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The directions say that I should swing my arm and press it into his thigh until it clicks. Inhaling, I pull in a deep breath, read the directions one more time, and then swing my arm down and press the pen into Van’s leg. He barely jerks, and I hold it there for ten seconds like I’m supposed to before removing it.
I don’t know what’s supposed to happen, but when Van sucks in a deep breath and exhales, I know it worked.
“Are you okay?” I’m back at his side, smoothing his hair and watching his lips regain color. “Can you talk to me?”
“You tried to kill me.”
Out of all the things he could have said, he chooses to say something stupid.
“Yeah, yeah. I know you love me,” I retort. “And you’re welcome.”
He chuckles, but it sounds more like gurgling. “You want me to thank you for trying to kill me?”
“I didn’t know you had food allergies! That’s what you get for keeping secrets from your wife. Who even does that?”
“Me,” he mumbles. “My enemies would love to know how to kill me and make it look like an accident.”
I roll my eyes. “Not everyone is trying to kill you, for goodness’ sake.”
His chest is rising steadily now, and his breathing is much better. “Sometimes, Van, you have to take a chance with people—especially your wife.I could have killed you. And Magda!” I throw my hands in the air. “Does she know?”
“Yes,” he clips, opening his eyes and finding my gaze.
“Ahh. So, it’s just me, then?”
He tips his chin almost as if he’s ashamed.
“Whatever. I’m glad you didn’t die.” I’m pissed as I stand up. “I’ll go get you some water.”
I just want to get out of this room and rid myself of the feeling that I’ll never be able to get close to my husband. I’ll always be in his outer circle.
“Wait. Don’t leave.” His hand clutches mine before I can stand up.
“I’m not leaving,” I say. “I can’t. Remember? I’m your prisoner.”
His gaze drops to his chest. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
Something in the way he says it convinces me his apology might be genuine this time.
“You have to know I would never try and kill you.” My palm goes to his cheek, and he leans into my touch. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
My words aren’t taunting. They aren’t meant to get a rise out of him. They are meant to simply state the truth. I have always been in love with Van Gogh. He needs to know that. He needs to know that I did not turn him in all those years ago, and I certainly would never try to kill him.
“I—I.” He swallows thickly and squeezes his eyes shut. For a moment, I think he’s trying to fake passing out, but then his hand squeezes mine tightly, and he says, “Ditto.”
Ditto.
I don’t know if he could possibly get more romantic, but maybe I’m just weird. I don’t need my husband to repeat the words verbatim. I just need to know that he feels them, and if saying the word ditto is all he can manage, I’ll take it with a smile.
“So, you believe me now?” I ask, a teasing lilt in my voice.
“Maybe. Let’s not move too quickly.”
This aggravating man.
I smile. “How do you feel? Can I call an ambulance now?”
“Not unless you really want to be chained up in the basement.”
