Page 64 of The Write Choice

He tilts his head, regarding me. “What?”

“You called me that in my apartment. When it was just you and me. When things were easy. Now…” I trail off and swallow hard, the hand clutching the shirt to my chest trembling. “Now, I don’t even know. You promised it would be different here. You promised you’d spend more time with the kids, with me.” My voice cracks on the last word. I have a tenuous control on my emotions right now, and I’m afraid it’s not going to take much for me to break down.

“Katie.” He sounds agonized, and I immediately regret asking him not to call me by my nickname. My name sounds so much colder on his lips. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

“I’m sorry I got pregnant, Brandon.” I spit it out like I’ve been holding it in my mouth for too long and it has gotten sour. “I’m sorry I wanted that baby more than I had wanted anything before he came along. I’m sorry I thought I could fix my issues with my parents by becoming a parent myself. I know it was a long time ago, but you’ve made it pretty clear that this whole family business really cramped your style. So, I’m sorry. I ruined your life just like your mom figured I would. I’m sorry the kids and I are such a drag on your career.”

He shakes his head, imperceptibly at first, then with more vigor. “No,” he whispers. “Where would you ever get that idea? You and the kids mean more to me than anything. It may not have been on purpose, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. You have to believe that, Katie.”

I blink, and a tear falls down my cheek before I can stop it. “If that’s true,” I whisper, unable to raise my voice any higher, “then why are you gone all the time?”

He stares at me in silence, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, as if he’s trying and failing to grasp onto the words he wants. But he’s quiet for so long that I’m pretty sure the conversation is over. My gaze falls to the floor, and I feel myself practically slump in defeat.

He’s never going to choose us over the job. I either need to accept it, or I need to leave. I don’t like either of these shitty options.

“I’m going to shower,” I mutter, then move as fast as I can to the bathroom, closing the door with a final click behind me.

Our shower is huge, with a rain showerhead and a lower, handheld one. Brandon certainly spared no expense on this house, and I feel like I deserve a little luxury right now. I turn the faucet on and let the steam start to build while I wait, letting the static sound of the water soothe my nerves. Maybe if I can wash that fight off me, I’ll feel better. Maybe I’ll feel less like I need a drink to take the edge off.

The dire nature of that thought hits me, and my body goes cold all over. I lean my hands against the counter, pressing my palms into the edge of it to the point of pain. I take a deep breath and hold it, pressing my eyes closed.

I hate that this is who I’ve become. For years, I was so blissed out on motherhood and with Brandon that I didn’t feel like I needed alcohol. I never even joined a program. I mean, sure, I was nauseous about it at first, and I craved weird food and drink, but that could have easily been first trimester hormones, too. My drinking was never something I needed to function throughout my day; it was something I turned to when I was stressed or wanted to have a good time or needed to impress a client. I just leaned on it a little too much. No big deal, right?

I figured since it was relatively easy to walk away from when I was pregnant that it hadn’t been as much of an issue as I had made it out to be. Any time I felt shaky about it, I was able to lean on Brandon. He was always there. And he always steadied me. Once I let myself believe he was there for the long haul, once I let him into our lives, it was like magic. Who needs wine when you have magic?

But now, I don’t have him. He’s never here, I’m lonely as hell, and the kids have only gotten louder and more emotionally needy as they’ve gotten older. Even the hours of my day when they’re not here aren’t enough to recover from the chaos they bring. I’ve felt shakier and more stressed. And, without any permission, these thoughts about booze have started to poke their way back in.

I curl my hands into fists and pound the counter, welcoming the jolt of pain. I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I’ve depended too much on him to soothe me, and now I can’t do it myself. This is exactly what I was afraid of. That I had replaced the booze with him, and one day, he’d decide that this all happened too fast. That he wants out. That he has changed his mind.

And I’d be left alone, with thoughts like these, unable to resist.

The door clicks open, but I keep my eyes pressed shut. A sob escapes me, then another. Brandon quickly steps behind me, his bare chest pressing against my exposed back. He brings his hands around my torso, pressing his palms into the skin of my stomach. He opens his fingers wide, so my whole middle is covered by his warmth.

I didn’t realize until exactly this moment how much I wanted him to follow me in here. How good it would feel to let him support some of this weight, even for a little while.

Suddenly, I’m desperate to feel something other than this anguish. My need for his hands on me, for him inside me, is too great to control. I press my back into his front, feeling the hard length of him against my lower back.

“Brandon,” I moan. “Touch me.”

“You’re crying.” He squeezes me tighter, leaning down to rest his chin on my shoulder.

“I’m upset,” I admit, my eyes still closed.

“I’m not going to touch you like that when you’re upset,” he insists, though it sounds like his resolve is cracking.

“Brandon…” I trail off, wiggling my ass against his cock and eliciting a sound from him that I want to bottle up and bring back out on lonely nights without him.

“Look at me, Cat,” he commands softly, his breath tickling my ear.

I keep my eyes closed.

He tsks, then licks my earlobe. “Look at me.”

I open my eyes and meet his in the mirror, which is starting to fog from the steam of the shower. There is an undeniable desire in him, but also a resolve.

“I want you more than I’ve wanted anything in my entire life,” he whispers, and my knees go weak. He tightens his grip on me to keep me upright. “But I’m not going to have the first time I make love to you in four months be a hate fuck. I love you, Katie.” This time, my name on his lips sounds like a plea. It’s pulsing with heat and want. “I haven’t done a good job of showing that. I want to talk this out.”

“I don’t want to talk,” I say, breathless.