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“Lucas,” I plea, praying for him to slow down so I can savor these precious minutes, have some semblance of connection, but he’s stripped away all the intimacy. He’s not here. Nikki is, and Nikki could give a shit about Mila Walker. He’s fully immersed, and he’s not coming back until it’s over. He jackhammers inside me savagely until he spills with a muffled groan. It only takes him seconds to gather himself and tuck his cock back into his pants. I rise, still hungry, unsated as he adjusts himself. He doesn’t help me dress, he simply grabs his script off the counter and looks back at me, unaffected as I pull my skirt down. Ignoring my stare, he reads on as if nothing ever happened. Furious, I stomp toward the door when he says behind me, “Come by anytime.”
Sobbing on the way home, I try to get a grip on what I’m feeling. What the hell did I expect? The man that just fucked me wasn’t my husband. He hadn’t hurt me, in fact, I hated that I didn’t hate it, but the lack of connection is ripping me apart. After a hot shower at home, I sink into my lounge chair with a glass of wine, praying that he’ll come home tonight, not to talk but just to sleep in our bed. An action of remorse is better than none at all. I miss him so much. We’re growing further and further apart, and he’s allowing it. That part of it I’m afraid I won’t be able to forgive him for.
“Stop it,” I say over and over. “Stop it. You are his life, and he is yours,” I repeat, batting my tears away. Every decision Lucas has ever made when it came to us has been calculated, not in manipulation but in love. It had always been that way. But I see no logic in this, no plan. He always thought through his actions, always. He’d meant that episode in that trailer to be a warning. He wasn’t there, and no amount of fight on my part was going to bring him out. I had to see this through if I wanted him back. The problem was it was getting harder and harder to want him at all.
Mila
The following night, I’m unloading my groceries while I mentally prepare myself for my mother’s arrival and uncork some red. I need that calm before she comes in with her version of the inquisition. It had been too long since we’d had dinner together, mostly due to avoidance on Lucas’s part. It was only fair. She’d terrorized him the first time I brought him home which had instigated the most spectacular fight in our relationship.
After draining myself on the floor in front of my door. I vow to myself that I will never date men again. My dismantled heart agrees it’s reasonable. Furious, I draw myself from the hardwood in a rage storming through the cottage happy to again exchange pain for renewed anger. I go to his drawer and gather his shit before taking his shaving cream and gel from the medicine cabinet. Still hiccupping, I open my front door and hurl it out only to hear an “oomph.” Looking into the dark porch, I see Lucas with his hands held up in surrender rising to his feet from the ground.
Anger pours from my every limb as I flip on the light. “Leave,” I say, swallowing more tears. “Leave.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. And I’ve never, ever thought of you the way you see yourself. Trust me, you are the only one who has shed light on what a dumbass you are.”
“You’re right, it’s my issue.”
“Glad that’s settled,” I point at his truck behind him, “leave.”
“Mila, I can’t. I was driving for mere minutes before I realized what a fucking idiot I truly am. I just…I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough, Hollywood. You don’t get to play ping-pong with my heart. No one does.”
His lips curl up as if he’s fighting a smile, and eventually, it wins.
“You’re seriously smiling at me right now?” I’m seconds away from ripping him to shreds.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re mad, really mad.” Something in my eyes must have shifted to crazy town because his smile drops. “Which isn’t funny.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” he says softly, his smile making a maddening appearance. “You love me. I felt it in every tear that dropped from your beautiful face. You don’t want to let go any more than I do. I’m sorry.”
“Not good enough.” I turn to shut the door, and he catches it. “That’s not all my stuff.”
“How do you know, you haven’t even looked at all I’ve tossed.”
“Well, I have more.”
“Fine,” I say, letting go of the handle and taking a step back. “Then see to it, Romeo, and get the hell out!”
He opens the door further and leans down to whisper to me, “You don’t mean that.”
“Just get your stuff and go.” He heads toward my kitchen, and I’m hot on his heels.
“You don’t have anything in there.”
“Actually, I do,” he says, walking over to my coffee canister and lifting the lid.
“Seriously? You’re going to take the coffee?”
“No, this,” he says, pulling a box from the container and shoving it into his pocket. Jaw slack, I stand in the middle of the kitchen as more tears fall. He watches me for several seconds before brushing past me and grabbing my hand. “Come on.”
“What?”
“I want to show you something.”
