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Stella
Ipace back and forth in the entryway of the house, glancing out the front windows every so often to see if Oliver is back home with him. He had let me know at six fifteen this morning that he was heading into the city to pick him up.
After half a dozen failed attempts to reach Atlas last night, I ran to Oliver’s cottage on the back of the property in tears, worried sick that something had happened to him. I explained that I had called and texted him but hadn’t heard a response.
“I’m sorry, Stella. I wish I had known you couldn’t reach him. He sent me a message earlier around eight that he would be staying at the office tonight.”
“Oh.” I feel a sense of relief, but then anger starts to creep in. “He texted you around eight?”
“Yes. Let me double-check.” He disappears for a second, grabbing his phone and putting on his glasses to flip through his messages. “Yes, four minutes after eight,” he says, holding the phone screen out toward me. “Would you like me to send him a message?”
“No.” I smile. “But thank you. I’ll just see him tomorrow. Good night, Oliver.”
“Good night, Stella.”
I didn’t bother sending any more texts or calls to Atlas. Knowing that he had to have seen them already when he sent Oliver that text brought me right back down to reality, where I need to stay.
Twenty minutes later after I’ve calmed myself down with a cup of lavender tea, I sit on the bottom stair as the front door flies open and Atlas stumbles inside. His hair is disheveled, his tie gone, his shirt buttoned askew and untucked. He looks a mess, like he partied all night or perhaps slept on the floor in his office. Then again, who says he didn’t do those things and who says he was alone? My stomach rolls at the thought.
He wouldn’t.
“Good morning, darling.” I don’t bother pretending to smile.
“I’m not in the mood,” he grunts, tossing his jacket over his shoulder as he steps past me.
“I don’t care that you’re not in the mood, I’m your wife.”
He stops, his head falling back as he laughs. “My wife,” he mutters, clearly still drunk. “I don’t give a shit.” He stumbles up the stairs and I follow after.
“What the hell happened, Atlas? What changed?” I step in front of him, my anger quickly turning into desperation as I try to get him to look at me. “Everything was going so great. I don’t understand.”
“It’s fake. Who gives a shit?” He pushes past me, slamming the door to his bedroom as I slowly crumple to the stairs.
I keep my tears inside, closing my eyes to remind myself that I’m the one who got my hopes up. I’m the one who let myself fall for him and believe it was more than it was.
I completely lost myself in our relationship this last week. Spending countless hours making love, watching movies, and eating meals together. It felt like how it should be, like it was just a normal relationship that was blossoming into… I can’t bring myself to even think the word right now.
Oliver’s gentle touch startles me and I look over my shoulder at him. “Give him time to sober up, then talk to him.” He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “I know he cares for you, kiddo.”
“Thanks, Oliver.” I reach my hand over to his and touch it.
I spend the next several hours distracting myself, or at least attempting to.
“Looks like backbreaking work.” I look back at Mac, who’s positioned himself directly behind where I’m bent over on my hands and knees pulling weeds from the rosebushes.
“It’s not that bad.” I sit back, dusting my gloves against my jeans. “I enjoy the work actually.” I admire the varying shades of pink in the roses.
“Well, if you ever want a break from the work, let me know.”
“I’m okay.” I smile, attempting to be polite. “But thanks.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks back toward the garage where Oliver watches while waxing the Rolls Royce.
I enjoy some lunch, or at least force myself to eat something before taking a quick shower and cleaning off after my afternoon gardening session. I take my time, giving Atlas more than six hours to sober up and sleep it off.
He must have left his room at some point; his door is ajar as I approach. I lift my hand to knock when I hear him speaking softly. At first, I think there’s someone in his room, but then I hear him say her name. A name that has me pulling my hand back from the door and leaning in to listen closer.
“I’m sorry to just call unannounced, Eleanor, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what you said to me yesterday.” My stomach clenches.
