I squint at his borderline nonsensical philosophizing. “I suppose.”
I reach to clutch the cloth on his forehead, wipe his face again, and then refold it and drape it back across his skin. And since he’s apparently rendered to a candid, docile state as a result of fever, I’m overcome with temptation to hash through all of it further.
“I hope you understand that I don’t have any memory of what I did to you. I can’t trust my own mind. I don’t know what caused me to do that to you, but given what Papá told you, I hope it’s clear that there was obviously a lot wrong with me. I don’t know what happened that caused me to do all the things I did. Least of all what I did to you. And I’m sorry for all of it, but I’m more sorry for that than anything else. It’s not what I wanted.”
“You wanted,” he picks back up, still speaking through slow, low words, “freedom to live. You wanted to be let go. So, I let you go.”
I squint harder as I just can’t even make sense of such a thing. “I said that to you?”
“A text message… but yes.” He swallows. “You sent a string of text messages. You turned off your phone. You disappeared. Before that, you said you wanted to be let go so you could live. So, I let you go.”
My pulse is now pounding in my ears. “And you just let me go over a string of text messages? You didn’t even try to—”
“I did try. I called. For weeks.” Malachi draws in another deep breath. “You were very clear about what you wanted, but I did try. You couldn’t have been more clear. This was what you wanted. So, I let you go, and I left. I loved you enough to let you go.”
I have to clasp my hands together in my lap as they’re now shaking with adrenaline. “And yet, you don’t hate me.” A huff of disbelief bursts from my throat. “I don’t believe that, but I hate myself enough for both of us, so I suppose it’s inconsequential.”
He blindly lifts his hand and it lands on the thick mass of my hair draping over the side of my arm. His fingers weakly clutch at the strands, index finger twirling around them. “I loved you… more than anything… you were perfect… perfection is a lie.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “I suppose that’s accurate.” Sniffling back the urge to cry, I wrap my hand around his. “The doctor is on his way, but I’m going to draw you a bath. I think you would feel better if you let yourself soak for a bit.”
He hums again. “I would assume you’d wish this sickness would kill me.”
I arch one eyebrow at him despite his eyes remaining closed. “Why would I wish that upon you?” Rage and frustration at my behavior that I can’t even remember strums below my sternum. “You did nothing wrong. You reached out to my father when you heard about a threat on my life. You married me to protect me from it. Your treatment of me is my penance, and I’m indebted to you. You can expect continued compliance from me for the remainder of this marriage. My own behavior stole every choice and option I ever had. I’m at your complete and total mercy, and you have my word that I’ll do whatever I have to to make this arrangement as painless for you as possible.” I set his hand on his chest and stand up. “However, right now, I think you should try to cooperate with me, because a bath would honestly help you feel better.”
“Mmmm…” He nestles his face sideways against the pillow and says nothing else.
In the en suite, I fill the massive, clawfoot tub and roll the information over in my mind.
I ruined us both. I shattered all the hopes and dreams that we’d had since childhood. Neither of us have a prayer of ever being happy like that again. I would venture to guess that even simple happiness is a pipe dream because now we’re trapped in this marriage, living with a constant reminder of what was. And we’re only trapped in this marriage because Malachi is committed to protecting me despite what I did.
Staring at the clear, colorless water while it slowly swirls and inches up the sides of the tub, I picture him at twenty years old, checking his phone, and seeing such text messages. I consider the panic and turmoil of being blindsided like that and not being able to get a hold of me. I remember the day my parents brought me home and the guttural drop of my stomach after briefly speaking to Malachi’s family. Because of that, I have a general idea of what he probably felt, but I’m sure it doesn’t even come close.
A searing pain slices across my chest, but I do not let myself cry. I don’t deserve to cry. This was all my doing, regardless of my faulty brain wiping away the knowledge of it.
The water is now about halfway up the sides of the tub, and I wonder what Malachi would do if I drowned myself.
Would he be relieved, or would it only contribute to the pain I already inflicted upon him?
The only thing that keeps me from holding my own head under the water is the idea that it would cause even more complications that he shouldn’t have to deal with.
Instead, I reach for a glass bottle of luxury bath oil and pour some into the water, then stir my arm through it. I return to the side of the bed and wipe his face with the cloth once more before pulling back the sheet, revealing only black boxer briefs and thick, muscled thighs.
I slip my hand under one of his shoulders and give him a nudge. “Up, up, cariño.” The term of endearment is automatic and accidental, but he seems to respond to it, such is his state of delirium.
“Ugghh…” he grumbles, but slowly pushes himself up anyway. “This room is too fucking cold.”
I drape his arm around my shoulders, bracing him with all of my weight as I lead him toward the en suite. “The bath is nice and warm.”
We pause next to the bath and I prop him up with his shoulder against a wall, then strip off the boxer briefs. Fully naked, he is gloriously, beautifully masculine, and every part of me hurts at the idea that I will never again be lovingly wrapped up in his large, solid, strong, fully encompassing embrace.
Standing behind him, I wrap my arms around his torso and turn him toward the bath. “Step in carefully.”
Malachi compliantly lifts one leg and then the other to step into the water, then all but drops himself to recline in the tub. The water splashes around him as he submerges himself up to his neck and lets his head fall to one side.
“Hmm.” His strong, tapered fingers do an absent flit through the water at his side. “Nice.”
I kneel next to the tub and dip one hand in, cupping the water in my palm, then pouring it through his hair. “I told you so.”
For long minutes, I pour water over his hair and comb it back with my fingers, staring at his face, all the while every manner of grief aches throughout me. Like I’m gripped with the deep, throbbing ache of fever as well.
Fresh grief over the most recent loss of an unborn baby. Old grief over the loss of the previous one. Brand new grief over the panging realization that the chasm in the universe that now separates Malachi and me is my own doing. Residual grief over the loss of the person I loved more than anything. Grief at the idea of what he endured at my hands.
The lump in my throat is large enough now to suffocate me, and I let the tears come silently. “I’m sorry, Malachi. With all my heart, I hope you know how sorry I am.”
“If you’re so sorry,” he mumbles with a slight edge to his subdued tone, “why did you file a fucking police report? What did you hope to accomplish with that?”