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I want to blame his power over me on my abstinence. On the fact that while he was burning me out of his system with many a willing woman, I spent seven years with nothing more than a peck on the cheek, an awkward kiss to the lips...mine and Liam’s one attempt at consummating our marriage, icky at best, and halting before we got anywhere close.
But is it really to blame?
The fire’s crackling in the grate as we enter, its glow the only light in the cosy room and making it feel even smaller. I immediately head to the lamps dotted around, knowing that Marie favours their soft lighting to the brightness of the overhead one, and start switching them on, keeping myself busy.
My ears are attuned to Cain, though. I can hear him tending to the fire, adding logs, stoking it, but I avoid looking at him. If I’m lucky Marie will return before I have to.
I walk to the glass doors that open up onto Marie’s courtyard garden and watch as the various solar lights flutter in the wind. Their glow lends a magical, fairy-like feel to the pretty pots, the garden wall and the climbers she’s planted. I try to empty my mind, focus on the soothing scene—until a sudden stillness in the room draws me back.
The spit and roar of the fire is the only sound I can make out, and as I turn I see Cain is standing rigid before it. He has something in his hand. Something...
Oh, God...
I feel my skin pale, the cold sweat returning. I’ve forgotten about the photo. Or at least I haven’t had the foresight to recall it. It’s just a feature of the room, blending in with the many other ornaments, pictures and paintings.
Why hasn’t Marie put it away?
And why should she? my conscience berates. It was our wedding, for Christ’s sake—of course she would keep it on display. It’s also one of the nicest photos of the four of us—Liam and me, Marie and Robert—taken on the steps of the registry office by a passer-by. We’re smiling, happy—though I know the truth is more skewed than that. Each one of us is missing the man who now holds the picture as if it’s an instrument of torture.
I look away before he can see me watching, waiting for him to speak and dreading what he’ll say all the same.
I hear the gentle knock of the wooden frame as he places it back on the mantelpiece, hear him take a ragged breath against the crackle of the fire at his feet.
‘Taking the let’s-be-civil act a bit far, don’t you think?’
My eyes flick to his. He’s facing me now, his hands deep in his pockets, his expression hard. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it isn’t that.
‘How do you mean?’ I’m hesitant—confused, even—and I wrap my arms around my middle.
‘“It sounds great.”’
It’s practically a sneer, and I know he’s referring to my comment regarding his Youth Centre.
‘It does. I’m impressed.’
He looks away and shakes his head on a short laugh.
‘What?’ I ask.
His eyes come back to me, but he says nothing. There’s no hint of that easy connection now. We’re back to how we were when we parted four days ago.
The silence stretches an
d I’m so aware of everything about him. I can feel his anger, his hurt... And, hell, guilt is what I feel. Guilt for the photo. Guilt at what I did. Guilt!
It’s unbelievable. Why should I feel guilty when everything that happened was down to him? It was his blasted fault.
But even as I think it I know the truth is more complicated, that there were things I could have done differently seven years ago—things I shouldn’t have said, things I could have said and didn’t.
But he was the one who left, not me.
‘Why don’t you say what’s really on your mind?’ I ask.
He says nothing and I lose it, striding across the room towards him. He’s no innocent in this and I’m going to make him answer.
‘This is what you’re thinking about!’ I snatch the photo from the mantelpiece and thrust it out, making him look at it. ‘This is what you’re angry about. Not the fact that I dared compliment you on your youth initiative.’
His jaw pulses. He’s so close now. Not even a foot between us. And as I drag in a breath his scent invades my senses...my head swims with it. The heat spreading through my body, nothing to do with the fire beside us and everything to do with my anger and the persistent need, the lust I just can’t shake.
