“I don’t even recognize you,” he sneered.
That made two of us.
I would—eventually—recognize my husband. He turned and clicked his shoes across the tile to leave me alone with the resonating sounds, with the mess on the floor, with my thoughts …
Later, he would return, wearing his favorite mask of regret. He would hold me, kiss my wounds, and on a long sigh, he would say, “How did we get here?”
We.
He was the hero.
I was the villain.
And we were innocent victims of … something.
What?
I really didn’t know. How did we get there?
When did our passion turn into rage?
When did our connection become so destructive?
When did our love turn into resentment?
My phone on the vanity rang. I contemplated not answering it. Ronin … he must have felt that. Felt me.
My fingers feathered along the sensitive skin. I would tell him something, but I couldn’t make it believable yet. Instead, I knelt on the floor and gathered as much of my hair as I could—my long blond hair. My mom used to braid my hair, and my dad used to give my pigtail braids a few tugs when he called me his lovely Lila.
I hugged my hair to my chest, rocking back and forth, remembering a much simpler time in my life when love came in the form of gentle touches, adoring smiles, and unbroken promises. A time when candy trumped everything and my biggest worry was forgetting to wear my retainer. Sometimes a good cry made everything tolerable again.
After five or so minutes, I finished cleaning up the mess and slid my journal out from under my mattress. Graham would be gone … maybe an hour. When he lost control, he took off in his car. Maybe time alone and creating distance between us brought back a tiny bit of clarity. At the very least, it usually bestowed a sadness upon him that I took as his temporary version of regret.
Opening to the back of my journal, I read through my exhaustive list of reasons …
Reasons for bruises on certain parts of my body. I never imagined I’d need a list of excuses for the riddling of bruises on my arms and back, a black eye, half a swollen face, and his fingers imprinted in red, blue, and purple on my neck.
The hardest part?
Some weird, desperate, self-loathing part of me thought I still loved him, but I knew how things would end, eventually, because the scale had tipped. Flipping back to that date in my journal, I let my gaze reacquaint my broken heart with the words that marked the end of us.
JOURNAL
I feel so stupid. So blind. So trapped.
He manipulated me. It’s not rough sex. It’s not a physical need. At least … not anymore. I blindly fell for his excuses because he hurt me during sex. He justified it. He made me feel like my orgasm righted any sort of wrongs. It’s always left me confused because I love Graham. I love our intimacy, and sometimes I love the intensity, even when a little pain is the price to pay for pleasure. My desire to please him blinded me.
Today, everything changed. It’s not a fetish or a preference. It’s a sickness. Only a sick man breaks his wife’s nose because she playfully grabbed his phone when he wouldn’t give her his attention. I wanted him to notice me, my new white dress. Now, that white dress is in the trash, covered in blood.
He apologized immediately. And I honestly think he felt remorse. He cried. It’s the first time I have ever seen Graham cry. Today was the “tennis ball incident.” At least, that’s what we told the doctor at the hospital owned by the Porters. No one questioned it. Not even my best friend, but she’s pregnant with her first child, so I can’t tell her that her other best friend broke my nose. It would destroy her. And I would feel responsible if anything happened to her unborn child.
Graham did more than break my nose today. He broke a piece of us. I don’t know if we will ever be the same. I don’t know why he’s so angry.
I flipped to the back page again and chose the bookend excuse. The two-story Porter library had bookends, some very expensive and heavy ones scattered on different shelves. If I reached for a book on a shelf above my head and accidentally pulled the bookend off the shelf with the book, it would hurt. A lot. And it would leave a significant bruise and swelling.
Opening my nightstand drawer, I retrieved a pen and put a line through the bookend excuse so it didn’t get reused in a moment of mental confusion. It was the eighth excuse in six years. Not all marks required an excuse, just the ones I couldn’t hide with things like a pretty scarf, long sleeves, or layers of makeup.
“What happened?” Ronin answered his phone with grave concern weighing his words.
I drew in a shaky breath to steady my own words. His concern, his touch … it reaffirmed how lucky Evelyn was to have found him. It also reminded me of everything Graham was not.
“Ugh. I’m so sorry.” I faked a tiny chuckle. “You should see my face. Be thankful you only felt it. I’m going to look like a boxer who lost a fight for the next week or two.”
“What happened?” he repeated. No other question mattered at that point.
“I was getting a book from a high shelf in the library. It caught the edge of a bookend—an expensive one I fear—and it landed on my face before tumbling to the floor and cracking into three pieces. I was clumsy and weak from the chemo. I should have asked for help. Again, I’m so sorry. I’m icing it now.”
I closed my eyes, tears stinging behind my eyelids. It sounded believable, even to me. Never … never did I imagine I would—could—be an abused wife making excuses. Listing them. I had a list. That was … soul crushing in a way I couldn’t articulate, even to myself.
“Did you see a doctor?”
“Yes.”
No.
“So you did start chemo?”
“Yes. And I shaved my head. The shedding started clogging the drain.”
“Lila …” Ronin sounded broken in his own way. “I’m sorry. But how are you going to explain this to Evelyn?”
“Well, I have access to the very best wigs. I’m not sure she’ll know. And if she does. I have a plan B.”
Yes. I had a plan B. Just like I had a list of reasons and a husband who abused me. Oh, and I was an orphan who kept secrets from the one person who loved me and treated me like family. I hated lying to Evelyn, but she would forgive me … eventually.
“What is plan B?”
“Hannah Ellis. A young girl in foster care with cancer. She thought I was beautiful … that I looked like a princess. I told her she was the princess, but she said she didn’t have the hair of a princess. I said hair didn’t make a princess. And to prove it, I shaved my head and swore to not let it grow long again until Hannah could grow long hair again too.”
“You said that?”
I smiled, in spite of the ache on the right side of my face that needed some ice. “No. But if you believe me, Evelyn might too. Right?”
He groaned. “Lila … we need to tell her. She’s stronger than you think she is. A phrase she has said to me many times during our marriage.”
“Tell her what? That I have cancer? That I could die? Or we tell her that the only thing that stops you from feeling my pain is when we’re together?” I couldn’t say “holding each other” or “touching.” It felt too intimate.
Ronin’s arms made me feel safe. I needed that. I made him feel whole and normal. He needed that. We needed each other in a way that nobody else could understand. Not even Evelyn. In a small way, I already felt the devastation of a husband needing something from another woman that his wife couldn’t give him. Except Graham didn’t simply need something from Evelyn; he thought he needed all of her. I could be like her, but that wasn’t enough.
“It will destroy her, Ronin. She will never look at us the same way again. Even if she manages to put on her favorite brave face, I’ll see through it. And it will eat away at my relationship with her. It will eat away at your marriage. This won’t last forever.”
“What does that mean?” he whispered. “What won�
��t last forever?”
“This pain. Either I’ll get better—you’ll get better. Or I’ll …” I couldn’t say it. I thought it. I thought about it a lot. Saying it, though … that was different. Words had many powers. They shaped perception. Sometimes they cut. Sometimes they healed. But every once in a while, words brought actions to life. The law of attraction.
Even if my fate felt unchangeable, I couldn’t put it out there and give it life before its time—before my time.
“You’re not dying.”
With my heart in my throat and my lips trapped between my teeth, I nodded. A few tears spilled over, tiny drops of fear I let go. “Of course not.”
“Can I …”
I didn’t make him finish. He could feel me. And as crazy as it seemed, I wondered if a part of me could feel him too.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He needed to see me, to touch me. I needed it too. That need carried its own pain because we loved Evelyn. That was why she didn’t ever need to know. That was how I knew it wouldn’t last forever. It couldn’t. I wouldn’t let it.
“When?”
I wiped my tears and swallowed a bitter dose of my new reality. “Graham will be out of town this weekend.”
“I’ll figure out something to tell Evie.”
A lie.
Ronin had to lie to Evie because of my pain. I may not have had cancer, but in many ways, I’d become a cancer in their lives. And I hated it.
“I will protect you.”
“Protect me?” he questioned.
“You and Evelyn … Franz and Anya. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Lila, you don’t need to protect anyone. You need to take care of yourself. Get better. Let’s never have to tell Evie.”
“Okay,” I sighed.
“Ice your face more. I’ll see you this weekend.”
“What about your face?” Yet another thing to add to my guilt list: my predicament caused him an untreatable pain.
“Nothing some hugs from my kids and a kiss from my wife can’t heal.”
“I hope so.” I frowned.
“Goodnight, Lila.”
“Night.”
I wrote several more raw, painful pages in my journal before tucking it back into its place and digging a scarf out of my closet. With a renewed sadness, I brushed my hand over my shaved scalp as if I had to touch it to truly believe the lie and the great lengths I went through to sell it. After a few seconds of acquainting myself with the stranger in the mirror, I tied the black and yellow floral scarf around my head and headed to the stairs to get some ice and something for the pain.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Graham’s voice startled me just as I made it to the top of the stairs where he climbed the last two steps to tower over me. Loose tie. Wrinkles around his concerned eyes. And a frown aimed at my scarf-covered head and red face.
“Ice. I wanted to get some ice for my face,” I murmured, unable to keep from shrinking as he glowered at me.
“Elaine is in the kitchen. Your face raises too many questions. And don’t even get me started on your head.”
“A bookend fell onto my cheek. I shaved my head in support of a young child I met who’s battling cancer.”
Graham blew out his signature breath of frustration. “Christ … I can’t believe how well you’ve planned this out. Go. I’ll get you ice.”
You should. You did this. You. Did. This!
“Thank you,” I whispered, nearly choking on the words. Planned? I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to act like my excuses for the things he did made me the unbelievable one.
We pivoted in opposite directions. I waited in the bedroom for him to bring me ice and something for the pain … like divorce papers. No such luck. A few minutes later, Graham returned with a bottle of ibuprofen and a gel cold pack.
“Come here.” He sat in the chair by the fireplace, gesturing to his lap.
Once upon a time … I used to love his lap, his embrace, his affection. He used to scoot back in his desk chair at the office and pat his leg for me to climb onto his lap where I’d nuzzle my face into his neck and inhale him. One thing often led to another, and we’d turn into a frenzy of torn off clothes, desperate hands, and passionate kisses. Afterward, he’d hold me once more in his arms, like a small child.
I felt loved.
I felt cherished.
I felt like the most important person in his life.
Feelings changed. I no longer wanted to crawl onto his lap or get anywhere near him. Too bad I didn’t have a long list of other options, so I gave in, submitted, confirmed to him that I was weak in that moment. But I wouldn’t always be that weak. One day, I knew my confusion—the guilt—would lift. And he wouldn’t be able to hurt me anymore.
I would be free.
“That’s my girl.” He pressed his lips to the top of my head, against my scarf, and held the ice pack to my swollen cheek while my opposite cheek rested against his chest, giving me a brief reminder that he still had a heart—or at least a beat.
“I have a lot of stress in my life …” He began his usual spiel. It fit as an excuse for many things—headaches, sleep issues, the occasional grumpiness, maybe even snapping out a few regretful words with a raised voice in a heated moment. I gave him a pass for storming out of a room. Driving off and not returning for hours. Hanging up on the phone with me.
But he didn’t get a pass for hitting me. Even if my temporary submissiveness led him to believe otherwise.
“It won’t always be this way. When my term is up, we’ll reset. Take a long trip. And things will be better. Maybe we’ll take Evelyn and Ronin with us if they’re still together.”
What the hell?
I pulled my head away from his chest to look at his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He could beat me and break me, but he would never destroy my instinct to protect Evelyn.
He shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
It wasn’t nothing. It was something.
“What’s nothing?” I tried to climb off his lap, but he grabbed my arms. Having met my quota of injuries for the day, I surrendered so he’d ease his grip.
“A friend of mine thought he saw Ronin at a bar with Adrianne Craig.”
I squinted at him, angry like it was his fault. Evie shared her concern over Adrianne, but I knew … just knew Ronin would never take the bait.
Graham rolled his lips together and nodded. “It’s true.”
“Evie must have been there too.”
“My friend never saw him with anyone else except Adrianne. He said they were huddled together in a small booth at the back of the bar. Supposedly, they looked quite infatuated with each other.”
“Did you say anything to Evie?” The muscles in my jaw tightened. I knew Graham talked to Evie more than his own wife some days.
Graham frowned. “No. I’m not one for breaking up marriages.”
Except his own.
I couldn’t believe it. Not Ronin. No way.
“Good. There’s no way there’s any truth to it, so there’s no need to stir up trouble.”
“Why would I stir up trouble?”
Emotion burned my eyes. Why …
I asked myself that multiple times a day.
Why marry me?
Why keep me?
Why hit me?
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
Graham pressed the cold pack to my cheek again. “I think I’m going to have to tell Evelyn about your cancer.”
My head eased side to side.
“You shaved your head. She’s going to know. I think it’s best if I tell her. You’re not in the right frame of mind to break the news to her.”
“I don’t have cancer.”
I swore at times he had this look on his face like he’d come to believe the lie as much as Ronin, like he wanted it to be true.
“So you’re just going to what? Not see her until your face heals and your hair grows back?”
; “If you tell her the lie, I will tell her the truth.”
His expression turned to stone again. “You won’t.”
“Yes. I will.”
“She won’t believe you.”
I grunted a tiny laugh. “She’s my best friend. She will believe me.”
His lips twisted as he cocked his head a fraction and narrowed his eyes. “You? A crazy person who lied about having cancer after Evelyn’s mom died of cancer? She’ll think you’re fucking mocking the tragedy that happened to her mom. She’ll see a crazy person who cut off her hair to make it more believable. She’ll see the bruises you inflicted upon yourself to sell the lie … to hurt her.”
I shook my head over and over. What was he talking about? I wasn’t crazy. It was all him. “I would never hurt her.”
“No?” He cocked his head to the other side, studying me like the crazy person he tried to make me out to be. “I think if she thought you were jealous of my feelings for her, it would make this all very believable. You’re human. Humans can be vengeful … even the good ones. It’s an instinct we can’t deny. We are created in the likeness of perfection but thrust into a world of sin. No one is immune from its affects. Not me. Not you. Not Ronin and Adrianne Craig.”
“You can’t do this,” I hated my voice for shaking.
Keeping one hand pressed to the cold pack on my cheek, he slid the scarf from my head with his other hand. “Lila … I didn’t do this. You did.”
Swallowing the fear that he could hurt me even more, I whispered, “You hit me.”
The tiniest flinch wrinkled the skin on his forehead. “I’m sorry. I chose the wrong reaction. I just …” He frowned while his gaze spread along my shaved head. “I never imagined you would hurt me like this.”
My stomach twisted as my heart shriveled in my chest.
“I don’t expect an apology tonight.” He kissed my forehead. “It’s been a wash. Wrongdoing on both sides.” He set the cold pack in my hand.
I couldn’t speak. Disbelief and shock paralyzed my words.
“Hop up.” He nudged me from his lap like a dog no longer needed for any sort of comfort. “I have to shower. Tomorrow will be a fresh start.” He stood, a disappointing grimace spread across his face. “I thought today was the fresh start. It felt that way in your office.” He brushed his knuckles over my cheek. “I knelt at your feet.” The corner of his mouth curled upward a fraction. “I worshipped you. And you enjoyed it. I could taste it.”
The Life You Stole Page 15