Page 38 of Conor
“But we made him dinner,” Archer whines. “Do you think he’ll like it?”
“He will,” I assure him, even though I texted Conor over an hour ago and still haven’t received a reply.
I can’t bring myself to admit that I’ve lost all hope. Not when Archer is so desperate to see him. But when the front door opens and Conor appears, the ache in my gut mellows, if only a little.
“You’re here!” Archer squeals as he runs across the room and flings himself into Conor’s arms.
“Hey, squirt.” Conor ruffles his hair and offers him a smile, which is more than I’ve seen from him lately.
“We made you dinner,” Archer says proudly.
“Aye, that’s what I hear.” Conor rubs his belly. “Good thing too because I’m starving.”
Archer leads him to the table, and I remain rooted to the floor in the kitchen. Conor barely glances at me before he takes a seat, and the chill penetrates my skin from here. He hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t kissed me. He hasn’t said more than two words to me over the course of the week. And I don’t want to admit that this cavernous space cracking open inside my chest might be what I think it is.
Heartbreak.
I miss him. I miss him terribly, and I want to make things right, but I don’t know how. I don’t know if I’m capable of hurting Conor, but I know that he hurt me. His shame and reluctance to tell his friends that I’m his wife cuts me to the core, and he owes me an explanation for that. There are so many things I want to say, but the words won’t come. In the end, we are both too proud or stubborn to admit defeat. So instead, we sit down at the table together and eat our feelings.
“Do you like it?” Archer asks.
“Aye, it’s very good,” Conor says. “Thank you, little fella.”
“Mom did most of the work,” Archer supplies. “She’s a good cook.”
Conor meets my eyes, and for a split second, I want to believe it’s regret I see there before they turn to stone all over again. “Aye, she is.”
He concentrates on shoveling his dinner into his mouth, so he can get out of here. I know it before he says so, and I’m proven right when he pushes back his chair.
“Thanks for dinner. I have to get back to work.”
“Whyyyyy?” Archer pouts.
“Can we talk?” I blurt.
Conor checks his phone, still avoiding eye contact. “A quick one.”
I tell Archer to go play in his room for a couple minutes, and he reluctantly stomps down the hall. I wait until his door is shut before speaking. “Is there something going on?”
“Like what?” Conor taps out a message on his phone.
“You haven’t been home. You’ve barely spoken to me. I just—”
“Welcome to being a mafia wife.” His tone is so flat, I can’t stand it.
I hate that I’m getting emotional, or letting it get to me at all. I’m shaking, my hands itching to rip that phone out of his hands and throw it into the garbage. “I get that you’re still pissed at me, but we can’t make this work if—”
His eyes snap up to mine, and they are brimming with a darkness I haven’t seen in him before. “That’s exactly what we’re fecking doing here, Ivy. We’re making the best of a shitty situation. The only way to make this work is by ignoring the fact that we’re chained to one another for life.”
I feel my body crumpling in on itself. My stomach is full of lava, eyes burning with unshed tears. What a fool I’ve been to think that Conor could love me. Maybe for a second, it was possible. But now it’s painfully obvious he’s miserable, and he’d rather be anywhere else than here.
“Chrissakes.” He turns his back on me when he sees the vulnerability in my face. “I don’t know what else ye want from me.”
“Nothing.” My voice wavers. “I don’t want anything else from you.”
“Did you get everything out of your drawers?” I ask Archer.
He nods and clings to the teddy bear Conor bought him at the zoo. “Where are we going?”
