“A wife?” he splutters.
“Yeah. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept, Christ knows you had enough of them.”
“Now, hang on a second—” he bites out, but I talk over him, my anger and frustration lashing out, not caring who their target might be.
“Just save it. You are in no position to give me advice, which fucking sucks because I could really use some right now. I love you, Dad, but I’m in no frame of mind to have dinner with you and one of your interchangeable wives when we both know this time next year you’ll be eating dinner with her replacement.” I hang up on him and put the phone on silent, having reached my limit of bullshit for today.
I sit at the breakfast bar and eat the food when it arrives, realizing just how fucking quiet it is in here. If I can’t convince Linda to come home, this will be my new normal. No, fuck that. One way or another, I will make my wife fall in love with me again.
I don’t care what I have to do, whatever it takes for however long, I’ll show Linda that I can be the husband she needs me to be even if I have to kidnap her and tie her to the bed to do it.
Thirty-Three
Linda
It started with Chinese food and a text saying your hair—nothing else.
The text came through while I was working that first night, so I didn't get it until afterward when I walked through the door to Tig’s place and found a note with the Chinese food in the fridge. Was I mad still? Yup. Did I eat the food anyway? Of course I did, but I ate it angrily.
The next day it was Indian curry delivered to the door while I watched Friends reruns and a text saying your taste.
This pattern continued for two weeks, a different meal, and a different message sent every single night listing all the things he loved about me.
Except for tonight.
Tonight I found an invitation to an art gallery opening for a new up-and-coming artist two weeks from now and a box containing a beautiful black silk floor-length dress with a slit up the left thigh revealing the hot pink lining underneath. Also tucked inside the box was a pair of gorgeous pink strappy heels and a beautiful vibrant rainbow-colored pashmina wrap.
There was also a note inside the box written in Asher's cursive writing. “For the woman who brings color into my world.”
I close the lid and drop my head to the table and sigh.
“You can’t ignore him forever, you know?”
I look up at Delia and frown. “Sure, I can,” I tell her defiantly.
She laughs and pulls out the chair opposite mine at the table. “Did I ever tell you about the time Tig and I split up?” she asks casually.
“What? No, when was this?” Tig and Delia have the kind of relationship I dream about. I had no idea they had come so close to walking away from each other.
“It was a long time ago now. I wasn’t much older than you. We had just opened the tattoo parlor, and it was hard. Money was tight. Tig worked long into the night to make ends meet. We hardly saw each other, and when we did, we fought. In the end, I walked out because somewhere along the way, my life became all about Tig, and I lost myself in the process. I felt stifled by him, but without him beside me, I found I couldn’t breathe. He hurt me, I hurt him, we fought, yelled, screamed, and threw stuff, but I couldn’t sleep in my bed without him beside me. You need to ask yourself what you can live with. He lied to you and hurt you, but he is trying to atone for it. Can you live with his reasoning? Ask yourself if you can live with the possibility of never waking up beside him again or worse still, knowing someone else is taking up the space in that bed and his heart that once was yours.”
Her words cause a sharp pain to tear through my heart at the thought of Asher with anyone else. “I’m scared,” I admit. “What happens if he changes once the deal goes through?” What if all this really is a lie? I just don’t know what to believe anymore.
“Then wait until after the deal deadline. If he welcomes you home, you have your answer. If not, well, then you still have your answer and I have a shovel and a large trunk, just saying.”
I laugh as she stands and walks over to give me a quick hug.
“Now get your ass in the shower. You stink. I’ll see you after work later, okay?”
“Okay, and Delia?”
She turns back to face me with her hand on the door handle.
“Thank you.”
“You wanna thank me, come down to the studio and let me pierce you. You let Tig put all this gorgeous ink on you. I want my turn too.” She pouts, making me shake my head as I move to leave the kitchen.
“Can’t say I find the thought of you shoving a needle through my nipples appealing in the slightest, Del.” I cringe at the thought.
“The pain lasts for seconds, but when they’re healed and being tugged on while you ride a big dick, you’ll thank me for it,” she yells over her shoulder before slamming the door behind her on my laugh.
I make quick work of the shower and shimmy into black skinny jeans and the t-shirt with the bar’s logo on it before blasting my hair with the dryer. Once done, I gloss my lips and grab my leather jacket as my phone rings on the kitchen counter. Rushing toward it, I frown when I see a local number I don't recognize.
“Hello?” I answer with some trepidation, half hoping it's Asher calling from a different number, half hoping it isn’t.
“Mrs. Sloan? This is Molly phoning from Union Arts. I just wanted to reach out in person and tell you how thrilled we are to be a part of your art debut. Your work is as stunning as your husband said it was. Would you be able to come down on Saturday and help with the placement of the display pieces? At say, 4:00 p.m.? Oh shoot, I have another call. Thanks again, I can’t wait to finally meet you in person. I do hope you’re feeling better.” She disconnects, leaving me staring at my phone in shock.
What the actual fuck?
I open the text screen and, for the first time since leaving, I send Asher a text.
What did you do?
When he doesn’t answer, I storm into my room to grab my boots before heading out to work. I will have to deal with him later. Maybe I should take Delia up on her shovel and trunk offer.
It isn’t until later, when there is a lull in the crowd of customers, that it hits me that my artwork is going to be on display for all to see. My heart races at the thought, my palms get sweaty, and the urge to throw up overwhelms me, but I manage to swallow it down.
Why did he do this? Is it just to earn brownie points? But even as I think about it, I know that’s not it. This could very easily have gone both ways for him. He knows how I feel about the thought of having my work displayed, how my heart wars with my self-loathing. I want this more than anything, but the thought of putting myself out there for people to rip to shreds has always held me back.
Asher has forced my hand, giving me a target to channel my anger toward if I fail spectacularly.
He has also given me the one thing I refused to give myself.
The chance to shine.
Thirty-Four
Asher
“Well, I can say you have surprised me with your tenacity—you, Asher, perhaps even more than all the other candidates. I’ll admit that I had some preconceived notions about you, but you have proved me wrong time and time again. Now we can spend the next few hours going over everything and my baby will become yours. Sound good?” Peterson says with a wide smile. I stand to shake his hand and smile back, but it feels brittle.