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The pink of her nails turns white in her death grip on the phone. “When?”
“In the summer. October or November, I think. I can’t remember exactly.” Margaret breaks off before continuing with caution, “We thought it might be an opportunity for you to visit us.”
Sabella’s hand trembles a little as she tilts her head and clutches the phone against her ear. “I’ll let you know.”
“It’s been so long.” Margaret’s voice quivers. “We miss you.”
“I miss you too, Mom.”
“Love you, honey.”
“Love you, Mom.”
Sabella doesn’t resist when I take the phone from her hand and end the call.
She sits like a rag doll, staring through the window. “What did you tell them about the filming?”
It’s not the path I would’ve chosen for her if she’d given me a choice. I’d much rather let her continue her studies in Marseille as per my original plan. Albeit, devils are devils, the destructors of hope and crushers of dreams.
“Nothing,” I say. “Yet.”
She nods. “Whatareyou going to tell them?”
And I’m the man who has to tell her, “No.”
She nods again, her gaze fixed on something in the distance. “I see.”
Her quiet manner cuts me deeply. I prefer that she rants and raves. That, I can handle. I can’t stand how she shuts down right in front of my eyes. If only she knew that disappointing her hurts me a million times more, she could’ve taken comfort from that.
I reach out to touch her, but before I can place my hand on her shoulder, she stands. Tall and regal. She’s holding herself together like a queen. My mother would’ve been proud of this woman. My father would’ve respected her. My sister would’ve liked her. But no one can love her like I do.
“Sabella.”
She walks past me and out the door.
Me, I do what monsters do. I do what I always do. I take my car keys from my pocket and leave to run a business. To provide for a family. To keep us all safe from the pitfalls and the dangers that come with the life into which I was born.
ChapterNine
Sabella
Filming with National Geographic is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. The mere fact that they invited an undergraduate dropout is a miracle. Most people only get to join an excursion of such magnitude once they qualified with the highest academic accolades and proved themselves in the field. Either they’re very impressed with my shark video, or Mrs. Powell’s contact has considerable influence.
Disappointment leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I tell myself it’s for the best. I’m not going to finish my degree or work in the field, so what’s the point? It’s better that they ask someone who’s serious about furthering her career.
Every time the bitterness of cruel disillusionment pushes up in my throat, I give myself the same justifications, but no matter how many times I repeat those words, it doesn’t change the fact that Angelo deceived me. He’s doing it time and again, proving that I can never trust him. Whatever he rekindled when he vowed to give me back a measure of freedom and choice—at least when it comes to pregnancy—has been nullified by this single act of betrayal.
I keep a routine that gives me the illusion of normality. During the day, I live my secret life in the village. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane. At night, I’m my husband’s prisoner, locked up in his house. In this too, we fall back onto our old habits. I greet him naked on my knees, and he fucks me. We’re using condoms until I can go back onto the pill after my next period.
It’s not an awful life. The house is beautiful, and the view is spectacular. I’m living in my dream location, which is anywhere on the coast. I don’t want for food or clothes or the finer luxuries that come with a wealthy lifestyle. In summer, I’ll be able to swim in the sea. I have a lot to look forward to. I honor the oath I made myself, working hard on being happy. I’ll never rely on anyone else to take care of that task. The lessons I learned were hard, but they made me stronger, and I have Angelo to thank for that.
Despite slowly but surely carving out a new life for myself on this beautiful island, I’m lonely. I miss Sophie. I worry about the boys. And yes, despite everything, I even miss Angelo. I’m less isolated when he’s present. Sometimes, I swear I smell citrus and cedar in the house when I’m alone. I’m less scared when his large frame fills a seat in the kitchen. I’m less cold when he holds me in his arms on the rare nights he stays over, but I feel a little more lost every time he leaves. The hole that’s opened inside me isn’t getting smaller. As the days move on, it only grows bigger.
I battle to get to the bottom of this feeling that something is amiss when I’m trying so hard to remain positive and joyful. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to admit what I’ve been suspecting for a while now. When I’m busy to the point of collapsing during the day, I don’t have to think about it. But when I lie alone in my bed at night, I can’t deny the terrible truth any longer.
I have feelings for my husband. I fell for a monster who doesn’t deserve those feelings. It happened a long time ago, and my stupid heart refuses to let go. Every time I see a glimpse of the kindness hiding under the dark layers of his soul, I long for that man I first met, the one who gave me a kitten.
But it’s also time to be honest with myself. Angelo isn’t going to change. If I let him, he’ll hurt me again and again. He’s proven that on countless occasions. It’s time to let go, to cut him out of my heart. I spilled enough tears for him. There’s only one snag. If our love is like poison, our hate is like honey. I’m addicted to him in every way. The bond that ties us isn’t love. It’s hate, and hate forges the strongest bonds. I can no longer imagine a life without him. Not even the suffering of hatred is enough to cure me of my dependency on this man who’s half dark angel and half demon.
