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“Love is like an illness, you know,” he says, whispering into my ear as he embraces me. “But it's one we never want to be cured of, right?”
I get to the car and help Amber in. We sit silently as we had before, streetlights flashing by, the sadness between us thick and bursting with sorrow.
When we get home, I offer to run her a bath and make her some tea. She shakes her head back and forth dramatically, then says she just wants to sleep. When I offer to lay with her, she says she needs to be alone.
“Okay Amber,” I say softly. “But you have to tell me what is going on, or I can’t help you.”
She says nothing in response to this. I leave her in the bedroom and retreat to the guest room where I undress, take a shower, and then sit on the terrace.
I am being torn apart inside, and she is, too. But I cannot help her. She won’t let me in long enough.
37
AMBER
Kaden has left me alone for the past two days after the garden party. He had tried, desperately, to get me to talk to him the day after. He started off by giving me space for my thoughts, then inquiring at dinner. All I could do was shake my head, telling him that I wasn’t ready, and that there wasn’t anything he could do.
I should have said nothing, or hell, even lied. But if I had lied, I would only be prolonging the rejection and abandonment. My body is a vessel, growing something inside of me that represents both of us together but is likely only going to tear us apart.
Plus, there is the concern of the ex-girlfriend. I saw the way she was clinging to him, the way Rust was looking at the both of them as a preferred union. If she has the great connections Melanie said, she would likely be a better fit for Kaden, anyway.
It makes me think about the photo of him with that woman when he was away. Had he been lying about being faithful? And after all, what does it matter, anyway, since this fake marriage is the only thing keeping us together?
My mind is a tangle of thoughts, each one contrasting one another, egging each other on. I cannot seem to open my mouth and tell him about the pregnancy. Will he blame me? Will he think it was some ploy to capture him in a real marriage?
I used to think I knew who he was; loyal, proper, intelligent, nurturing. Now, as I sit on the couch of our living room curled into a ball, I am simply not sure.
Kaden has taken to smoking both yesterday and today, almost every hour on the hour. He offers me food, to take me out to dinner, to watch movies, to go for a walk. I deny them all, saying I want to be left alone.
And he has left me alone. Alone to weep, to ruminate, to put off the inevitable.
I spend my nights in the living room watching mindless television. Kaden has been in his office, where there is a balcony he can smoke off of. We go to bed on separate sides only saying goodnight to one another.
I can see anger in him growing day by day. The polite, skinny young man I’d met all those years ago is gone, replaced by someone who is desperate and frustrated.
I sit here in the fetal position flipping between channels, not connecting to anything at all. I cannot blame him for how he feels. I haven’t given him even a hint of what is going on with me. And we go on, in this gloom, in this silence.
As I flip through the channels, I hear him stomp down the stairs. I turn to see him standing there, whiskey in hand, the bright blue eyes dimmed from sadness. Red veins run through them with slight intoxication.
We lock eyes for the first time in days. I swallow, wanting to talk, but having no idea where to begin.
“Amber, I’m only going to ask you this, one more time.” He speaks softly, delicately, picking each word carefully. “What is going on with you? It is so damn obvious. You are feeding me little bits of information that are only making me worry. Please, please, tell me.”
I turn away from him and begin to cry. We just keep moving in circles, arriving nowhere ever at all.
I feel him sit on the couch next to me, keeping his distance. His voice is still gentle, but I know beneath it is a bubbling frustration with me.
“Amber, youhaveto talk to me. We can’t go on like this. You are unhappy, I am unhappy. It’s all so pointless.”
I think about the words that should come out of my mouth, and I play the scene in my mind like a play. I tell him I am pregnant, and he is outraged. He accuses me of not being careful, of honeypotting him, and breaks off the marriage early. I get nothing in return but a rancid and ruined reputation.
I turn to him, and my mouth hangs open. He is breathing heavily, eyes glimmering with faint hope even for a second. I want to believe that the result of my confession will be the opposite. I want to imagine he will hold me in his arms and tell me that we will figure this out together, as one big family.
But I cannot stop seeing him with that woman. I cannot stop thinking about the deal we had made. Having a baby together was never part of the deal.
So the words I give him are the ones that I know he hates. The empty ones, the ones that mean nothing.
“Kaden,” I say, beginning to weep once more. “I…I don’t feel ready to talk about it.”
