Page 54 of Daddy's Ring
I call it torture because every minute with her reminds me what I lost, what I'm still losing, what I might never get back.
The front door looms. Six thousand square feet of emptiness waiting on the other side, and somewhere in there, Bianca. I've been trying to avoid her, and she's been growing more annoying lately. I'm almost tempted to ask where her lover is and if he can come handle her.
I should care that she has one. Probably. The optics alone are terrible—my wife carrying on an affair while I'm trying to rebuild something with the woman who actually matters.
But I don't. Can't make myself feel anything except vague relief that she's distracted elsewhere.
I unlock the door and step inside.
Silence.
The foyer echoes with my footsteps, all that marble and vaulted ceiling designed to impress and instead just amplifying how empty this place is. Bianca's heels aren't by the door. Her purse isn't on the console table.
She's not home.
Thank fuck.
The tension I didn't realize I was carrying bleeds out of my shoulders. I can breathe here when she's gone, can move through rooms without waiting for her to materialize with that calculating expression, without her finding excuses to touch my arm or press against me when she passes.
It's been getting worse. The touching.
Three days ago she cornered me in the hallway outside our separate bedrooms—hers down the hall, mine at the opposite end because I can't stomach sharing space with her—and actually put her hand on my chest. Slid it down toward my stomach before I caught her wrist and moved her aside.
She'd looked genuinely confused when I walked away.
Like she couldn't comprehend why her husband wouldn't want her hands on him after eight months of maintaining carefuldistance. Like I haven't made it clear I don't want her in my bed in any way.
I thought maybe whoever she's fucking wasn't satisfying her. Thought maybe she was trying to get something from me out of spite or boredom. It's not like she was trying to make an effort or get to know me. This was physical—something that's been happening more lately.
Maybe I should wonder why. But it doesn't matter. I've made it clear without saying a word: not interested, not happening, don't try again.
She hasn't spoken to me since.
Which is fine. Better than fine. I don't want her conversation any more than I want her touch.
The kitchen's exactly as I left it this morning—pristine and unused except for the coffee maker. I head for the small bar, pulling out a bottle of whiskey because I need something to take the edge off.
Need something to stop thinking about Zola's face when she cried. When she called herself sterile like it was a disease, like it made her less somehow.
Like I could ever think of her as anything except everything.
I pour two fingers into a glass and drink it standing at the counter, letting the burn center me.
My phone buzzes.
Stellan:Want to play down at the docks tonight?
I know that is code for getting my hands dirty.
I'm typing a response as I walk around the island, accidentally kicking the trash can that's slightly out of place. It tips, spilling garbage across the tile.
"Fuck." I set down the glass and crouch, gathering coffee grounds and takeout containers and the general debris of existing.
There's a box. Small, white, partially crushed.
I grab it without thinking, ready to toss it back, when I register what I'm holding.
A pregnancy test box.
