At once, it’s like I am the one with a body full of shrapnel. A swift shock of pain starts in my stomach and creeps up to my heart, wrapping around it like a plague. That one sentence from her perfect lips chokes me of air, robs me of everything. I want to call her a liar, but I know she’s not.
I look down at Maverick, still breathing, machines beeping all around him, and tears blur my vision. I knew he was messed up—really messed up–and I still got involved. This is what I get.
All the memories of us wash over me at once. The tender touches, the sweet words, the molten gazes from across the room, and the silent words we exchanged simply by looking at one another. I clutch my stomach in physical pain.
I hear her sheets rustle as she comes to stand on the other side of his bed. I meet her angry gaze. Staring each other straight in the eyes, we have a silent standoff. I know who loses these things. The other woman. The diamond and solid band sparkling on her left hand signifies my status in this duel. I feel the tears rolling down my cheeks like hot traitors. Worrying about what his wife thinks doesn’t even register. The sting of Maverick’s betrayal is all-encompassing. You knew he was fucked up, my inner voice whispers. A wife? He’s married. A wedding. A bride. Another life I have no clue about. Lies. I shudder. Nothing but lies.
“Why?” I ask. The question is involuntary; it just comes garbling out of my mouth on its own.
“Because he asked me to marry him five years ago. Why else?” She doesn’t realize I wasn’t talking to her. I look down at Maverick.
My fists balled so hard I think my nails are slicing me, I try to swallow down the bitterness. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me? You asshole! You lying asshole! You promised me honesty! Why?” I scream. It’s loud and echoing and I don’t give a shit. Silent, complacent Windsor is gone. I suck in air trying to fill my lungs, but they refuse to fill.
The wife backs away from his bed and sits on the cot. The self-satisfied look on her stunning, make-up free face causes my blood to boil. I take a step away from Mav’s bed too, like maybe more of his horrible lies might seep out of his comatose body and enter me.
I stab my finger toward her. “He never mentioned you. Not once,” I rasp. Her smile disappears. Finally the in control Windsor seems to be making an appearance. I take another step away from him. I latch onto the only thing that strikes as true. He never mentioned her, a wife, not once. Surely, I’d have taken off at a fast pace the second he did. “What’s your name?” I ask. I know my anger should be directed at Maverick, but there are too many unknown variables.
She raises both arms over her head to fix her hair and sighs loudly. She wants me to think I’m inconveniencing her. “Monica Hart.” She enunciates her last name thoroughly. Bitch. She ignores the accusations. She stands again and grabs his hand. “Did you really think someone like Maverick would be with someone like you for long?” She motions to my bedraggled appearance. I am already acutely aware of all of my shortcomings; I don’t need the lying bastard’s wife pointing them out. I feel like the broken woman I was the day I met him. Broken, untrusting, and freaking vulnerable.
“I guess everything comes full circle. Doesn’t it Maverick?” I say, my voice still louder than prudent in a silent hospital in the middle of the night. Aware that Mrs. Hart is watching my every move, I approach and lean over Mav’s bed.
“Take a leap, Windsor. Trust me, Windsor. It’s always only going to be you, Windsor. Forever,” I choke out the words. “I love you, Windsor.” I raise my gaze to Monica’s. My words horrify her. As I give all of his words straight back to him, I feel the black pit forming inside. Lies. All of them. “I’m in, Windsor. I’m all in. That’s what you said, Maverick.” I straighten up and swipe under my eyes with my fingertips. “I guess he was only half in,” I tell his wife, shrugging my shoulders. She just stares, wetness glazing her eyes. I grab Maverick’s hand. It feels heavy…wrong.
“Guess what, Maverick?” I stutter, unable to answer my own question. I rub his knuckles knowing this will be the last time I see him. Or touch him. My stomach is warring with my heart. I know I’m doing the right thing, I just feel stupid. This is my fault. I took a leap and Maverick Hart let me fall flat on my face. Stroking his jaw with my thumb, I silently say goodbye. He was never mine to begin with. The realization hits me full force. I want to cry and pummel something at the same time.
I glare at Monica. “You won’t mind if I break up with my boyfriend, will you?” She doesn’t respond, doesn’t nod, or remove her eyes from Maverick’s face. She looks like a zombie, albeit a pretty one, from a bad horror flick. I kiss his cheek and whisper the words I promised him I would never say.
“I’m out, Maverick. I’m leaving.”
Knowing I can’t look at him again I speak to a now tearful Monica.
“Good luck, Mrs. Hart. You need it more than I do,” I say. With that I turn and walk out of his room. As the door clicks behind me, I hear his monitors beeping wildly. A second later Monica screams for a doctor. I walk past the bustle of nurses flying to room 143. Burly Wart Nurse meets my eyes and offers a weak, apologetic smile. I mouth the words thank you.
As I exit the hospital darkness greets me. Darkness of all sorts. I will give up anything if he’ll survive.
Guess ole’ Mom had the right idea.
CHAPTER TWO
Windsor
The Past. One year, eight months, twenty-one days, and eighteen hours ago
I SLICK THE second coat of nail polish over my toes slowly, making precise strokes. I blow on them even though I know it doesn’t speed the drying process; it just gives me something to do while I wait. “Spontaneous,” I say out loud, reading the name of the shade I selected. The second I say it I immediately regret it.
“Even your damn nail polish is trying to tell you something,” Gretchen snaps from the other side of the room before she turns on the blow dryer. She has one foot propped on the kitchen counter while she dries her self-tanning spray. She glances up from her furious work and widens her eyes to make sure I’ve heard her, urging me to acknowledge her.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, yes,” I scream over the hair dryer’s dull roar. She smiles, switches legs, and returns to her Friday night ritual. I’m just glad she finally found something that makes her look island tropical instead of Oompa Loompa orange. That was a bad few weekends. I shake my head at the memory as I swipe a cotton ball with nail polish remover around my cuticles. Perfect, I think, standing from the old, leather couch. I hear the dryer shut off and know I’m about to be privy to an official Gretchen-knows-best-rant. I tighten my thigh length robe and heave a sigh as I watch her walk toward me, clad in her black lacy underwear and matching demi-cup bra.
“Seriously. You need to have fun tonight,” she says, fanning her six-pack abdominals, even through the spray is already past the tacky stage of drying. “You are in desperate need of just letting loose, Win. The type of fun that you let happen during a night out—the kind that you don’t worry about what will come next month, next week, or even tomorrow morning.” She’s right. She’s unfortunately, perfectly right. I sigh, clutching the belt of my robe, twisting it half to death.