Page 59 of Edge of Stars

So it’s official. I am the new stand-in for the classroom bullies.

I take a second to pull in a breath, hoping the air will also bring a politic way of offering that to him. But the man beats me to the follow-up.

“But maybe that’s a good fact for you now, eh? Another trench to hide in is probably an excellent discovery for the woman who refuses to talk to her husband.”

And maybe oxygen is overrated.

Not when there’s two tons of blindsiding fury to take its place. And consuming confusion. And piercing hurt.

Pain that pushes me hard enough to shove away from him. To scramble back up to my knees. To use the vantage point, if only a few inches, to punch down at him with a look that shakes me with its vehemence.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MAXIMUS

In a crazy way—maybe two or three of them—this is the most exhilarating moment since we got here.

No. Not so crazy at all.

To the degree that I know my wife doesn’t agree, I’m as certain of it as before. And more positive as every second ticks by, thick with all the stuff that’s rushing out of her. Every awful conflict. Every turbulent agony. All the feelings, grabbing and piling on each other so fast that I can’t identify a few. Several?

But it’s okay.

Better than okay.

Beyond better.

I admit it in full as I cop to the initial shitshow of an excuse I used for my pique. The woman grew up ten miles from me and was probably doing mermaid-like laps with a private coach while I was still dogpaddling with Jesse in the Central Public Pool. Does that mean I’d stand back and wave from the veranda if she really slipped and took a splash into the lagoon? Of course not. But I’d probably be joining her with a laugh instead of a glower. If the water was nice enough, perhaps we’d do some casual exploring together…

Not a confession she needs to hear yet.

Definitely not now.

Not when she’s finally coming out of her caves for me.

Not when I’m ready to move in and seal those escape routes forever.

The resolve pumps through me at full force, especially as I push all the way back to my feet. But even with my superhero stance and unwavering stare, I have trouble accepting the right method for the message.

Unbelievably, it’s a taste of her own medicine.

The right pressure to trigger the full avalanche in her tunnel.

But since she’s chosen words for this particular moment, as belligerent and insolent as they are, I’ll give them the same effort. Just this once. Just because she’s looking so delectable, with that brilliant bronze rebellion in her eyes and the Greek keys of the sarong halfway down one hip, that a bit of munificence taps at me.

“I think you already know, pretty wifey,” I drawl. “But you also probably already know that I’m not supposing any meanings here.”

As she falls back onto her heels, her head tips to one side. “Wifey?”

“You get the better meaning when I do.”

And there’s the line I should have stretched for a few hours ago. The dip into hard love that I’ve never used with any lover before—but never even been inspired to. No other woman has ever impelled me to such a strong reason. Such forceful fathoms of anger.

Born from such depths of persistent love.

Once that recognition is full, so is a new kind of calm in my mind—counterbalanced by the thick, hot need in my body.