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“I’m sorry,” he whispers, kissing my neck, my temple, my hair. “Please forgive me. I overreacted. I just…I wanted to kill that fucker for laying a finger on you. And I would have…I surrender everything I am to you. I love you.”
I stay nestled in his lap when the police arrive, providing them with the details of everything that happened. They commend Saxon on his heroic actions, and when asked if I wanted to press charges, I said hell yes.
I’m way too exhausted to drive, and Saxon is way too drunk, so we catch a cab. On the ride home, I never let go of Saxon, nor does he of me. I have no idea what tomorrow holds, but I can only hope we’ll face it together.
Istep from the shower, feeling like a ninety-year-old woman. My body hates me. When we returned home from Sawbuck Saloon, we both fell into bed, clutching one another with no intent of ever letting go.
I fell into a deep slumber, too exhausted to do anything but sleep. I’m thankful Saxon was still sound asleep when I rose. The deep furrow lines revealed troublesome dreams, but some sleep was better than none, so I left him be.
I spent endless minutes under the shower, piecing together the events of last night. I could blame the alcohol, but that would be a lie. Drunk or not, Saxon expressed exactly how he felt.
I will fight for him, for us, but I can’t live through a repeat of last night ever again. I can only hope with everything out in the open, we can move on from here.
Wiping down the misted over mirror, I peer at my weary appearance. I don’t even recognize this person anymore. The fire has faded from my eyes. Selling this house can’t come soon enough.
Before I left like a raving lunatic, Sam and I somehow were able to find common ground. It’ll never be like what it once was, but I don’t want it to be. As long as we can co-exist, then I’m happy. As I reach for the moisturizer, something purple catches my attention.
At first, I think my eyes are playing tricks, but when I lean in, I gasp and quickly pull back. Extending my arm, I look down and see bruises in the shape of finger marks marring my bicep. I turn to the right and see I have a matching set.
“Crap,” I curse to myself, attempting to rub over the evidence, hoping it’ll wash away. It doesn’t. It only seems to highlight the fact Saxon left accidental finger marks on my arms after he grabbed me last night. I know he didn’t mean to, but regardless, if he sees these, it’ll only add to the sudden shitstorm we’ve found ourselves in.
My makeup is in the bedroom and so are my clothes, so wrapping the towel tightly around me, I tiptoe down the hallway, hoping by some miracle, Saxon will still be asleep. I open the door, screwing up my face when the flooring creaks under my weight.
Peering around the doorjamb, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see Saxon still lost in a deep slumber. Now the hard part. I creep through the room, deciding a t-shirt should do the trick. I have one with longer sleeves so decide to put that on.
Flicking my gaze from the dresser to the bed, I continue skulking, not even game to take a full breath. When I’m feet away, I reach for the drawer and place my hand against the woodgrain, hoping to mask the noise of it opening.
I inch it ajar, as I only need to reach my fingers inside to pull the shirt out. When I pass over the soft cotton, I exhale, but it’s all premature because the rustle of sheets reveals my ruse is up. “Hey.”
His sleep-laden voice is husky and raw, but that’s no surprise, considering his actions last night. “Hey,” I reply, drawing out the pause.
I’m frozen to the spot like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. I could just pull out the shirt, but if I slip it on with my back turned, it’ll be just as bad. Alas, I do nothing.
“Are you angry with me?” His uncertainty pains me. God, how did we get to this?
“No, Saxon, of course not.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?” Nothing slips past him.
I can either make matters worse by never facing him again, or I can turn and hope everything will be all right. I decide on the latter. Spinning slowly, I tighten the towel around me. It gives me a false sense of security.
We lock gazes, and I immediately feel like he can read what’s going through my mind. Biting my lip, I look away, unable to lie. My retreat has him springing from the bed, his heavy footsteps pounding against the wooden floor.
“I am so sorry, Lucy. Last night, my behavior was…” He breaks midsentence. “What the fuck?” I don’t have time to move from the firing line because he gently rubs his thumb over my upper arm. His touch so different from last night. “Who did this?” When I remain silent, almost certain I’ve gnawed my lip clean off, he hisses. “Idid this?”
“You didn’t mean to,” I reply softly, but he inhales through his teeth, taking a step back.
“Don’t make excuses for me. I laid my fucking hands on you and did that!” He points a finger at the evidence, clearly sickened. “And I also pushed you. Didn’t I?” It seems some things may be a little murky, but through the haze, he knows things weren’t pretty.
“Yes.” Static fills the room, and I have the urge to cover my ears.
All I can do is watch as Saxon runs both hands through his hair, stumbling backward, and slouching onto the edge of the bed. “I’m a monster,” he pronounces, shaking his head back and forth.
His claim is exactly what Sam said him to be, but he’s wrong, and I refuse to allow him to think otherwise. “No, you’re not.” I rush to where he’s slumped, sitting next to him. “Look at me.” When he refuses, I grip both cheeks and force him to. “Stop it. Last night was a fucking mess, but this—” I thrust my arm in his view, but he turns his cheek, pained “—this was an accident,” I press. “You didn’t do this deliberately. Same goes for when you pushed me.”
“Says the girlfriend with battered wife syndrome.” He yanks his face from my hold, his guilt almost suffocating us both. He rises and begins to pace like a caged tiger. I watch, wishing I’d stayed in bed. “Sorry doesn’t even seem to cut it anymore.”
“Then don’t say it,” I counter firmly. “I’m sick of hearing sorry.”
