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I hate how my stomach flutters at those words. How much joy washes over me at the knowledge he’s been out there delivering karma to everyone who’s wronged me. The logical part of my brain, the therapist part, acknowledges how problematic this admission is. “Can you be more specific?”
“Uh, well, let’s see…” he trails off, drumming his fingers on his chest. “The guy in your master’s program who became your study partner, you considered him one of your closest friends and then he tried to kiss you after that exam, remember him?
“I followed him into the parking garage that night and tripped him as he was going up the stairs. He had a pen sticking out of his messenger bag that punctured his scrotum, so no offspring for him.” The side of his mouth curls up into a half-smirk, making him look devious but also devastatingly handsome in the dim light of the bedroom. “Oh, then there was that woman who you were competing with to get the fellowship at the children’s hospital.”
“Right, Lana Schofield.” I don’t think it’s possible for me to forget that asshole.
“After she lied to the program director and said you had a drinking problem, I went with her to the hair salon and switched out the color she wanted for black, which added chunky black highlights to her strawberry blonde hair. It looked hideous.”
An unhinged cackle rips out of me as I picture her blemish-free face scrunched in horror the second her stylist turned her chair to face the mirror. The strips of black would have washed out her skin and made her look like an aspiring goth who choked halfway through the glow up.
At my obvious enjoyment, Arthur shares more stories. “The guy at the gas station six years ago who sexually harassed you while you were pumping gas? Yeah, I gave him a flat tire and a severe case of vertigo. He couldn’t drive to work for a month. Lost his job. Struggled to find a new one. And, oh, remember the patient who tried to get you to agree that white people are the superior race and wrote that horrible review when you refused? I stole her wedding ring and buried it in the parking lot of the local Mexican restaurant.”
He shares dozens of stories like this, and I’m ashamed to admit I’m having a blast listening to every single one. To know their shitty behavior did not go unchecked is a welcome, soothing change to the reality of daily life.
“Oh, and then Josh, earlier tonight.”
“Wait,” I say, my throat tightening. “What? You did something to Josh?”
Remorse flashes across his face but is quickly replaced with pride. He pulls himself from a relaxed slouch against the pillows to pressing his back against the headboard, sitting up straight. “I did. Frankly, it was overdue.”
He must sense the tension in my body because he quickly adds, “Nothing that caused permanent damage. I tripped him, shoved him into a puddle, and I may have split his pants.”
“Oh.” I blow out a relieved breath. “That’s not too bad.”
“I also may have torn his rotator cuff.” At my gasp, he throws up his hands. “To be fair, I could’ve done so much worse, and he would’ve deserved every second of it.” He holds my gaze. “You know I’m right.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, conflicted. Yes, Josh has become a royal pain in my ass, and he’s treated me more and more like shit over the years, but we had a lot of good times. He was my husband, after all. Our lives have been intertwined for twenty years. But apparently, so have mine and Arthur’s.
“I stood by and watched him speak to you like a child, act like he’s smarter than you, that he could do better than you. Do you understand how difficult that was? I told myself not to intervene as long as you were happy and he wasn’t hurting you. But I saw it. I knew. I saw the light in your eyes dim when he gaslit you. He may not have been physically abusive, but he was the biggest source of pain in your life, Fiona.”
It hits me hard. The reality of what I endured with Josh. The way I adapted so easily to the drastic swing of his moods. As a therapist, what the fuck was I thinking? Why didn’t I leave sooner? Although, again, as a therapist, I need to acknowledge that women are conditioned to shrink in order to make others comfortable. Josh took my conditioning and used it against me.
“Why didn’t you intervene?” I ask Arthur, trying to blink back the tears filling my eyes. “You’re my protector. Where were you?”
He cups my face in his hands and presses his forehead against mine. “I wanted to. Believe me. Whenever you had a therapy session of your own, whenever a friend asked how things were with Josh, I was silently begging you to tell the truth. But protectors are not permitted to meddle in human relationships. I had no choice but to wait until you saw him for who he is.” He kisses my nose then brushes the tip of his with mine. “I’m so sorry, princess.”
He folds me into his arms and pulls the comforter over our bodies. His hard chest doesn’t make for a cozy pillow, but eventually we end up on our sides, facing each other with our fingers laced together. He runs his claws down my spine in a light caress that feels like it’s part scratch, part tickle, and the combination sends me into a deep sleep within minutes.
Chapter 7
Arthur
Fiona sleeps like the dead, which is likely the reason she’s yet to notice the dead hovering around us. I sleep for fun. It’s not a biological necessity for me, so when I do, it’s not deep enough to block out the sounds of restless spirits floating through the halls, dropping a dish in the kitchen downstairs, or the unhappy couple at the foot of the bed whispering about us.
“Something I can help you with?” I ask them in a whisper. “My lady is trying to sleep.”
The woman, early thirties and styled in a flowing polyester shirt, denim bellbottoms, and a fur vest that seems out of place, shakes her head. “Oh no, darlin’. We don’t need anything at all. Just admiring the view.”
I tug the blanket over Fiona’s bare shoulders so her breasts are no longer exposed. “She is not for your eyes,” I say, shooing them toward the door with my hand. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Awful pretty, that one,” the man says. His blond hair is shaggy, and his matching mustache needed a trim about an inch ago. I’m guessing they’re hippies. Also perverts. “Could we maybe have a turn with her? My girl here has a real thing for busty brunettes.”
I think about it. Would Fiona be interested? Would she be annoyed if I declined on her behalf? Now that Josh is out of her life, I certainly don’t want to hinder her sexual exploration, even if the image of her with another person fills me with jealous rage. I decide to leave the door open, but only a crack. “I’ll ask her when she wakes up. If we don’t request your presence in here tomorrow night, assume it was a no.”
They both nod, pleased with the resolution.
She lets out a sweet, sleepy sound when I press my lips to her cheek, and my chest squeezes at the sight of her in my arms, naked and at peace. A thought pushes its way to the front of my mind. No, a need. I need Fiona to be mine and mine alone.
