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She draws back a little, as if I've surprised her.
I haven't been a good husband, but I have listened to everything she told me.
"Yes," she says, "but that's not the main reason."
"Why, then?"
"Because you have potential."
I give a slight shake of my head. "Potential for what?"
"To break free of your past and become the best version of yourself. That's what I'm trying to do, to reclaim who I used to be, and that's what you want to do too."
I grunt. "You may be disappointed with my potential."
"Stop telling me you suck." She takes a single step closer, never breaking eye contact. "I see you, Rory. Not just the parts you show everyone, but the pieces you try to hide. I see you."
She sees me? I can't decide what that means, but a strange tingle sweeps over my skin. I nail my gaze to hers, struggling to see something in them that will explain why she insists on believing in me no matter how often I hurt her. "Perhaps what you see is what you want, not what I am."
I turn away and begin my slog up the stairs to my office.
But she calls out to me from the stairwell. "That's crap."
Though I hesitate for a second, and my pulse speeds up, I force myself to start walking again.
For the rest of the day, I keep hearing her words in my mind. I see you, Rory. Not just the parts you show everyone, but the pieces you try to hide. I see you.
*****
Emery and I have dinner together in the dining room, and something odd happens. I enjoy myself. We tease each other and tell jokes that make us both laugh, then I share stories about my family. She loves the one about teenage Lachlan showing his dokey to a silly lass, and Emery figures out "dokey" means penis without me telling her. Aye, she is clever. Though I have no idea why I'm doing any of this, I like seeing her smile with that light glowing inside her the way it should. I don't want to become the shadow that engulfs her. Perhaps I have been too rigid, refusing to eat with her and refusing to give her my time. I do need to work, but I can spare a few minutes now and then to make her happy.
We'll be living together for a year. Ensuring we get on reasonably well seems prudent.
After dinner, we go to our separate bedrooms.
I stare at my bed, the one that's large enough for three or four full-grown men. Not that I care to invite several lads to sleep with me. But suddenly, the bed—the entire room, in fact—seems empty. I strip off my clothes and change into the pajama bottoms I always sleep in, then I stand here staring at the bed again. The empty one. I have, quite literally, made my own bed and have to lie in it alone every night.
Well, Mrs. Darroch makes my bed every morning. But still—
Stop whingeing in yer head, ye damn eejit.
I picture Emery lying in this bed, her sensual body stretched out across its length. She's nude, of course, in my mental picture. Nude and aroused and—
Mhac na galla. I stalk out into the hallway, then freeze halfway between my room and Emery's. What am I doing? Going to my wife's bedroom so I can fuck her and walk away? Though I've been doing that for a while now, I don't want that tonight. I want—I need something else.
To make amends for the way I've treated her.
I march to her door and throw it open.
Emery yelps and spins toward the doorway, clutching an armload of clothes.
I stalk up to her, not unaware of the fact she's dressed in only her short satin dressing gown.
"What's up?" she asks, though her dilating pupils and the rising and falling of her chest belie her casual tone.
She wants me as much as I want her.
I lean over, lash my arms around her waist, and sling the lass around my shoulders with her bare feet hanging over my chest on one side and her head and arms dangling down the other side. Her midsection is crushed to the back of my neck and head while her tits brush against my ear. My arms strap her to my torso.
