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Seven
Sabella
* * *
Long after my shower, I still lie on my back and stare at the ceiling while playing the last few hours over in my mind. So much happened since yesterday—catching lice, discovering a boy who slipped into the house, and now Angelo’s irrational talk about wanting a baby.
I don’t know why I didn’t tell him about the boy who helped himself to cereal and milk. Some deeper instinct prevented me. I didn’t want him to go after the child and punish or scare him. I’m not sure what to do about the situation. I want to help the boy without getting him into trouble. My heart softens anew when I recall what that poor child had chosen. Of all the things he could’ve taken, he’d settled on a box of honey-glazed rice puffs. It’s not the most nutritious breakfast in the world, but it’s such a typical choice for a child.
I toss and turn as troubled thoughts keep me awake. At the center of that turmoil is one man—my husband.
When Heidi locked me in the bedroom with an embarrassed apology, the animated sounds of the dinner party that reached me through the door kept me up. I lay on the bed, hearing every happy giggle and boisterous laugh. Through it all, I heard his voice—each inclination and rumble of that baritone timbre. I couldn’t make out the words, but I understood their meaning, the appreciation and happiness he expressed for other people, anyone but me.
I tried not to listen, but my ears were tuned to his voice and my mind subconsciously searching for it. Like a golden thread that held the conversation together, his voice rose and dipped, sometimes disappearing only to resurface with a soft murmur or a delighted chuckle. It was always there, even when it faded for a few seconds, both disturbing and hurtful but a constant no less. At least to me. A constant in my life now. Yet I’ll never be graced with his blessing or experience the warmth of his pride. I’ll never know what it feels like to make my husband happy. I’ll never be the recipient of his approval or the lucky woman who evokes his laughter at a dinner party.
That’s not my fate.
My destiny is his wrath. It’s the price I’m paying for my family’s sins. It’s the price Angelo has to extract for his losses. Maybe tormenting me makes dealing with his pain easier. Heaven knows, he’s perfected the art of torture. He’s a master at it. He doesn’t even need a whip.
Hearing Angelo entertain his friends while I was closed in here left my heart aching. It inexplicably hurt when I noticed his fancy dress pants and waistcoat as he stood so tall and proud in the hallway. It was impossible to miss how well the tailored clothes hugged his strong frame and how handsome he looked. The pain that throbbed in the hollow of my ribcage couldn’t have been a product of envy. I have no desire to sit at Angelo’s dinner table or meet his friends. Angelo’s action only burned like a red-hot spear through my stomach because he humiliated me when he dismissed me in front of his friends. As I was forced to listen to them laughing and having fun until the early hours of the morning, that ache bled inside me until my chest felt like one big bruise.
I thought that was bad.
What he did after hurts even worse.
What he said and how he behaved, I can’t forgive him for that.
Angelo made it clear he doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t believe me, so there’s no point in trying to convince him of the truth. He’ll always question my motives. Let him believe I’m looking for information to get him arrested. He can think what he wants. I don’t care. However, I don’t have the luxury of not caring about falling pregnant. I can’t not take to heart the threat he made after fucking me and leaving me cold. Because I can’t have his baby. I refuse to bring an innocent life into this mess.
No child deserves this.
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I take a shaky breath. I’m on birth control. The pills were in my toilet bag that Heidi brought to the empty house. I’ll keep on taking them. If Angelo is evil enough to confiscate them, I’ll buy some at the pharmacy, but for that, I’ll need money. I have to figure out a way of earning a few euros without my husband’s knowledge.
I work myself up about finding solutions, but it’s no use. Everything feels hopeless. There’s no point in tiring myself in the hamster wheel of my mind. I’m just mashing my brain by regurgitating the same problems. It will be wiser to save my energy. I’ll take my uncertain and scary future one day at a time. It’s the only way to survive.
A sound next-door pierces my turbulent thoughts. The creaking of bedsprings? Unable to help myself, I get out of bed and tiptoe to the adjoining door. I put my ear against the wood and listen, but not another chirp comes from his room. He’s probably sleeping a sound, drunken sleep after using my body to sate his needs. I smelled the alcohol on his breath.
What am I doing anyway, listening at his door? What am I hoping to discover? That his guilty conscience is keeping him awake?
I scoff and crawl back under the warm covers. For the remainder of the night, I drift in and out of sleep. By sunrise, I’m awake. After taking care of my grooming, I dress in a warm sweater, a pair of jeans, and sneakers. Before going out onto the balcony, I pull on my coat.
It’s a sunny but cold day. The air is fresh with a hint of saltiness drifting in from the sea. The view is just as spectacular as the one at the other house, but with the cultivated garden that frames the cliff, it’s tamer. The nature is wilder at the abandoned house. The beach is wider and longer here. The cliffs form a half moon that embraces the jetty in the center.
The sliding door on Angelo’s side of the balcony opens. I turn my face away from the view. My back goes stiff when he walks out, dressed in dark jeans that hug his lean hips and a black rollneck cashmere sweater that stretches over his broad chest. His thick hair is damp. Stubble darkens his jaw. He showered, but he didn’t shave.
He carries two steaming mugs and half a smile to my side of the balcony. The deliciously spicy and woodsy smell of his cologne reaches me before the rich aroma of the coffee.
“Morning,” he says, placing a mug in my hand. “I thought you could do with some caffeine. I made it the way you like it.” He sips his coffee, studying me from over the rim. “One sugar and lots of cream.”
I eye him with suspicion, inhaling the welcome aroma of the brew.
His lips quirk when he lowers his mug. “Don’t worry. It’s not poisoned.”
“Do you expect me to take your word for that?”
“No,” he drawls, not breaking our eye contact as he takes the mug from me.
Our fingers brush. The light touch contracts my skin. I try to hide my reaction, but he’s too perceptive. Too clever. He smirks, letting me know he’s aware of how he affects me. He watches me as he drinks from my mug before putting it in my hand again. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve said the light in his dark gaze is teasing. He’s probably just mocking me.
