The Real(69)

My father had the unconditional and unwavering love of the woman I loved most in the world . . . until Abbie. But even at his worst, my mother remained loving and loyal. I foolishly thought I could have the same thing. I loved Abbie’s flaws, quirks, and her imperfections. More so, her willingness to admit them without disguising them in sex and perfume. It’s what drew me to her.

She’d let me need her. She’d let me love her, and it was reciprocated. I stopped caring who was watching with her. I needed her love over everything.

Maybe I didn’t deserve her as the man I was.

But I deserved her now.

Didn’t I?

I’d played her way, by her rules. I left my baggage at the door because it worked for me on the same level that it did for her.

I was the man she needed me to be, but it was effortless because it was who I was. The man I’d grown into despite my past. And being free of that burden was a God send when all I wanted to do was forget.

Bottle in hand I moved to my bathroom and studied the cut on my lip and the purple and green bruise on my jaw. I was, once again, covered in Kat’s wrath.

Cupping water over my face, I stared at the evidence that wouldn’t be washed away. A day or two and there wouldn’t be a trace of her physically, but the anger that brewed was what fucked with me. It wasn’t hopeless, at least not in the way it used to feel, trapped.

Anger surfaces as I thought of how I had given Kat my life, my time and attention. She’d wasted it, wasted us both. I ran my finger over the faded scar at my temple, a gift from Kat, an everyday reminder she happened.

“Babe, haven’t you had enough of those today?”

“I’m hurting,” she muttered, absently recapping the pills.

“Your therapist said we should do as much activity as possible. Let’s get out today.”

“I don’t feel like it,” she replied low, her resentful eyes meeting mine in the mirror.

“Okay, let’s stay in.”

She sat at the vanity, running a brush through her hair while I lay in bed watching her. The first time she did her morning ritual, I thought it was odd, like out of some old movie where handmaidens would eventually come in to dress her. She’d been raised regal, and over the years I found it a comforting routine, and oddly sexy. I watched her as she combed through her dark strands, her hair cascading down her frame, her porcelain skin covered in silk.

“I know a few things we can do indoors,” I rasped out as I pushed off the covers and walked over to her table to kiss her bare shoulder.

“Don’t feel like that, either.”

“I miss you,” I said softly to her in the mirror.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m right here.”

“Are you?” I pushed a breath out and knelt in front of my wife, stilling her hands.

“Kat, you haven’t let me touch you in months. I’m hurting too.” I slid my arms around her.

She pushed at my shoulders as I kept hold. “Jesus Christ, Jefferson, is your dick all you care about?”

“No, but it would be nice if my wife gave a damn,” I said as evenly as I could manage. Her eyes flared, and I shook my head. “Forget it, I’m sorry. Let’s just do something today, anything you want.”

“I’ve got work to do.”

“Kat,” I reasoned. “It’s Sunday. The office can wait.”

She pushed my arms away and I hung my head.

She resumed with her brush as I sat on my heels. “You’re only thinking of you. What do you expect from me? I’m hurting!”

“Well, that’s surprising considering you’ve taken half a bottle of pills.”

She tilted her head and shot daggers at me. “Who in the hell are you to tell me when I’m not in pain!”

“You don’t sleep, you barely eat, our marriage is suffering.”

“You mean your dick,” she scoffed.

“I mean our marriage! I can’t get a few words past you without you twisting them and throwing them back. You’re always on the defensive. We need to talk about this,” I said, snatching the bottle of Vicodin off the vanity. “This fucking shit is wrecking your brain. You aren’t yourself.”

“Give them back, Cameron. Don’t you dare hang those over my head.”

I shook my head. “I want to talk about this.”

“You’re fucking pathetic, you know that?! The only problem here is you.”

“Oh, I’m pathetic? I’m the problem? When did that happen? I’m not the one numbing myself to the point of being frigid.” Her body went stone still as I reeled it in, because her words hurt, and I could see something in my wife’s eyes for the first time that looked like hate. But that couldn’t be true. Kat didn’t hate . . . anyone.

“Stop,” I said, reaching for her, “let’s stop.”

It was the shock that registered first, not the pain. But I didn’t get a chance to recover because she swung the steel-plated brush again and caught me in the temple. She stood, hovering above me, and landed another blow. I felt the rush of nausea as blood trickled down my temple.

“Get the fuck away from me! Don’t touch me! It’s your fault! I fucking hate you every day I wake up feeling like this! This, all of this, it’s your fault!”