Page 30 of Accidentally Marrying the Prisoner
“Good, I’m glad,” Alisa says, relaxing her shoulders with relief, pulling her robe tighter across her chest when a breeze sweeps across the balcony. “Will you apologize to Mirabeth on my behalf? I truly didn’t mean any disrespect.”
I shake my head. If she wants to apologize, she can do so herself.
She turns to go, but hesitates. “Can I at least give you one last hug?” When my upper lip curls, since I don’t particularly want to touch her ever again, she says, “It would mean a lot to me.”
Anything that’ll get you to finally leave, I think to myself. Though I lean a shoulder forward to accept Alisa’s hug around my neck, I leave my hands hovering in the air. I’m already pulling away half a second later when she cups the back of my head, turns her cheek, and pecks my lips.
Fury ignites in my blood, and I jerk away, my stomach in my throat. “What the fuck?” I hiss, wiping my mouth with disgust.
“I’m sorry, so sorry! I swear I didn’t mean to do that,” Alisa says in a rushed whisper, her eyes widening as she covers hermouth with both hands. “Stupid force of habit. I promise, it was an accident. Please don’t tell Brad. It would break his heart.”
Dropping my voice lower, I say, “Then figure out how to break the habit, because that shit cannot happen again. Ever.” Though I don’t know if the kiss, as accidental as it was, would break Mirabeth’s heart, I make Alisa promise not to tell her either. I can’t stand the thought of Mirabeth so much as feeling a flicker of hurt or distrust. “And this is the first and last time you show up at my apartment, you hear me?”
“I won’t, I promise.” Alisa grimaces as she backs away. Before she turns, she calls out, “Will I see you at your parents’ anniversary dinner?” When I nod reluctantly and ask for more details, she says, “Give me your new number, and I’ll text you.”
Mom had dropped my phone line while I was in prison, then activated a new one shortly before I was released, and I silently seethe over what’s happened as Alisa and I exchange numbers. Afterwards, I close the door, throw the lock, and say good riddance to one problem, needing to face another—Mirabeth’s mistaken assumption that I’m going to disappear in three years. As cliché as it is, as the saying goes,when you know, you know, and even just this short whirlwind with Mirabeth has been long and intense enough for me toknowthat there is no longer an expiration date on my marriage. Now, she’s the one who needs toknow.
Mirabeth exits the bathroom just as I enter, and she ducks around me without a glance, her face red and raw after scrubbing off her makeup. Wearing one of my thick sweatpants, the drawstrings are double and triple-knotted, cinched tight around her waist.
Dammit, I was really hoping to get a repeat performance of her knee on the vanity. Double-dammit that she dives into bed and whips the comforter up over her head, scooting so close to the breakfast bar wall that she’s plastered her length against it.She’s still pissed at me, I see, pretending to be asleep when I finish getting myself ready for bed and climb in beside her.
Cuddling her, I bend my knees behind hers and snake my arm around her waist. Any attempts at conversation are met with more and more unconvincing snoring, her body rigid and tense when I lightly stroke my fingertips along her belly beneath her shirt. I finally get the hint—she’s not open to any discussion about our future. Not tonight. So I give up, for now, since she needs her rest. I kiss the back of her neck while Merlin curls into a ball on my pillow above my head.
Nuzzling my face into Mirabeth’s hair, I breathe in her sugary scent, like I will every night from now on, and murmur, “We’ll talk in the morning.”
Except, we never do.
And it’s not for lack of trying.
After a brutal workout, one week later—anything to take my mind off Mirabeth, if even for a moment—and taking a long shower, I pick up the driftwood that Sam had left over from an old project and let me take home. I grab my new whittling knife and hover at Mirabeth’s shoulder where she’s sitting at her drafting table.
“Want to sit outside and watch the sunset with me?” I ask.
“You know I’m on a deadline,” she says quietly, slumped low in her chair as she moves her pen across her tablet, working on the portrait I’ve commissioned for my parents’ anniversary. Mirabeth is so talented, bringing the portrait to life. I can guarantee my mom and possibly even my dad will be moved to tears when they see it.
“Just for a few minutes?” Something cold settles in my bones when she goes stock still, tensing after I slip my fingers through the back of her hair, and I shakily pull my hand away, my heart lodged in my throat.
“Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Maybe,” she says with a shrug, but that’s what she said the last four times I’ve asked.
I took things too far that night we went to Big Hart’s dance hall. The old, feisty Mirabeth is gone, and in her place is this new, quiet Mirabeth who can hardly look at me. I’m only allowed to touch her when we’re in bed at night, though not in the way she used to let me. Long gone are the days when she would curl into my side while we watched the sun dip behind the horizon, then stroke my hair with my head on her lap as we watched TV. Sex has been completely off the table. Even if she did allow it, I wouldn’t want to with her being so closed off to me, emotionally.
Mirabeth is much like how Andrew had been—introverted and reserved when upset. My brother would isolate himself when working through something big internally. From my experience living with him, I know that if I keep trying to force the issue with Mirabeth, she’ll only shut down on me further, and I don’t want to repeat past mistakes by imposing my will.
So after continuing to hover for only a minute longer, hoping Mirabeth will change her mind and join me, I leave her be and take my sorry ass outside. Where once the beauty of watching the last of the sun casting vibrant hues of purples and reds would bring me to tears, it’s the thought that I may have irrevocably broken our marriage with my selfishness that does so now.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
MIRABETH
I’ve often been grateful to my parents for all the love and comfort they gave me—my mom’s tricks and continued avoidance aside—but I’ve never been more so than when I have to sit at Conrad’s parents’ dining table, tension thick in the air. It’s been two weeks since that horrible, revelatory night, and I have to hide the fact that I’m once again on the verge of crying. Not even one of Tripp’s steaks can lift my spirits, my nose turning up at the charred-to-perfection scent as I pick at my food while Conrad’s Mom, Sondra, tries to cajole Tripp into conversation. She told me earlier that I could start calling her Mom, too, but I politely declined, since there’s no sense in getting attached to her or anyone else.
“I’ll be right back,” Conrad says to me, disappointment flashing across his face when I slightly turn my back to him as he excuses himself to the restroom.
