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"And your response is to get drunk again."
I slap the glass down on the cabinet, making the liquid inside it slosh. My heart thrashes in my chest, like it needs to climb out and run away. "If you're expecting me to—"
"I'm not expecting anything from you. I'm telling you how I feel because we both promised each other complete honesty." She eyes the whisky glass. "That's a lie. I do expect one thing from you—not to get wasted."
The corners of my mouth slant downward, and I can't inhale a full breath. "I am not getting drunk. I'm having one drink."
"Because I told you I love you."
"Stop saying it." I nab my glass and down the rest of its contents in one gulp. "Repeating the words ad nauseam won't make me say what you want."
Her mouth tightens, though her lips quiver.
Didn't I tell her from the start what I could offer her? Now she wants to rewrite our entire relationship.
"Do what you want," Emery says, whirling toward the doorway. "I'm going to bed."
My wife shambles out of the sitting room.
And I return the whisky bottle to the drinks cabinet.
Ten minutes later, I'm lying in bed while I wait for my wife to come out of the bathroom. Once again, I need to make amends and try to be kind to her without giving Emery the wrong impression. The parameters of our marriage haven't changed. I should simply remind her of the rules and leave it at that.
But I can't do that either. Just thinking about it reawakens the pain in my chest.
I cannot love her. She needs to accept that.
Emery walks out of the bathroom wearing a black satin nightie trimmed in black lace. She keeps her head down, her gaze fixated on the floor as she shuffles up to the bed. Only then does she lift her head and notice me, nudging the bed with her knees as if she can't decide whether she wants to sleep with me tonight.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I've been an erse again."
She snorts. "An eejit and an erse, I'd say."
"Aye." I give the covers a hesitant pat. "Should I sleep in another room?"
"No."
I prop myself up with one elbow. "I'm sorry, Emery. I reacted badly, again, and hurt you—again. But I am not drunk. I never intended to get drunk, please believe that."
No, I hadn't planned on it. Would I have stopped drinking if she hadn't gotten upset? Yes, I would have. My behavior on our second wedding night taught me the folly of using alcohol to avoid my problems.
Emery rocks back on her heels, then forward again until her knees meet the mattress. "I believe you."
"Thank you," I say with a sigh. My eyebrows rise. "You're wearing a nightie. Didn't think you owned one."
"I have a few, but I don't sleep in them very much. Bought this one for—" She runs her palms over the fabric. "Doesn't matter."
"What did you buy it for? I'd like to know."
She stares at the mattress. "For our wedding night."
I wince.
My wife raises a hand before I can speak. "You already said you're sorry."
"Will you sleep with me, then?"
Rather than responding, she peels back the covers and crawls on her hands and knees until she's beside me, then she sits back on her heels.
