Frayed Silk(37)

He laughs. “Nobody beats me up unless I’m severely outnumbered or I let them, Blondie. Like I said, I deserved it, so I let him.”

I lean back against the counter. “How hurt did you get?” I feel like getting in the car and going to check for myself, knowing he’s going to downplay it.

“Jared,” I snap when he doesn’t answer me.

He sighs. “Just a shiner, bruised nose and jaw.”

“Just?” I laugh like a madwoman. “This is insane.”

“It’s not. You’re his wife. If you were mine, I’d have left the guy half dead.”

God, this is all so crazy. “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“No need to be. Just tell me when I can see you again.”

I start choking on a laugh. “Did he injure your brain? We can’t …”

“No, we can. I don’t give a shit about him,” he says heatedly.

I can’t do this right now. “I have … baggage, Jared. You can’t possibly still want me.”

“You have kids, Blondie, and a dickhead for a husband. Nothing I can’t handle.” His tone lightens. “Besides, I love kids.”

I burst out laughing, wiping a few tears from underneath my eyes. “You’re a good man, trouble.”

“I’m sensing a but coming, and I’m gonna ignore it. Take a chance on me, Dahlia. You won’t regret it.”

I know I wouldn’t. But I would because that dickhead I have for a husband? I still love him with every fractured piece of my heart.

“I have to go,” I finally say.

“Wait, just … promise me you’ll think about it?”

The desperation in his voice is hard to ignore, and it makes me feel like the biggest bitch in the world.

So like a coward, I lie—yet again. “I’ll think about it, but you know—”

“Stop,” he says roughly. “I’ll speak to you soon, Blondie.”

He hangs up, and I scrub my palms over my face. What a mess. What a great big stinking mess. I used to listen, gasp, and watch as drama unfolded for other people and their families. Which in this town, happens a lot. And like a fool, I never thought it would happen to me. To us. But I guess that’s what everyone thinks.

Never me. Thank God, it’s not me.

Until the other shoe drops, and suddenly, it’s your turn.

I head to the pantry and reach up to the top shelf, grabbing a block of my favorite milk chocolate. Then, tucking my phone into my dress pocket, I grab my keys and make my way over to Fiona’s place. We can be miserable together.

Pulling up outside her mini-mansion by the bay, I can’t help but notice how quiet it is as I step out. How the only noise to be heard comes from the shrieking of the gulls flying overhead, heading out to the ocean. The two cream-colored cement lions who sit on either side of their porch steps seem weathered and fragile now, instead of imposing. I use the knocker and wait. When I don’t hear anything, I try the doorbell. Okay. Worried, I lean in to try to see through the frosted glass that sits on either side of the huge double doors. But it’s too blurred to make anything out.

I turn around, thinking I’ll just go home and try to call her later to let her know I stopped by.

But then I remember last Friday. Not only what she wore, but how she behaved. The attitude that screamed of imminent self-destruction.

Fuck it. I turn the handle, not surprised to find the door unlocked, and walk inside. I close it gently behind me, calling out, “Fiona?”

I hear music coming from somewhere and walk down between the sprawling black staircases, making my way to the kitchen. Which is destroyed. Dishes, pots, and pans are everywhere. Flies buzz around food-crusted utensils and plates in the sink. I have no idea how long they’ve been there, but the smell is pretty bad, so I leave and walk down the hallway that I remember leads to the living room.

And that’s where I find her. Sprawled out in a pair of panties and a t-shirt, sound asleep. I round the corner and take a seat on the opposite couch, looking at her usually perfectly styled brown locks that now fall in a greasy heap over half of her face. I chew my lip, unsure of what I should do. Pulling the chocolate out, I put it down quietly on the coffee table then lower the volume on the TV. Deciding to let her sleep, I go back to the kitchen. May as well make myself useful.

I grab a trash bag and toss out the pots and plates that look beyond saving and fill the sink to soak the rest while I grab some old food from the refrigerator to chuck in the trash too. After I’ve scrubbed everything, I put it all in the dishwasher and start it before wiping down the counters and making us some coffee.

While the coffee cools on the counter, I take the trash out through the laundry door to the side of the house where the trash cans are. They’re overflowing. Damn it. I don’t know if I can lift it, either. I remove some bags and hold my breath from the smell as I quickly rush it out the side gate and down the driveway to the curb. Then I grab the other bags and take them down, trying to squash them in. I end up taking one that won’t fit back up to the house so that the animals don’t tear it apart over her front lawn.

I’m washing my hands at her kitchen sink when she finally wakes up. “Dahlia?” she asks croakily from behind me.

I turn around, grabbing a dishtowel to dry my hands, and give her a weak smile. “Hey, sorry to barge in. I was worried.”