that. This is the first time she’s spoken about Paris without crying. It’s progress. It’s hope.

  “When I came home and had to go back to school, I felt empty. There was this hole in my chest that was ripped open by a man who had zero morals. I felt stilted. My growth and freedom halted in that alleyway in France. He took from me. Not just my innocence, but my hope, my will to explore, my desire for the unknown.”