by Eve Langlais
Whatever the case, my kitten wasn’t easy to grab and snuggle anymore, but he kept me warm at night when he slept on my bed.
I scratched Grisou behind the ears, and his aircraft carrier rumble brought a smile. “I missed you, too. Maybe next week you can come to the shop with me. See if there’s any mice.”
My cat cocked his head as if thinking about it then sauntered off, tail in the air. His version of “I’ll let you know at my convenience.” His attitude made me understand all the cat memes I’d seen over the years. They truly were feline gods.
I knocked on the basement door and waited for a shout to go down a flight. Geoff was parked on the couch in front of his new gaming center.
He cast me a quick glance. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey right back at you. I just got home.”
“You looking for some company?” He paused the game.
Just as I was about to say yeah, that would be awesome, his phone rang. He grabbed it and glanced at the screen.
He sighed. “It’s Helena. I’ll call her back.”
Helena his fiancée? “You should answer. I’m tired and going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. Say hi for me.”
“Will do. Love ya.”
It was casual, but I soaked it up as I headed upstairs to the main floor then another flight to my room. There was a time I would have huffed and puffed. Now, I was just energized.
A bath would be nice, but I hesitated. The last time I took a bath, my home was invaded by winged imps and a giant demon that wanted to fight.
And ignorant little me won. I’d won without any kind of knowledge or skill, and I knew more now. I wouldn’t let fear control me.
I ran the bath and went looking for reading material. The family tree book taunted, but I feared getting annoyed enough that I’d intentionally drop it in the tub to ruin it. I found myself instead scrounging under the bed and pulling out Martin’s box. I dragged it into the open and scrounged inside for the journals, eyeing the dates. The one I grabbed covered the year before Winnie’s birth.
Martin was her dad. The journal would confirm it.
I took the thick, hard-covered book into the bathroom and set it on a stool by the tub, along with my phone just in case the crazy was too much and I wanted to play Candy Crush. It was relaxing to the extreme.
I stepped into the tub and had a sighing moment as the heat relaxed me. My eyes shut, and I reflected on my day, which—other than the visit from Kane’s mom—was a good one. Even the bit in the alley where I protected myself had been good. I’d come a long way from the woman contemplating suicide when her husband dumped her.
And I was still only halfway there. I had another possible forty to fifty years to go. To learn. To grow. To be happy.
I couldn’t wait. So why with this new attitude was I contemplating reading Martin’s personal thoughts? Did I really want to find out why my ex-husband started to hate me? See what he thought of me?
At times I thought there was a sadist in all of us that felt the need to understand why. Forget the hurt knowing would bring. I needed an answer. What did I do wrong?
I opened my dead husband’s journal, invading his privacy in a way I’d have never done when he lived, and became quickly confused. A few pages in and I realized this wasn’t the story of a man who hated his life or his wife.
July thirteenth.
Work today was tough. Pretty sure the new boss hates me. But I can’t let the family down. Geoff’s birthday is coming up, and I am getting him that Power Wheel even if Omi doesn’t think he needs it.
I paused for a moment, my throat tight. I’d forgotten about Omi. It was what Martin used to call me. Said Naomi was for strangers, but he was my best friend.
Tears pricked my eyes. Blubbering over the fact there was a time we were happy. When he loved me and the kids.
But something obviously changed.
I skimmed the next few months. Most of his posts were mundane and short summaries. Sometimes he’d skip days and write a longer paragraph. I even came across a random, Love my wife. Love my life.
Then the post for Geoff’s birthday. Big boy turning two. And he got his Power Wheel.
His face was priceless. I knew Geoff would love the truck, and he is a natural behind the wheel. Omi screams every time he intentionally crashes into the bushes. Cracks Geoff up each time. I love that kid. It would be nice to have another. Maybe a girl.
The statement hit me hard and made me wonder if I should get Winnie to read this. Her relationship with her dad had always been poor. Even as a baby, he never took to her like he did with Geoff. He tried, and yet at the same time, as the kids got older, he got meaner.
This small glimpse of a different Martin might help. The man might not have been good in his later years, but he didn’t start out that way.
So what changed him?
I kept reading, summer rolling into the fall, and smiled at the picture he’d taped into the book. A Polaroid, because he hated waiting for film to get developed. This was a time before people documented everything with their phones. The comment under it. My hot wife.
It was me and Martin, dressed as Al and Peggy Bundy from Married with Children. It meant I had my hair teased and sprayed red. Hot pants and heels. Curvy, with my boobs shoved into some crazy cleavage. I looked healthy and, if padded, not yet fat. I’d lost most of my pregnancy weight from Geoff. Martin hugged me close and smiled wide. I recalled why.
A quickie in between taking little Geoff trick-or-treating around the block and before the sitter arrived to babysit our little guy, who was in bed. Martin hadn’t been able to resist my ass, or so he claimed. We’d had a quick romp and then gone to an adult Halloween party. I’d said later on that was the night we conceived Winnie.
I flipped the page, and there was only a single line for November first.
Something happened last night. I think
The sentence didn’t finish. Two weeks went by of nothing. A big gap given the previous half of the book. The next entry was November fifteenth, and it was a scrawling mess.
Why can’t I remember? I know something happened. To me. To Omi. She’s not been herself. And how does she not know where those bruises came from?
I froze, and my chest tightened. What was he talking about? What did he think happened at the Halloween block party? As far as I knew, we had fun. Hard to recall since I got wasted.
The next entry came three days later. She’s late.
The words chilled me. Because that would have been when I suspected I was pregnant. A test confirmed it. We’d conceived Winnie.
The suspicion in my husband’s mind fermented as my belly grew. He thought the baby wasn’t his. That I’d cheated on him at that party.
Did I? I didn’t remember much, but Martin kept living it over and over, his conjecture getting wild as it drove him slightly mad.
Does she not like having sex with me? Is that why she did what she did? Maybe nothing happened. Do I get a test done to see if it’s mine?
At the time I hadn’t seen his anxiety, or if I had, I ascribed it to stress. Martin had tried to keep it from me, but he spilled everything in his journal until March when he wrote:
I can’t believe I forgot we had sex on Halloween. Omi reminded me when she asked if I wanted her to dress up as Peggy again. Maybe take me in the bathroom over the counter like I did on Halloween. She thinks that’s the night we made the baby.
The next few months, he flipped back to happy Martin, and I was more confused than ever. The book ended with a picture of newborn Winnie with the caption, Daddy’s girl.
My bath was still warm, yet I exited and did a naked run to my bedroom, leaving wet steps in my wake. I wanted the next book. What looked like a lot of reading didn’t take much time with the looping large writing and pictures. It took only a second of sorting to find the next few years in the series.
Before I started reading, I added more hot water to my bath. I planned to be a wrinkled prune by the time I got out.
> The first book, I skimmed. Happy Martin. Happy. Happy. I found it when Winnie, around the age of five, had her tonsils removed.
She’s the wrong blood type.
What did he mean?
It had been too long since I’d done biology. My phone came in handy for a search.
I read it over a few times, but the statement remained the same. I was O. Winnie was O. No idea about Geoff since he never had any major accidents. But I knew Martin was AB.
Shit.
Martin wasn’t Winnie’s dad.
6
I slammed shut the journal. No way was Winnie reading this. Hell, I was fucking shaken. I’d just cemented my decision to set the damned lot of journals on fire and roast some Halloumi cheese over it since marshmallows weren’t allowed on my diet.
Was Martin’s behavior seriously because he thought I’d cheated on him and had someone else’s child? That was insane. Why not confront me and deal with it head-on?
We could have done some genetic testing. Proven she belonged to us. I had no doubt she was mine. After all, I’d pushed her out, and as added proof, she looked a lot like I did at her age.
Martin, though, let his suspicion ferment rather than confront. Chose to hate us rather than leave. Which made me think of things he’d said over the years. “Too expensive to divorce you.” “I ain’t giving you half.” “I’ll kill you before I let you walk with a single red cent.”
In the end he’d tried to get rid of me and failed at it. It was pathetic and sad really that instead of being honest so we could work through it, he’d let jealousy turn him ugly.
If I wanted to take some of the blame, maybe instead of ignoring his obvious discontent, I should have tackled it head-on. I could have asked him what was wrong and pushed back when the verbal attitude and abuse started.
Could have. Should have.
The past was done. I lived in the now. And in the now, I wouldn’t let anyone treat me like crap ever again.
The water in the tub sloshed as I shifted in agitation. My phone rang. I eyed it and leaned to see the screen.
Unknown number.
Don’t answer. Probably a telemarketer. Who else would hide their identity?
I knew of one person who’d tried calling me three times since the store incident. He went to voicemail each time. Had he clued in I wasn’t going to answer and hidden his identity?
The call ended. A moment later my phone vibrated.
I peeked. The symbol for a message appeared. And then a box with a text message, also from Unknown.
I didn’t take you for a coward.
Had he met me? Biggest pussy around.
I frowned. I wasn’t that person anymore.
You going to answer me, or are you too busy masturbating while picturing me between your legs.
My mouth rounded. You’re disgusting. I couldn’t help but reply.
Don’t tell me you’ve never touched yourself.
Admit it? Never. Go away, Kane.
I knew you were thinking of me. How else would you know who this is?
I bit my lower lip before typing, Only you ever disrespect me like this.
Disrespect you by acknowledging you’re an attractive woman?
I don’t like it.
Liar.
How did he know his words gave me a cheap thrill? I was supposed to be strong. I didn’t need a man. I didn’t need validation. And yet, the fact he treated me as a desirable creature melted all kinds of inhibitions. I tingled between the legs. I wanted to touch myself, and it was his fault.
I furiously typed, I told you to leave me alone.
I can’t.
Why? I paused before hitting Send. He wanted me to ask. Would probably reply with something filthy. And sexy.
I deleted my text and chose not to send a reply.
Naomi, my luscious witch, is your lack of reply because you’re touching yourself in that big bathtub of yours?
How? I didn’t realize I’d typed until I hit Send. I blinked.
How do I know where you are and what you’re doing? Someone has to keep you safe. Watch over you so you can sleep.
Wait, did he imply… I rose from the tub, water sluicing from me, only to wonder if he had the right angle to see through the window. Never mind the lace curtains would confound, I dropped down hard enough to splash.
Did he skulk in my woods? And what did he mean keep me safe?
I don’t need you spying on me.
Why spy when you’ll invite me to share your bed soon enough.
Ha. Yup, I typed it, and I hoped it conveyed all my disdain. In case it didn’t, I added laughing emojis.
My phone lit up. I’m going to screenshot this so that once we do become lovers you can apologize for being so stubborn and wrong. Let it be known, it can come in the form of oral or cookies. Homemade, preferably with chocolate chips.
We will never be lovers.
I wager one day you’ll be begging me to fuck you. To lick you head to toe and make you scream as you come for me.
It was utterly filthy, dirty, hot, and bothersome. I had two choices. Make myself come or confront the bastard harassing me. I threw on a sweatshirt and some leggings, my slick body making it hard to yank on, and stomped downstairs. I flung open the back door and yelled, “Where the hell are you?”
“Right here, waiting for my treat.”
7
Kane scared the piss out of me almost literally. I credit my masturbation of late for tightening that muscle enough I didn’t end up with a flooding situation.
On the other hand, I almost died of a heart attack. My heart beat hard enough to almost come out of my chest.
I took my irritation out on him. “You!”
“Yes, me. Did you miss me?” he drawled, leaning on the post holding up my porch roof.
“Like you miss a wart once you’ve frozen it off.”
He didn’t seem perturbed. He grinned, a wide smile in that craggy face. “Still protesting too much. Admit it. You want me.”
“I came outside to tell you to fuck off.”
“Now, sweetheart.”
I waved my hand. “Don’t you start with that sweetheart shit. My name is Naomi, or better yet, Ms. Rousseaux.”
“I’d say we’re too intimate for that.”
“We’re nothing. But you’re a pest. This is harassment.”
He laughed. “So have me charged.”
“I have a better idea.” Make that hex or two I might try. “How attached are you to your hair?”
He grabbed his chest. “And here all I’m trying to do is protect you.”
I snorted. “Sexual harassment hardly keeps me safe.”
“It’s only harassment if you’re not enjoying it.”
I gaped at him. “That is the most misogynistic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“And you’re cute when you’re pretending to be offended.”
“I am not pretending!” I huffed hotly. Part lie. I did get too much of a thrill from his ardent pursuit. I needed to work on my self-esteem obviously.
“If you say so, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me that!” I wouldn’t admit it was cute. It should have been Darryl saying it, not Kane.
“Ask me nicely.”
I glared.
He laughed.
“You still haven’t said why you’re really here.”
“Protection.”
“Against?”
“Forces of darkness.”
“I thought you took care of them the other night.” It occurred to me that with him on my doorstep, I could quickly ask a few questions then send him on his way. While he kept disarming me with words, he kept far enough away that I wasn’t overwhelmed by his presence.
“While we did make a dent, it wasn’t enough to permanently rout them. They were thwarted but will try again.”
“And who is this ‘they’?”
He pressed his lips into a line. “Best you don’t know. Already there are too many involved.”
>
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Because it’s too complicated to explain.”
“Then what can you tell me?” I asked with exasperation.
“You’re in danger.”
“From what? Because my biggest threat is dead.”
He snorted. “Your ex-husband was hardly the worthy villain.”
“Says a huge villain.”
“That would depend on perception. Some would call me hero.”
My turn to make a sound. “I can’t see that happening; you’re too bad.”
“I know.” He smirked.
“Does this have to do with The Chill?”
“The what?”
“The Chill? When the world around me goes frosty and it feels like some big, crushing presence is trying to squash me.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “An apt name for an ancient construct.”
“You know what it is.”
“It’s not the thing you should fear the most.”
“And what would that be?”
“I really shouldn’t say.” He played coy. I wanted to smack him, but that would require getting close.
“How do you know these things? What do you know about magic?”
“Ditch Darryl and I’ll teach you.” He purred the words, and I shivered. I had a feeling his kind of magic didn’t involve clothes.
“I am not dumping Darryl.”
“Your loss. Now if you don’t mind, you’re very distracting and I should be paying attention.”
I dared any woman to not preen under that praise. “No one’s making you stay.”
“Exactly. I’m here protecting you despite the fact you’re determined to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.” Not anymore. My feelings were much too complex for that.
His expression sobered. “I wish I could tell you more, but there is a reason your grandmother never told you about your heritage. A reason why she let you leave.”
“Is this where you tell me I should have never come back?”
He shook his head. “You can’t hide from fate.”
Was he alluding to us again? He and I weren’t fated to be anything but adversaries.
