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His eyes hold more than he’s letting on, and I don’t know whether to despise him for keeping it from me or be thankful he’ll never share with me.
“You need to calm down.” He attempts to placate me. “It’ll all blow over once certain people tie up some loose ends.”
I scowl, my lips turning down in disgust.
Loose ends.
“When are we supposed to leave?”
“Now.”
“What?” I yell.
He shushes me, and I want to grab the whiskey glass in his hand and smash it right over his head.
“Sleep, Bianca. I need to organize some of my life’s complications. I’ll pack some things and make some calls. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”
“I don’t want to go,” I argue.
Standing, he downs the rest of his whiskey, holding the empty glass with the grip of his fingertips. “Trust me when I tell you that you do. The alternative is not an option.”
“Alternative? I’d like to hear the alternative.”
“Sleep,” he repeats.
“Vincent,” I call after his retreating form, but he closes the bedroom door, silencing my panic.
Living at home, I was entirely shut off from Papa’s business. We knew nothing of his dealings and the trouble that followed him. My mother was aware. Of course she was.
On recollection, blocks of time would pass when we didn’t see our father. He locked himself away in his office, his numerous phones a consistent melody of ringtones. He’d yell. He’d scream. He’d talk for hours. He wouldn’t sleep. He’d drink. And drink. And drink. Lorenzo’s father would come by, and when he died, Lorenzo would be there in his place. Business that was none of our concern.
He and Mama would fight. She’d leave his office with bruises on her face and pretend she wasn’t dying inside. She protected him. We never asked her about the marks, and she never brought attention to them. She went on being a dutiful wife, though she’d often flinch when he got too close.
I never considered that Vincent might be similar. That his mood could turn on me. What’s interesting is that he might very well be one of the most frightening people I’ve met, yet he doesn’t make me feel unsafe. I’m not certain I should take that as a relief or a warning. But in the few days we’ve spent as husband and wife, he’s been preoccupied and distracted, yet his mood hasn’t affected me. He hasn’t turned his temper toward me. In fact, if anything, he seems to gravitate toward me as a calming mechanism.
It’s laughable that I have chosen to take comfort in the fact that my husband hasn’t used his fists on me.
I can’t sleep as he demanded I do. I get up and make our bed instead, even though Heather is due to come by after the sun breaks. I search our closet for a bag, but when I can’t find one, I pile a selection of clothes on the bed, ready to be packed.
I shower and dress.
Vincent is in our room when I exit the bathroom. “I came to wake you.”
His eyes scan my body over the oversized gray sweats and crop top I’m wearing, down to the white sneakers on my feet.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I offer unnecessarily. “I only grabbed some comfy clothes. I imagine we won’t be dining out. Or that I’ll need anything fancy.”
“No.”
“I couldn’t find a bag.” I hate the way my voice shakes.
“Bianca.” Vincent steps closer. “You don’t need to worry, baby.” He eases the frown on my forehead with a gentle push of his thumb. “I told you. I’ll protect you.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, lips pressing down into a thin line.
“Lying won’t make you feel better.”
No,I want to agree,but showing you any weakness will only give you more power.
