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With each footstep, my hands tremble harder and grow warmer with sweat. I sit on my hands to abate the shaking.
He walks in the dining room, his face pinched in confusion.
“Why are you in he—” he pauses when he sees my crime in front of me. And the murder weapons are nestled nicely under my ass cheeks.
His face blanks, straightening into a perfectly calm mask. The scariest one of all.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice devoid of emotion.
I blow out a shaky breath. “I was washing it and it slipped from my hands,” I explain quietly. A wobbly, uneven smile skitters across my face. “It adds character, don’t ya’ think?”
He stares at the mug. My heart drops when a smile spreads across his face. I don’t know what that smile means.
“You went through the trouble of gluing it back together again?” he asks, his darkened eyes lifting to meet mine. A tremble rocks through my body.
“Yes.”
“How long did it take you?” he asks.
Why, is that how long you’ll torture me for, sweet Ryan?
I shrug a shoulder. “A couple hours.”
He walks over to me and leans over slowly. I feel his lips press against the top of my head. I hadn’t realized my shoulders were to my ears until I force them to drop. I’d rather not show how nervous I am. Men like Ryan feed off fear like sharks in a tank full of blood.
His hands slide up my back and to my shoulders. He starts to massage them and a groan releases from my throat before I can stop it.
“Hey,” he whispers soothingly. “It’s okay. Accidents happen. I think it’s cute that you put in the effort to fix it.” He ends the sentence with a short laugh and drags his fingers over the jagged edges.
“Honestly, it makes me so happy you went through the trouble. I didn’t think I could love you more.”
I want to cry. Here I was, building myself up for a beating, so sure he’d hit me. Instead, I was just being dramatic. If he’s not mad over his favorite mug being broken, then I hadn’t been giving him enough credit.
Deep down, I believe Ryan does love me. Love is something otherworldly. Something entirely potent and powerful that it makes you do crazy things. Like hit them. And stay when you’re hit. It’s an emotion that no one person will ever be able to define. There’s no saying how love should be. One person thinks loving someone means accepting their flaws while another might think loving someone means trying to help them change for the better. Who’s to say who’s right?
All the problems we’ve had has been partially my fault. He’s not the only one to blame. Clearly, looking at the eyesore of a mug in front of me proves that.
“I felt so bad,” I say, nestling my head into his stomach. His spine straightens as he lifts his hands from my shoulders to my head, gripping me tightly into his body.
“You should,” he whispers. My throat dries. “But you tried to fix it. That’s what matters.”
A tear slips from my eye. I nod my head and squeeze my eyes shut so no more mistakes slip through. I don’t want him to see me so weak.
“Is dinner made?” he asks.
My eyes snap open, widening into discs. Oh my god. I spent so much time trying to fix the goddamn mug, I forgot about dinner. He always comes home to dinner. He looks forward to it every night after working at the firm all day.
I clear my throat. “I figured we could do pizza tonight since I got sidetracked.”
Ryan’s hand tightens in my hair, tighter and tighter until strands begin to break away. Stabbing little pinpricks bloom throughout my scalp. I bite my lip to hold in the whimper.
Just as suddenly, he releases me, leaving my head spinning and my stomach in knots. “Sounds good, baby. Let me know when it’s here.”
He walks away without another look back, his body moving languidly out of the kitchen as if he’s going on a midnight stroll on the beach.
Another tear slips through. I wipe it away quickly and pick up my phone.
I’m ordering fucking cinnamon sticks now, too.
