Page 3 of Everlasting Vows

Will we even be living here by then? Will Abbi want to sell this house?

I rub the side of my neck, push all of my questions aside, and smile at our daughter. “Of course. I’ll make sure it’s perfect in time for your big day.”

Prue beams at us. “Thanks, Dad. I hope Luke and I are as happy as you guys are when we’ve been together as long as you have.” She hugs me, then Abbi. “You guys are couple goals.”

Abbi grimaces but covers it quickly. “So, when are you planning to have the wedding?”

“We’re going to wait until Murphy’s home. I want my brother here, and Luke wants his best friend to stand up for him.”

Shit! That gives me six months to get everything in order. I glance out at the yard again and scan the area, imagining all the things we discussed we’d do with the space over the years. I need to slow down at work so I can get everything done and spend more time with my wife.

My eyes find Abbi, as they always do.

2

ABBI

What have I done?

My legs shake like a newborn foal’s as I climb into my car. I can’t believe I asked for a divorce and handed him the papers—not that he acknowledged them. I’ve thought the words in my head over and over for months, if not longer, but I never imagined I’d actually take that step and tell him what I wanted, what I needed. But when he couldn’t even look up from his phone to say good morning, something inside me broke. I couldn’t stop the words from escaping, even if I’d tried. By the look on Nix’s face, I caught us both off-guard.

I take a gasping breath and reach out to pull the door closed, but something blocks it. When I search to find the issue, Nix’s handsome face peers down at me as he leans on the roof of my car.

My heart stutters at the pain clouding his eyes and the tension tightening his sharp jaw. I put that there. I hate that I’ve hurt him. My first instinct is to soothe him, to take my words back, especially with Prudence’s upcoming nuptials, but I can’t. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told him I didn’t think there’d be anything left of me if I stayed.

“Abigail.” One word. So much pain. So much meaning. So much history.

“I’m going to be late for work. Please let me go.”

He crouches low, his eyes now at the same level as mine. “I’ll never let you go. You’re my wife. You’re the reason my heart beats. You can’t ask me to let you go. I won’t do it. I won’t survive,” he grinds out through gritted teeth, as if his words cost him dearly. His voice is full of gravel and hurt, reaching deep inside and resurrecting the guilt I’m trying to push away.

God. Where were these words before?

I want to trust that he means what he says, but I don’t. There have been too many times when he hasn’t given me the attention I deserve. When he made me feel invisible. When he’s made me feel like a housemate rather than his wife. The mental reminder helps me drop my shields into place and shore up my defenses.

He drops his forehead to mine. “Abbi, please.”

“I can’t right now, Nix.” Frustration swiftly curls through my body, drawing my muscles tight. “I need to leave. There’s a shareholder meeting this morning I need to prepare for. I can’t be late,” I snap.

His shoulders tighten, and when he pulls away, his eyes are narrowed. “You can’t drop a bomb like that on me”—he waves his arm out toward the kitchen—“and then not talk about it.”

I laugh humorlessly, fury bubbling up from my gut. “That’s rich coming from you—you rarely communicate, and you’re never home to discuss anything. Close my door. I need to get to work,” I snap, then raise my brows, waiting for him to comply as I drag my seatbelt across my body and click it into place.

“You’re my wife!” he spits at me. “You made a vow to always be my wife, through sickness and good health, good times and bad!”

“Wife?” He uses the word as if it gives him the right to take me for granted. “I can’t remember the last time I felt like your wife.” His eyes narrow at me. “You treat me like a live-in housekeeper, or … or a roommate at best. I wouldn’t use the term wife to describe what I am to you.”

He has the decency to appear apologetic. “Abbi …”

I peel my eyes away from him, worried I’ll crumble if I keep looking at the hurt in his eyes. “Prudence won’t be home tonight. We can talk then if you can be bothered to come home at a reasonable hour.”

He swallows and nods sharply. “Okay,” he mumbles roughly, then kisses my forehead. His lips linger for a long moment, and my eyes drop closed, soaking up the simple affection that used to be commonplace for us, but rarely happens anymore. Maybe if it did, we wouldn’t be on such shaky ground. “I’ll be here, Abbi.”

My door closes with a snick, and Nix steps back, digging his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, pulling the denim tight across his thighs. Why does he still have to make my stomach flutter? This would be so much easier if I didn’t love him or find him attractive anymore. If I didn’t respect him for the man he is.

The sorrow on his face and the slump of his shoulders gut me. He always stands so proud and sure, but looking at him, uncertainty makes him look like a different man. Not my Nix.

What have I done?