Make Me Hate You(77)
My fingers gripped the steering wheel, knuckles pink from the cold until I reached forward to start the car with a push of a button. I closed my eyes, shoulders rising and falling with a new breath, flashes of the night before assaulting me in little bursts behind my lids.
A touch. A sigh.
A man. A woman.
Fingertips and lips. Moans and breaths.
Old longings brought to life with new fervor, new discoveries uncovered with old, shaking hands.
Freedom. Passion.
Pain.
When I opened my eyes once more, I found my reflection in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Her long, unruly chestnut hair, falling down in messy waves around bright, wide chocolate eyes. Lips red and swollen, cheeks tinged pink.
If you told anyone who knew me, they’d never believe you. They’d never believe that soft, sweet, quiet Charlie Pierce was pulling out of the driveway of a man who wasn’t her husband, that she’d known him in a way she was never meant to, that she’d felt his hardness between her thighs and his lips on her pale white skin.
But they didn’t know me.
I didn’t even know me.
Not anymore.
They say there are two sides to every story, and I suppose in most cases, that’s true. But the one I lived inside of? It had three.
On the northeast side of Mount Lebanon, Pennsylvania, there was a house.
But there was no longer a home.
Two months earlier
Charlie
The smell of cinnamon woke me before my alarm could sound. I smiled, eyes still closed, my brain stuck in a memory that smell took me back to. A memory born years before. When my lids finally fluttered open, the smile fell, and I sat up slowly in bed, running a hand through my dark hair.
Our bedroom window overlooked the expansive back yard, the sun beginning to tickle the horizon off in the distance, casting the trees and our covered pool in the soft glow of dawn. It was just before six.
I pulled the comforter back, exposing my simple, cotton nightgown and wool sock-covered feet as I climbed out of bed. As soon as I was out of it, I made it up the way it had previously looked when we crawled into it the night before, and then I padded my way over to Jane and Edward.
“Good morning, lovelies,” I cooed as I pulled the black cover from the gold cage.
Two beautiful Budgies sat inside, each on their own little swings, and Jane sang her good morning to me while Edward shook the sleep out from his feathers. I opened the cage long enough to pet each of them with my index finger, smiling at the way they leaned into my touch. They were my pride and joy, along with my books and my garden. I loved to watch them play on lazy Sunday mornings or teach them new words before bed.
Cameron had surprised me with them the morning of our first wedding anniversary. That morning, though nearly seven years ago now, still felt like it was just yesterday. I remembered the younger version of us, the absolute bliss, the feeling that nothing could ever come between us or break the once-in-a-lifetime love we had. He’d been cooking that morning, too, and the little birds sat at the dining room table when I came downstairs.
I’d flown to them, eyes the size of saucers as I traced the gold cage with my fingertips. The Budgies had hopped around inside excitedly, chirping away, singing their greetings to me as I fought back tears. Cameron had just watched me over his shoulder, spatula still working the French toast, and I saw my favorite emotion reflected in his caramel eyes — happiness.
Seeing me happy made him happy.
At least, that’s the way it used to be.
“What will you name them?” he’d asked. And I hadn’t hesitated before answering Jane and Edward. After all, Jane Eyre was practically glued to my hands all through high school. That same, worn copy sat in my library across the hall even now, along with all the other books I’d cherished and collected over the years.
Jane fluffing out her feathers with a loud chirp snapped me back to the present moment, and once she and Edward were fed, I followed the smell of the cinnamon.
I loved the way the stairs descended in an opening right in the middle of our home, the way I had a full view of the kitchen and living area below me as I walked over the bridge hall and down each hardwood step. Cameron was there below me, already dressed in his favorite black suit, the jacket to it hanging over one of the chairs at the kitchen bar. He held the handle of the griddle in one hand, a spatula in the other, the soft sound of Bon Iver spilling out from our kitchen speakers.
“Good morning,” I sang, coming up behind him to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Cinnamon french toast.”
“Your favorite,” he reminded me, as he always did on the first day of school. It was January, so technically, it was the first day of school this semester. We were already halfway through the year. But that was Cameron — whether it was fall or spring semester, he always woke up before me to make my favorite breakfast. It was one of only four days out of the year that he cooked instead of me; fall semester, spring semester, my birthday, and our anniversary.
It’d been a tradition ever since we were married, one he’d started out of the desire to surprise me. I still remembered the first time, my first day teaching at Westchester Prep. He’d propped up a tiny chalkboard sign on the table that read Mrs. Pierce, along with a shiny red apple, and he’d served me in nothing but a little white apron tied around his waist.