Frayed Silk(35)

I stare up at him, pleading with my eyes for a little understanding even if I don’t deserve it. “You shut me out. I felt like—”

“Like what?” He snarls at me. “You felt like you needed to get fucked, and I wasn’t giving it to you, is that it?”

“No, well, kind of, but it wasn’t just that … not at first,” I admit with a whisper. “When I said that to you, I never thought I’d actually do it either.”

He shoves his hands into his hair, and even with the lack of light, I see his features contort with pain. Pain that I put there.

“Leo, please.” Tears start to run down my cheeks. “I didn’t know what was happening. You wouldn’t talk to me, touch me … It’s been months since we felt like us. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“So you do this?” His voice cracks with emotion.

“I’ve needed you—for so long—and you just …” I sniff and swipe at my nose with my hand, “you just left me.”

He stares at me for a heartbeat, and I see the way his eyes flash with something. “But I’ve still been here. I haven’t fucking left you. I’d never leave you.” He growls the words at me, and my heart crumples in my chest.

“You were here, but you haven’t truly been here at all.” Why can’t he see that? Or is he buried too far beneath whatever has changed him that he just can’t?

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t … I can barely stomach being near you right now.”

“No.” I scramble across the bed. “I still love you, Leo. But you’ve been breaking my heart for too damn long.”

He sniffs. “Yeah?” He rounds the bed to grab his pillow before walking toward the bedroom door. “Well, now you’ve gone and broken mine, too. Fuck you, Lia.”

I flinch. He opens the door then closes it behind him with a quietness that would only have been for the sake of keeping the kids asleep.

But he may as well have slammed it.

I fall back onto my pillow, silent tears still streaming down my face. My hand reaches over to touch the cold, empty space where he was sitting just a minute ago.

What have I done?





The next morning, I go through the motions as if I’ve just woken from a bad nightmare that I can’t shake yet. My vision is clouded with everything that I can’t bear to admit. That my marriage is in an even worse place than before. That it might be truly over. Some dark voice is whispering that stupid saying on repeat in my head, be careful what you wish for.

But I don’t have the luxury of falling apart. Not when two little souls are relying on me to keep my shit together. And none of this should burden them; none of this should trouble their fragile hearts any more than it might have already.

“Let’s go, guys!” I call out as I grab my keys and purse off the counter and walk into the garage.

Their shoes slap against the tiles of the kitchen behind me then come to a skidding halt, Greta’s face colliding with my ass when I stop dead inside the garage.

“Ooof.” She grunts. “Mommy, you’re lucky your butt’s soft or I might have broken my face.” She giggles.

Charlie stops beside me and stares at the opposite wall where my eyes are fixed. “Mom … why are there holes in the wall?” he asks quietly, a hint of fear in his voice that puts yet another crack in my already broken heart.

“Hey, wow. Did Daddy do some painting?” Greta asks. No fear at all as she rounds my car to the wall on the other side.

I walk over to find paint cans on the ground. The noise I heard Leo making in here yesterday. There are obvious holes from his fist, but it also looks like he’s launched the paint cans at the wall. Gray paint runs down the bottom half of it onto the cement floor below, forming a gray puddle that’s probably still wet.

I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.

Just breathe.

In and out. In and out.

I count to ten then open my eyes.

“I’m not sure what he was doing, poppet, but we’ve gotta go.” I move to the trunk and open it for them to toss their bags in. “Come on,” I encourage when I see Charlie still frowning at the mess.

Greta opens the passenger door, climbing inside. “Maybe he got mad when it fell and spilled everywhere.” She shrugs and closes the door.

“Maybe,” I mutter as Charlie finally puts his bag in and gets in the car.

Greta talks my ear off about both of their grandmas coming home from their holiday tomorrow, and the big sleepover they’re all going to have this weekend. I’m grateful for her chatter, not only because it seems like I’ve forgotten—yet again—about something else, but I also need to keep busy. I need to try to think of anything other than this debilitating fear and heartache that’s vying for my attention every second of every minute.

Charlie’s noticeably quieter than usual when we pull into the school. I get out and pass Greta her bag, kissing her head then watch her walk off.

“Hold up, Charlie,” I say when he grabs his bag and is about to walk away, too.

He halts, chewing on his bottom lip and looking so much like a little Leo that my heart hurts even more.

I bend down in front of him. “You okay?”

He shrugs, averting his gaze to the car for a few seconds before asking, “Dad wasn’t mad at the paint, was he?” His eyes narrow on me.