“Most of the men I know don’t have that kind of discipline.”
Butch glanced over at the tub. Mel had stretched out and leaned back into the curve of its far edge, her head propped on the lip, her brunette hair hanging down in thick ringlets that nearly reached the floor. That her eyes were closed with exhaustion made him worried, but at least there was a rosy blush coming back into her cheeks.
“It’s not a case of discipline,” he said. “You’re a gorgeous woman, but it’s not about you. It’s about who’s waiting for me at my home.”
Mel’s lids lifted and she stared into space for a moment. Then she turned her head and looked at him across the distance he’d put between them.
“Can I ask you something?” she murmured.
Butch refocused on the clothes, pulling out a black leather skirt that was the size of a napkin. “Sure.”
“What did she do?”
He frowned and glanced back toward the bath. “I’m sorry?”
“What did your wife do to make you fall that in love with her? Be so devoted to her? I mean, even that first night I saw you, when I wasn’t covered with bruises . . . you left me at the club. Most men would have come in and we would have . . . we woulda been together and not because you paid for me.”
Putting the skirt back, Butch wandered up to the bags and the shoes, although he didn’t see any of the thousands and thousands of dollars of high-end luxury goods. Even as his fingers brushed over the Hermès and the Louis, he was picturing instead the first time he’d seen his Marissa. It had been back at Darius’s house, back when the place had just been a flophouse for the Brotherhood. He’d been waiting in an elegant parlor to find out if he was going to be killed by what he assumed was a group of drug dealers—when bam! His life changed forever.
Marissa had walked into the archway, wearing a chiffon gown that belonged on a queen, her long, fair hair down to her hips, her clean, ocean scent tantalizing him. She had been so beautiful and so sad at the same time, an ethereal goddess he was not worthy to gaze upon.
And then she had looked at him.
“Nothing,” he said in a gravel voice. “My wife didn’t have to do anything. She just walked into my sight and I knew. Everything about her was perfect as far as I was concerned, and absolutely nothing—nothing at all—has made me question that perfection since.”
“How long have you been together?”
“Three years.”
There was a soft sound of water, as if she were moving in the tub. “And you’ve never had an argument?”
“Not really. I mean, if we disagree, we don’t get angry. We both just want to figure out a compromise so we can get rid of the tension.”
“Does she dress for you? I mean, is that how she keeps your interest? Does she change her lingerie a lot? Do you role-play for sex?”
Butch regarded the racks of clothes, all the colors and fabrics, the styles and cuts, the eras, represented in the collection.
He shrugged. “She could be wearing a burlap sack. A ten-year-old T-shirt. A pair of long johns or a polyester track suit. It’s not about what she has on. And role-play? I want her. Anything else is inferior so why would she dress up for me?”
“She must do something. Her hair—what does her hair look like?”
“You’re searching for a physical explanation. Something tangible. You’re not going to find it because that’s not the point.” He touched his cross through his Under Armor. “It’s like faith. It just is.”
When Mel fell silent, he was happy enough to let the subject drop. Except then the scent of tears got his attention.
He looked back over to the tub. Mel was still staring straight ahead as she cried in silence, her tears landing in the water.
“Mel,” he said softly. “Please let me call that doctor friend of mine? It’s a female and she’s very good.”
“No.” She wiped her face and looked down at her fingertips. “I just wasn’t enough, I guess. For him, the one I love . . . at the end of the day, he just didn’t want me. It’s a hard truth to accept. And you’re right, I’m looking for physical explanations because I’d rather there be something more external for why he didn’t love me back. Something less about the inside of me. You can change your clothes and your hair, put on a different lipstick, do your nails a different way. But when it’s who you are, you can’t really work with that, you know?”
“But maybe it was on him. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe there was something wrong with the bastard.”
“The one he ended up with is nothing like me.”
“So his picker is wrong.” Butch went over and sat down in an armchair that faced away from the tub. In that huge mirror, on the left, he could still see her in the bath, though. “I know this is hard. But you’re blaming yourself for something that may not have a damn thing to do with you. I know it sounds like wicked bullshit, but it’s his loss and I hope he regrets it for the rest of his natural life.”
“I just don’t know what to do with myself. I walk aimlessly around town at night. I go to clubs and find nothing of interest. I . . . take my mood out on others. I’m not alive. I’m just not here.”
Butch sat forward and rubbed his face. “I’ve been where you are, Mel. I know what that’s like.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. And it’s rough.” Driven by commiseration, he got to his feet and turned around. “I’m so sorry, Mel. I don’t want this for you. I don’t want any of this for you.”
More tears fell from her eyes, disappearing into the clear water that covered her body. When she looked over at him, she was so sad, so small, in spite of her beauty.
Sniffling, she said hoarsely, “You really understand it, don’t you.”
“Yes.” Butch would have gotten closer if she’d had clothes on, but he kept his distance. “Mel, I need you to believe things will get better, okay? I mean, if love can happen for me? It can happen for you. You’re a good person. You’re a beautiful woman. Any man would be proud to have you for a partner. You just need to wake up to the truth that you are enough, no matter what some asshole thinks to the contrary.”
“I’m not perfect, Butch.”
“None of us are.”
“I’ve done some bad things.”
“We are all sinners—and yet our creator still loves us. And if the prerequisite for true romantic love was an unassailable history and character? The shit wouldn’t happen for anybody. You’re worthy of love. You deserve to be respected and cherished, and to get that, you don’t need to be anything different than you are. You have been created for a reason. You’re here for a reason. You have a purpose, and you have to believe that you’ll find someone who will help you in that purpose. And until that happens? All you really need to know is that you don’t have to be validated by anybody but yourself. You are enough.”
Her hands came up to rest on her cheeks, water running down the backs of them. “What is my purpose, though. I used to think I knew what it was. Now, I’m just so empty. There’s nothing there.”
“What makes you happy?” He glanced around. “Well, except for buying clothes. I think we can both agree that you’re an expert in that, just like me. But that’s a surface thing. What really feeds your soul?”