Page 48 of The Illusion
"Are you mad?"
"No. I'm not mad." I sit back down beside her and put my hand on her shoulder. "Listen to me. I understand how you feel. I do. But you need to be respectful to Julie. You’re in her house. She doesn’t deserve disrespect. Do you understand?"
Devon nods. "I understand."
"Good."
But inside, I'm thinking something else entirely. I am raging. I am spiraling. I am fucking beside myself. And if I were free, I'd go home and pack my bags. I'd leave. I'd get as far away from her as possible. Because knowing that she started all of this makes me want to get the fuck away from her.
In his entire miserable life he only genuinely approved of a handful of people I can think of. Julie. Ryan. My mother, before she got sick. Caroline when he married her. And, apparently, my wife being who she is provided that old fuck with a permission structure to get married again.
I chose wrong. I could have done the bare minimum, but instead I went all in and let myself lose sight of reality. Julie was only supposed to be a small piece on the moving puzzle board my father turned my life into, not the fucking endgame. I let myself forget that. That's on me. It won’t happen again.
I stand up. "I'm going to go to the bathroom and then we should finish packing. I want to get home before it gets too late."
Devon nods and goes back to folding clothes. I walk out of the room and stand in the hallway, my hands shaking. My father liked her. He was proud of her. And because of her, he brought Caroline home. I can't stop thinking about it. I hate that it matters and I hate that I'm standing here blaming my wife for something that isn't directly her fault. But I can't stop. And I know, in a way I know the darkest parts of myself, that this is not fixable. I will not get over this. This is a fatal wound.
Because if she hadn't been so perfect, so good, so exactly what my father wanted, none of this would have happened. It’s both her fault and also not. But the difference between the two is a canyon I don’t want to cross. She isn’t worth it.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
JULIE
Three months since the funeral.Three months of watching him disappear into work and phone calls and Devon's needs. Three months of perfunctory kisses on the top of my head, distracted touches, conversations that feel like they're happening through glass. He’s pushing me away. Sometimes in subtle ways. Sometimes in ways that are not at all subtle and are instead borderline cruel.
There’s a distance between us. An invisible wall that's thick, bulletproof, and impenetrable. Something I can’t seem to get around. I know he's grieving. I know he's under impossible pressure. The company, the estate, Devon's trauma. He's holding everything together as best he can, but I can see the cracks forming.
For all of that, the thing he isn’t trying to prop up is this marriage. We haven't even had sex in months. And that started before the accident.
So tonight, I'm waiting for him. I'm wearing the black lace lingerie he bought me for our first anniversary. The bra is sheerenough to show my nipples, the panties barely there. I've left the bedside lamp on, soft light pooling across the sheets.
It's past midnight when Asher finally comes upstairs. I've been lying in bed for the last hour, listening to him move around downstairs. The clink of a glass. The sound of the refrigerator opening and closing. The low murmur of his voice on another phone call.
When he opens the bedroom door, he stops. His eyes find me immediately, and something flickers across his face. "What the fuck are you doing?" His voice is flat.
That's not a great start. I sit up slightly, letting the sheet fall away. "I'm thinking I'd like to touch my husband. And be touched by him."
He stands there for a long moment, his hand still on the doorknob. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and I can smell the faint scent of whiskey on him. Not drunk. But not sober, either.
"I’m not going to make love or be tender," he says finally. His voice is cold, distant. "It would be nothing more than a fuck."
The words land like a slap. There's no tenderness in them. No connection. Just raw need stripped of everything else. I force myself not to flinch. "Okay."
“Fine. But remember, you said this was okay.” He closes the door behind him and crosses the room. When he reaches the bed, he doesn't ease into it. He just grabs my face and kisses me hard, his mouth hungry and demanding. Sharp. His tongue pushes past my lips, and I taste whiskey and something bitter underneath.
I kiss him back, my hands finding his shoulders, pulling him closer. This is what I wanted. Connection. Heat. Something to bridge the distance between us.
He pushes me back onto the bed, his body covering mine. His hands are everywhere, rough and urgent. He pulls at the strapsof my bra, yanking them down my shoulders. His mouth moves to my neck, biting, sucking. Not gentle. Not careful.
I arch into him, my fingers tangling in his hair. His hand slides down my stomach, over the lace of my panties. He presses hard against me, and I gasp.
"You want this?" he asks against my throat.
Honestly, no. But I need to blast him out of whatever fugue state he's in. And I'm hoping connecting through sex, throughfucking, will help.
"Yes."
