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Every moment was agony. He ached for Epíneio. Not just the home, the beach and the breeze, but for how things had been there—so easy and free. He ached to make her laugh, to make her cry with pleasure, to hold her so close he could feel her breath through the walls of his chest. He ached for her.
And yet he kept his distance, because his own needs paled in comparison to hers. He wouldn’t hurt her again. Knowing the pain he’d inflicted all those years ago cut him to the core. He’d been such a bastard to her. He couldn’t think of it without a deep, mortifying sense of shame. He’d been angry with himself, but he’d lashed out at her. He’d punished her because he’d wanted her so badly. He’d pushed her away, knowing he’d betrayed Stavros and needed her to go, to understand the finality of what he was saying, but he’d destroyed her in the process, and he’d never forgive himself for that. It was remarkable that she had.
As the weekend came around, he thought of their original deal, and the fact she’d agreed Friday through Sunday would be different. He thought about clinging to that lifeline and reimposing those terms, but almost as soon as the idea formed, he dismissed it.
A clean break was better.
If they wanted to salvage their marriage—a marriage that was just a friendship, really—he had to resist temptation. He had to resist Tessa, even when every part of him was yearning for her.
It was the longest month of Tessa’s life. Every day she counted off, wondering at what point this would start to get better? She’d always believed in the power of time to heal all wounds, but each day that went by crackled like radio static and, if anything, the pain she felt grew deeper. A week after she’d told Alex she loved him, Tessa had thrown herself into her art. Ten-hour days had stretched to twelve, and then to sixteen. Some nights, she slept on the sofa at the studio rather than go home. She focused all her energy on a large-scale scene, working tirelessly to perfect the details, losing herself in the colours and design.
It helped—barely, but a little. There were even some moments of the day when she was able to put Alex from her mind, but never for long, and the more time she spent estranged from him, the more she craved him. His painting hung across from her, and her eyes flicked to it often, as a talisman, a reminder of what she needed to recover from.
Being home was worse. There, she could feel him. Smell him. See him. It always caught her by surprise, when she’d walk into the kitchen and find him making a coffee, or go to dive into the pool and realise he was already there. For the most part, she would simply turn on her heel and leave the room again, pretending she hadn’t realised he was there.
It wasn’t because she didn’t know what to say to him, but rather that she was scared of pleading her case once more. Of telling him that they could go back to the way they’d been—that she’d never again burden him with her love.
There were many things that led up to it, but in the end it was one thing in particular that made Alex snap. There was the fact that Theresa, always slim and athletic in build, was now far too slender. Her clothes had grown loose and her eyes haunted. Had she realised? Was this on purpose? He knew it wasn’t. She simply wasn’t eating regularly enough.
She was also working too much. Several nights a week she slept at the studio, though not well, if the bags under her eyes were anything to go by. His own sleep patterns were nothing to boast about. When she didn’t come back to their home, he found it hard to sleep—one ear was always trained on the door, listening for her. And when she did come home it was worse, because he lay in bed perfectly aware that they were separated by only a single wall. If he strained, he could hear her when she turned over in her bed, and so he spent a ridiculous amount of time lying there, listening for her movements, and wishing he could reach out and hold her tight.
At least her ex-husband had got the memo and ceased his campaign of misinformation and slander. The lawyers had written a conciliatory response accepting the warning and Alex had reiterated his threats to sue Jonathan to blazes if another word was said about Theresa. At the time, he’d thought the damage Jonathan was doing to her was the devil and he’d done whatever he could to ease her pain. He hadn’t realised that he would become a far worse instrument of heartache to his wife.
Guilt stormed through him, and something else too: dread.
He had thought this marriage would be the perfect mix—the exact opposite of what his parents had shared. He had entered into it with a cool head, and yet it had all gone downhill so quickly. Was there any hope they could turn things around? He felt as though they were living in their own war zone, and yet they weren’t fighting. They were...nothing. The void of their relationship was almost impossible to accept.
Alex ran a silver fountain pen through his fingers as he contemplated that, his expression grim. A moment later his phone began to ring—it was Tessa.
‘Theresa?’
‘Um, is this Alex?’ An American voice reached his ears, and a trickle of dread ran down his spine.
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘My name’s Beth. I work at the studio, with Tess.’ His eyes swept shut as instinctively he felt something change in the air around him.
‘Yes?’ The word was clipped.
‘She passed out. She didn’t want me to call you, she says she’s fine now, but she’s pale and I thought—’
He gripped the phone tighter, standing. ‘I’ll be there immediately. I’m calling a doctor—she might get there before me.’
‘She seems okay now,’ Beth murmured, clearly not expecting this whirlwind response. ‘I don’t know if she needs—’
‘I want a doctor to see her to be sure. I’ll be there soon.’
He was already in the lift, and as soon as the doors pinged open on the ground floor he began to run to his car. Suddenly, the idea of there being any distance between them was like eating fire. He couldn’t stand it. He needed to be with her, and to hell with overthinking that. To hell with everything.
