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I sit there in utter shock for a moment, staring at him as he leaves. He grabs his clothes from the floor as he goes, striding out of the room as if he’s already forgotten that I’m there.
I know I shouldn’t be hurt by his dismissal, but I am. I watch him go, those last words still cutting me down to the bone again and again; every time I repeat them in my head, I feel like I can’t breathe.
It was always too much to hope that the man I married would love me. But I had hoped, in some small part of myself, that he wouldn’t despise me as much as David seems to.
Reaching for the blanket at the end of the bed, I tug it up over myself as I start to cry, curling into a ball in the center of the mattress. All of the loneliness comes flooding in, spreading through me as I lay there, my hair falling into my face as I sob. I wonder, for a brief moment, if David will hear and feel badly about what he said, if he might come up and comfort me.
He doesn’t. And I cry myself to sleep.
23
DAVID
Iknow that what I said was too harsh the moment it came out of my mouth. And I regret it the instant that it does. I regret all of it—the look on her face when it sinks in, the realization that I’ve hurt her.Reallyhurt her—which tells me more than anything else in our brief relationship has.
She cares about me. For all that she fights with me as if she hates me too, sometimes, for all that she rebels in ways that make me furious—and frustrated, in more ways than one—it matters to her how I feel about her. And thinking back on last night in Boston, at her surprise when I’d softened with her, I’m not sure how I didn’t see it sooner.
I don’t want to have feelings for her. I don’t want the complications or vulnerability. But seeing the look on her face, the shock when she realized that what I’d said was the truth—even if I did regret saying it aloud—makes me wonder if perhaps she is telling the truth about the things I’ve doubted her on.
She doesn’t come down for dinner, and when I go up later that evening, my work for the day finished, I find her already asleep, and all of the lights in the bedroom turned off. The doors to the balcony are open, letting in the warm summer air, and I walk to where the gauzy curtains are drifting around them, intent on shutting the doors.
Why?I pause, my hand on the knob. My first instinct was to close thembecauseI know Amalie wanted them open—she always seems to, for some reason—but why? Why do I want so badly to do whatever the opposite of her desires are? I push her to the edge constantly, pricking and poking at every soft spot, as if I want her to prove to me that she’s impossible. As if Iwanther to make me hate her.
The breeze is pleasant, warm, and faintly salty, softening the chill of the room. I have to admit that it is nice, and I retreat to the bed, sliding in next to her. She’s on the very edge of her side, as if she wanted to put as much distance as possible between the two of us before I even came to bed. I have half a mind to reach for her and pull her closer, just to prove to her that I can have whatever it is that I want, but something stops me. I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but I lie there instead, watching her as she sleeps. I remember watching her in Ibiza—how different she looked, exhausted and carefree at the end of the day. Now, she seems smaller, more fragile. I have the sudden, unexpected urge to reach for her again—but this time to soothe her. To tell her that I didn’t mean it.
But you did, didn’t you? I push down the thought, reminding myself of her snooping, her stubbornness, the questions that she keeps insisting on asking. All of the ways she’s made my life more difficult since I agreed to marry her.
I reach for my phone instead, texting my assistant. I can do something to try to make up for what I said earlier, without letting myself slip too close to the edge of actually caring for her.
Even if my actions last night told me that I’ve already, perhaps, stepped too close to that edge.
—
In the morning, I wait to get up until Amalie wakes, going over a few things in bed while she sleeps in. She looks surprised when she opens her eyes and sees me there, then guarded, as if she’s expecting me to demand something of her.
“Good morning,” she says hesitantly, and I smile, trying to put her a little more at ease. I reach down, pushing a bit of hair out of her face as I kiss her lightly, and I feel her go still, as if she’s trying not to flinch away.
I start to snap at her, to bite out something likewhy do you always have to make this so difficult,and I stop myself. If she’s upset still, I can try to smooth it over. That small step might make things more peaceful for us both—and besides, I’ve already done something to try to accomplish exactly that.
“I have a surprise for you downstairs,” I tell her, pulling back, and she looks startled.
“Oh.” She whispers it, sitting up a little, and I can see that guarded expression still on her face. There’s that urge to snap at her again, to tell her that it was one comment, that she’s overreacting—but I take a breath instead.
“You’ll see.” I toss the covers back, standing up, and I see her gaze flick towards me almost as if she doesn’t mean to. As upset as she might be, she still can’t help but want me. I often wish that I didn’t feel the same—but seeing her half-sitting up in bed, the sheet clutched to her bare breasts and her thick auburn hair tumbling over her shoulders, I feel my cock twitch with interest, my body instantly reacting to the sight of my wife. I’m as susceptible to her as she is to me, and it’s a never-ending cycle that’s determined to drive us both mad.
I stride away from the bed instead, going to shower. When I emerge, Amalie is dressed, wearing the leggings and loose t-shirt that seems to have become her uniform around the house. It looks sloppy, in my opinion, but I remind myself that no one is here besides my security. If she wants to be comfortable, what does it matter?
And, as she turns away to walk towards the door, I can’t deny that the view of her ass in the tight fabric is an argument for letting it go.
“It’s in the dining room,” I tell her as I follow her downstairs, and she glances at me over her shoulder, her expression half-curious, half-suspicious. I’d expected her to ask what it is, to try to wheedle it out of me at least a little, but she says nothing as we walk through the main floor of the house, and she stops in the doorway of the dining room.
“Oh,” she says softly, again, her voice a higher pitch now than it was before. I can’t see her face as she looks at what’s on the dining room table in front of her—a vase full of red roses and a white box—and I step up next to her, reaching for her so I can turn her to face me.
To my surprise, there’s still confusion on her face, and her eyes are glimmering with tears.
“This was supposed to make you happy.” I reach down, thumbing one of the tears away from where it’s hovering on her lashes. “I thought you might like a surprise.”
“I do,” she whispers, but she licks her lips nervously, pressing them together as she looks at the table. “I just—I never know when you’re going to be upset or not.” Amalie tilts her head up, the words coming out in a rush, as if she’s almost afraid to say them. “Last night was one thing, and now this—it’s back and forth, all of the time—and I almost wish you would just…”
