If I Could Do It Again

by Ashley Stoyanoff

  God, were we ever happy together?

  If we were, I can’t see it … can’t feel it.

  “That’s it,” I say, my voice a breathless whisper. “I’m done.”

  And I mean it this time.

  I’m well and truly done.

  He flinches when I say it, his expression falling as his gaze settles on me, his cold eyes staring me down. He laughs once. “I can’t believe I wasted three years of my life on you. I swear to God you and your little convict are going to pay for the bullshit you’ve put me through these last few months.”

  Those words make me tremble. His tone isn’t sharp, but it’s definitely serious. It’s not an empty threat, I don’t think. My skin tingles, that frosty look in his eyes freezing my blood. I believe him, believe that he won’t rest until he’s destroyed my life, but knowing that doesn’t change my mind. Maybe I should stay with him, but I don’t want to.

  I don’t think I can.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He says nothing as he stares at me. Nothing about what he wants from me, but somehow, I already know.

  He wants me.

  It sends a chill down my spine.

  “Richard, please,” I say, hating the desperation I hear in my voice. “I can’t do this anymore. It’s over. It’s been over for a long time.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “If you want to leave, then leave. I’m not stopping you, but you screwed me, and I promise you, if you leave I’ll screw you just as hard.”

  “Who are you?” I ask. “Where’s that nice man I married? You weren’t always this … bitter, this … vindictive.”

  “I am the same—” He pauses for a beat, shaking his head. “I haven’t changed, Vic. You’re the one that’s changed.”

  I can’t really argue with that.

  Guilty.

  I have changed.

  But so has he.

  “The way I see it, you’ve got a choice here,” he says after a moment. “You can cut him out of your life and stay. I’ll forget all of this and we can move on. Or you can leave. I’ll go to the media with your story, and your father. I’ll make sure everyone knows what a whore you are. I’ll destroy your business and your name, and then I’ll take everything that’s left. Every goddamn penny.”

  I swallow hard. “You couldn’t. All of this is just as much mine as it is yours.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he says coolly. “But are you willing to lose your career for a murderer?”

  “Stop calling him that!”

  “Why?” he asks. “That’s what he is. A coldblooded murderer.”

  I can see what he’s trying to do here, the doubt he’s trying to plant. “I think I hate you.”

  He stares at me for a moment. “You should feel lucky. I’m willing to forget it all. All you have to do is cut him out of your life.”

  I laugh. Lucky? Nothing about this makes me feel lucky.

  Richard stands up then, walking toward the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, glancing back at me. “I’m taking Julia to the Hawaii beach house for a couple weeks. Think about it, sweetheart. I expect your decision by the time I get back.”

  I sit there for a moment, hesitating, watching as Richard disappears upstairs, before finally getting up and walking back out the door, grabbing my bag as I leave.

  There’s nothing to think about.

  Nothing at all.

  I put my bag back in the trunk and get into my car, starting it up as I dig for my phone in my purse. Finding it, I shoot off a quick text to Becca.

  ME: Are you home?

  BECCA: Yup. What’s up?

  ME: Richard has a visitor of the woman variety. Mind if I crash with you tonight?

  BECCA: WTF? He’s cheating? R U OK?

  ME: I’m fine. Great, actually. It’s finally over.

  BECCA: Yay! *Happy Dance* The door’s open. C U soon.

  ME: Thanks.

  It’s a fifteen-minute drive to Becca’s house. I turn on the radio, blasting the music, and try to think of something—anything—except the reality of my situation.

  By the time I make it there, I’ve almost convinced myself that Richard’s threats were empty. He won’t go to the media. He’s too worried about his reputation to shine a spotlight on our failing relationship. I turn into Becca’s driveway, parking behind her silver Focus, and slip the car in park, turning it off.

  Becca had turned on the outside light for me. Getting out, I pull my bag out of the trunk and pad up to the house, letting myself in.

  “Becca?” I call out as I close the door behind me, locking it as I dump my bag at the door.

  “In the kitchen,” she calls out.

  Kicking off my shoes, I head down the entry hallway, and step into the large kitchen, stalling at the doorway when I spot Becca standing at the island, pouring two shots of tequila.

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I don’t want to talk. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

  “Shit, babe,” Becca mutters, giving me a thorough onceover. “You look awful. Are you okay?”

  Sighing, I walk over to the island and hop up onto one of the tall bar-style stools. “That’s because I’ve been driving all day.”

  She lets out a dry laugh and slides a shot over to me. “Right. Drink up. It’ll make you feel better.”

  I cut my eyes at her. “A shower and a good night’s sleep will make me feel better.”

  “Okay, fine,” she says, sitting down beside me and offering me a small smile. The sight of it makes me feel a little more at ease. “Drink up. It’ll make me feel better.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Fine, but I don’t want to talk about it. Not tonight.”

  “Sure …” Becca grins, and then downs her shot. “So, is Joshua as hot in person as his pictures?”

  I smile at her. God, I love my best friend. “He’s even hotter.”

  15

  Google Is Not My Friend

  Richard didn’t get to me.

  He didn’t.

  Not even a little.

  Joshua isn’t a coldblooded murderer.

  I click on another Google headline, this one reading: Who Brings Guns To A Bar Brawl?

  Joshua Larson, age twenty-one, has been sentenced to eight years in prison, with an extra four years of extended supervision, after shooting a man during a bar brawl.

  I scan through the article, and then use the find function, searching for one word: knife. Nothing. None of the articles mention finding the knife that the other man supposedly had. On the contrary, they all say it was never found.

  Returning to my search, I click on another heading: Joshua Larson Receives Maximum Sentence.

  And then I click on another: Joshua Larson Beats 1st Degree Murder Charge, But Convicted On Another.

  Larson claimed self-defense, although this wasn’t particularly believable. He went to the bar that night wearing his motorcycle gang colors and armed with a .38. This was not a man intending to drink in peace.

  God, they’re all the same. The articles all reference his membership in a motorcycle club and the fact that he was wearing his colors. They talk about the victim, though none gives a clear picture of what the fight was even about.

  Leaning back in my chair, I click the back button, returning to my search. God, I wish Becca didn’t have to work today. Her house is too … quiet without her here. Nearly as lonely as mine.

  It’s a little before ten o’clock in the morning and I’m already tired, exhausted really, and kind of hungry.

  I need food.

  And a nap.

  I should probably go home. I bet Richard is already on a plane by now; he always books morning flights, but sleeping in that house, in the bed that he just shared with another woman, doesn’t sound appealing. Not even a little.

  Is it crazy that I’m still missing Joshua even while reading these articles?

  Probably.

  I’m a goddamn mess.

  He’s called twice already this morning, an
d I’ve ignored them both, but damn it, I feel lonely as hell, missing a man who I’m beginning to think I have no business missing.

  “Oh, Google, I thought we were friends,” I mutter to the computer as I scroll through yet another article. “You’re not being a very good friend right now.”

  My phone rings for the third time. I glance at it, seeing Joshua’s number flashing across the screen once again. Growing frustrated with my searches and the ringing, I finally answer it, accepting the call.

  “My beautiful angel, what are you up to?”

  The sound of his voice makes me smile. God, I love the way the sound causes my belly to dip a little.

  “Not much,” I say, not wanting to admit that I’ve been googling him for the last few hours. “Sorry I missed your calls this morning.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I figured you’d probably sleep in today after that drive.”

  I wish I had slept in.

  Silence falls. I don’t respond, because admitting that I was simply ignoring his calls doesn’t sound like a good plan.

  “So talk to me, baby girl. Why are you so quiet this morning?”

  “Well, Richard’s having an affair,” I say right away. “She was at the house when I got home last night, and he’s taking her to our house in Hawaii for a couple weeks.”

  “Baby girl,” he says, his voice turning concerned. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  He means it. I can hear the sincerity in his voice. But his soothing tone punctures a hole in me and like a flash flood, all my stress and anxiety and fear comes pouring out.

  “He’s going to ruin my life if I don’t stay with him,” I cry. My eyes are burning, tears welling up and leaking out no matter how quickly I try to blink them away. “He’s going to ruin my name and my books and … and …” A sob chokes me and I gasp in a ragged breath. “He’s going to …”

  “Baby,” he says gently, cutting me short. “You need to pull it together, okay? Everything’s going to be okay. We’ll figure all this out.”

  How? How is it going to be okay? I want to scream the question, but I don’t. I can’t.

  “Okay,” I whisper instead, nodding my head and sniffling. “Okay.”

  He’s quiet for a beat, taking a deep breath. “Are you upset he’s cheating?”

  “No.” My response is immediate, and perhaps a little too quick to make it believable, but it’s true. I’m not upset about that. I’m … glad. Happy, even. I’m definitely relieved that it’s finally over.

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “I’m sure,” I tell him softly.

  “Alright,” he says, though his tone tells me he’s still not one-hundred percent sure I’m telling the truth. He pauses for a second, before stating, “I’ve got to tell you, I’m not really surprised he’s pulling this shit. I knew something was going to happen while you were away and with me.”

  His statement causes my spine to snap straight and the last of my tears dry up. I frown. “How could you possibly know that?”

  I didn’t know. Maybe I’m a fool, but when Richard said I should go and meet Joshua, even if his delivery was malicious and hurtful, I believed he was okay with it. I thought he really wanted me to figure things out.

  “Once someone does something once,” he says, “they’re willing to do it again, and Richard has been threatening you in one way or another since you married him.”

  Once someone does something once …

  No, stop. Don’t even think about that. This isn’t about Joshua. It isn’t.

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  This is all about Joshua.

  I rub my hands roughly across my face. “He told me I have to choose, you or him. And if I don’t stay with him, he’s going to go to the media with my story and ruin my career.”

  I wait for Joshua’s response. He sighs long and loud. “Well, beautiful, if he does that, would that really even hurt your career? You’re a romance author that fell in love. Your readers will love it.”

  Dammit! Why is he so calm about this?

  I shut my eyes, trying to relax my stiff muscles, and take a couple deep breaths. Okay. Maybe he’s on to something here. Would my readers care about this? Is it possible they’d think that a relationship with a convict is romantic? Sexy even?

  Possibly.

  But my dad …

  “He threatened to tell my dad everything so he knows what a little slut I am.”

  “Well, I really hope he wouldn’t stoop that low,” he says, and I can hear the scowl in his voice. “Maybe he’s just angry and it’s an empty threat, but would your family really care what he has to say? Your dad raised you, he knows who you are and what you’re like. I don’t think he’d even listen to Richard.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t told him about you.” I laugh once. “I can’t see my dad approving of me writing to someone in prison, let alone me dating someone in prison.”

  “I completely understand that,” he says, his voice genuine and not the least bit surprised. “I wouldn’t want my sisters talking to someone in prison nor dating them. But we found love and one of these days, you’re going to have to tell your family, and when you feel like you’re ready to tell them, that’s the time to do it. There’s no rush for anything.”

  I shut my eyes once again. How can he be so calm about this? I don’t know, but he sure levels me out. Five minutes on the phone and all of this doesn’t seem that bad.

  How the hell does he do it? How does he change me from a sobbing, frazzled ball of nerves to feeling … peaceful?

  We’re different, so, so different. Our lives, our personalities. He’s used to violence, confronting his issues head on, where I’m more of the stress quietly type.

  And yet, here we are. I’m obsessed with him, and I have a feeling he isn’t too far behind me.

  He’s special, I think, and I swear, he was made just for me.

  “I wasn’t sleeping in this morning,” I confess. “I ignored your calls because I was Googling you again.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” I say shamefully, “Richard got to me last night and well, what if I’m making a mistake with you? What if this is all a huge mistake?”

  “What if it’s not?” he prods. “What if you don’t give us your all and this is your one chance to be happy for the rest of your life. You know if you don’t try this with me, if you just stop now, that for the rest of your life you’ll be thinking about the ‘what ifs.’”

  He’s right. I know it, feel it, but still …

  “They don’t say very nice things about you online. They say you were out looking for a fight, that you aren’t a good man.”

  “Beautiful,” he says on a deep exhale, “I’ve told you before, I don’t like you Googling me. Half the things they wrote online are lies. All the media want people to do is read it. It’s not even accurate. You know the real me, baby.”

  “Do I?” I ask, my voice dropping as regret tightens my chest. I stare at the computer blankly, suddenly wishing I’d never turned it on.

  We had such great visits.

  We were happy.

  I was happy.

  “Baby, you—” He stalls, letting out a sigh. “Of course you do. What you saw over the weekend is exactly who I really am. This isn’t a game to me. I truly love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  Silence falls.

  It’s long. It’s awkward. I try to break it, but my mouth isn’t working, my voice stuck in my throat.

  And then, the one-minute warning sounds.

  “I’ll call you right back, okay?”

  He doesn’t wait for my response before hanging up. I toss my phone down, waiting for it to ring again.

  It does.

  Reaching for it, I pick it up and answer the call. I swear the recording takes forever this time, far longer than it ever has before. When I’m finally prompted to accept the call, I do, and then I wait for it to connect.

  “I don’t trust you si
tting there, living with Richard,” Joshua says right away. “You need to just leave him. Slowly, he’s been getting worse and worse and I’m afraid one day he might do something that you won’t be able to come back from.”

  I scoff. “He won’t do anything.”

  And I’m ninety-nine percent sure of that. Richard is not the violent type. He yells, he says hurtful things, but he wouldn’t physically hurt me.

  It’s just not his style.

  “You say that now, baby, but you probably didn’t think he’d threaten to ruin your career if you leave him. Or that he’d call your father and tell him what a whore he thinks you are. So I really don’t think you know him too well, because if you did, you would have seen this coming.”

  My stomach knots. “What if I don’t know you as well as I think I do? Everything I saw online … it just … you’re not the sweet guy you show me.”

  “Every time you read something online, it’s going to make you question me,” he says, “but deep down in your heart you know that the guy you see is who I am.”

  I laugh sharply, my stomach twisting tighter. “I thought I really knew who Richard was, too.”

  “But baby, you were never in love with Richard the way you’re in love with me now.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say, an angry bite to the words. “So now I’m blinded by love. How can I even trust what I think or feel with you?”

  My response makes him chuckle, genuinely amused. “Is that so bad to be in love? People try their whole lives to find what we’ve found together. And yeah, I’m in prison, but one day I won’t be and if we can make it through this, the hardest part of our relationship, the rest of our lives will be easy. These couple years will seem like nothing when we’re ninety years old, lying in bed together.”

  I laugh once, twice, three times, and then it just pours out of me, nerves, I think, and it takes a moment for me to stop. “I don’t even want to think about being ninety years old.”

  “As long as I’m next to you,” he says, “it doesn’t matter, baby.”