by Shauna Allen
God.
Maybe there was something I wasn’t seeing, something I could do to help us. But, what? He was still so focused on one-upping some invisible scale of his worth and making more money. I grew up with more money than I needed. I didn’t want that life again. Why couldn’t he understand he was the only treasure I cared about?
My eyes fluttered down to my belly. Well, one of my only treasures.
After I finished up with Mrs. Henderson in a thankfully quiet session, I moved to my small office for a lunch break. I pulled out the tuna sandwich I’d brought from home and a bottle of water. What I wouldn’t give for a Diet Dr. Pepper.
I took a bite and checked my phone. Nothing from Blake or Rachel.
I texted her a quick message, grasping for some kind of connection. U OK? Checking in. Luv u, call me if u need anything
Thx was her only reply.
I’d give her some time. She really, really loved her dad and I’d always been a bit envious of their relationship. But I wouldn’t let her wallow too long, I’d be there for her like she was always there for me.
The rest of my day passed by in a blur until it was finally time to go home. Out in the lobby, Dr. McCollum and Leta were grinning, bent over his cell phone.
“Hey, Delilah,” she said. “Come look at Doc’s baby. Too cute!”
My stomach lurched at the word ‘baby,’ but I pasted on a smile and walked over to peek. Samuel was turning into quite the toothy cutie and I told them so.
“Thanks,” Dr. McCollum said, his eyes focused on mine for the first time. “You doing okay, Delilah? You’ve been kinda quiet today.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Just a little tired, I guess.”
He and Leta studied me, but I forced my smile wider and said my goodbyes as I pushed out the door into the chilly wind. I hugged myself to ward off the chill and hurried to my Corvette. Thankfully, heat started pumping from the vents pretty quickly and I started to drive. But something in me just couldn’t go home and face an empty house, which, given our spat, was what I knew I had to look forward to.
Instead, I stopped at Target and moseyed around for nothing in particular, though I did find myself in the baby aisles. I let myself touch all the soft, fuzzy blankets, the tiny socks, frilly dresses. I knew, even for all his talk about football teams, Blake had always wanted a daughter . . .
Was it too early to buy any of this stuff? I was about twelve weeks now, longer than I’d carried any of the other babies, but I still didn’t want to jinx anything. I was going to ask Blake when he wanted to start telling people, but there was a part of me that was still holding back and I couldn’t figure out why.
Finally, I bypassed the baby stuff and made my way to the books. My favorite section. I picked up a couple new releases by my favorite authors and a few private items from the toiletries section then checked out. Spying—or smelling, really—the Target popcorn in their snack area, I made a beeline, my tummy grumbling. Popcorn, Icee, and a hot dog, the dinner of champions.
Full and tired and needing a shower, I headed home. The sinking sun glowed a brilliant orange along the horizon, belying the cold I knew was outside. In our neighborhood, I waved at Miss Helga, who was outside taking out her trash, and rounded the curve of our street smiling at the Smith’s Christmas lights. They outdid themselves every year.
My foot lifted from the accelerator, slowing me, as warm fuzzies bubbled up in my chest.
Blake was home.
His electric blue Camaro sat parked in the driveway, its windows fogged with condensation. He must’ve been home a while.
I hurried and parked, grabbed my bags, and jogged to the front door. I slid my key in the lock, but the door opened easily. My eyes had to adjust to the dark since all the blinds were drawn and the house was eerily quiet.
I shut the door and put my bags down. “Blake?”
No answer. Then I heard the faint hiss of the shower and followed it. The closer I got, I could make out the beat of the water interspersed with deep moans. What the . . . ?
I slammed open the bathroom door and ripped back the curtain . . . not to what I was expecting, that was for sure. Curled up in the bottom of the tub, his knees drawn to his chest, his head bent, Blake was shaking and groaning like he was in excruciating pain.
On impulse, I stepped in, steam billowing around me, hot water slapping against my back as I knelt next to him. “Blake? Honey, what’s wrong?”
He said nothing so I adjusted myself until I was behind him and wrapped my arms around his. I placed my cheek to his back and began shushing him with gentle murmurs. He didn’t look to be hurt, so whatever this was, it was mental pain, which was worse because there wasn’t anything I could do. Except hold him. So that’s what I did.
Gradually, his shivering subsided and I squeezed him tighter. “Blake?”
He didn’t answer, but shifted his head toward my face, his breath brushing my lips. And that’s when I caught the distinct smell of hard liquor. I tensed. He was drunk? Alarm sliced through me. He’d given up the really hard stuff after that night with Candace, swearing to never be like his father. Other than the occasional beer, he’d steered clear of all alcohol. Or so I thought.
I straightened up. “Blake. Have you been drinking?”
He groaned and slumped into me. Yes, he’d definitely been drinking. Damn it. Why? I slid out from behind him and turned the water off, leaving us in the silence of the steamy bathroom. His dark, pained eyes finally sliced up to mine. And as much as I wanted to slap the shit out of him, the utter desolation in his eyes broke my heart.
I grabbed a towel from the rack and draped it over his shoulders. “Come on. Bed.”
He let me guide him out of the bathroom and to the bed, where I was able to dry him up and slide some pajama pants on him and tuck him into bed.
As I switched off the lamp, his hand gripped mine before I could pull away. I stared down at him in the dark room.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Yeah. I know.”
His hand slid over to my belly in a caress. “I’m sorry . . . it’s over.”
I left the room like a zombie. On autopilot, I dried off and dressed as disbelief and confusion whirled through me like poison, topped with a healthy dose of nearly unbearable hurt.
After all his talk about working things out, he was throwing it all away?
It’s over . . .
Was I some kind of gullible idiot, constantly falling for Blake, always believing his lines? Had I wasted the last ten years of my life on a lie? Maybe pushing for the divorce was the right thing, even if it wasn’t what my heart wanted. It was what was best. For all of us.
No.
I sunk to the couch with my hand pressed to my stomach. I refused to believe that. We’d been happy once upon a time. At least Blake convinced me of that until his past and his demons caught up with us. How could we get past that? Or, I supposed, the real question was, could I live with it if he never did?
I curled up on my side and yanked the fleece blanket from the end of the sofa over me and tucked it under my chin. I squeezed my eyes shut as Blake’s scent spilled from the fabric.
As I stared into the darkness of our living room, I was suddenly overcome with sadness and utter exhaustion. This pregnancy was wearing me down and I was a hormonal train wreck. My parents’ words haunted me and I hated that they would revel in this.
I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer for strength. Then, about five seconds later, I was awakened . . . or at least it felt like five seconds. I blinked my eyes open to soft morning light filtering in through the curtains. I listened and heard some rustling down the hall. Blake.
My heart began to thump. What would he say? I panicked when the bedroom door opened and quiet footsteps padded down the hall toward me. I shut my eyes again and feigned sleep, hoping he couldn’t hear the thundering of my heart.
Nothing.
I didn’t move. Eventually, the scent of coffee drifted in from the kitchen. I would
go face him in a minute, but for now, I let myself relax in the comfort of the familiar . . . his moving around the house, clinking things in the kitchen, the smells of morning.
I startled when the couch dipped next to my hip, pressing my back into the cushion.
“Hey,” he said, his voice morning gravelly.
I let my eyes drift open and took him in. He didn’t look like he’d slept. His dark eyes were nearly black and sunken in, stubble coated his cheeks and he was still in the pajama pants I’d put him in last night.
“I could tell you were awake,” he said, offering me a steaming mug of coffee. “Here.”
I shifted and sat up to accept the coffee, pretending it wasn’t decaf. I nodded my thanks. “How could you tell I was awake?” I sipped to hide my embarrassment for not being able to face my own husband, no matter what had happened.
A rueful, half-smile tipped his lips. “I know just about everything about you by now, baby.”
I tilted my head.
“Your face,” he finally relented.
“My face?”
He sat back with a great sigh, running a hand across his head. “Yeah. When you’re not asleep, your brows wrinkle and your eyes do this twitchy thing.”
Huh. I sipped again then placed the coffee down on the table.
“I need to apologize,” he continued, his gaze on the ceiling. He rolled his head and looked at me. “I drank too much last night and I know I must’ve been a fuckin’ mess. I probably said things I shouldn’t have or didn’t mean. I’m sorry, Dee. I just . . . I had a terrible day. Beyond terrible. And I just snapped. Can you forgive me?”
“That depends. What happened?”
He sat up and leaned his elbows onto his knees, his head bowed. “The Spyder was stolen.”
I blinked at the top of his head. “What?”
He peered at me, his deep eyes mournful. “Someone broke into the shop, disabled the alarm system, trashed the place, then took the car. Our future was stolen, just like that. Gone. Over.”
It’s over . . .
I froze, not sure what to say. Surely, he hadn’t gotten in so over his head that he was banking on a stupid car to save our marriage? But as I stared at his forlorn form, it hit me. Yes, he had. God.
Pity for him sluiced through me. At the same time, a fresh wave of hopelessness gripped my heart in a merciless vise. All of it—our rocky, painful beginning with family drama, ten years of marriage, our children—all of it still came down to a car? Money? Some elusive, impossible goal he’d arbitrarily set to keep himself set apart from his father?
My head began shaking back and forth as tears tracked down my cheeks. “No,” I heard myself say on a pained whine like a wounded animal. “No,” I said louder, facing him and taking in his face as he studied me with concern.
“Babe?”
I lasered him with my gaze. “Do you want the divorce, Blake?”
His eyes widened. “What? No! But what—?”
“Are you sure about that?” I sat up stiffly, suddenly feeling exposed. “Because it sounds like, after all your talk of working shit out, that you’re giving up. And over what? A Porsche?”
He looked like I’d slapped him. But he didn’t speak. Damn it.
We really were over.
Blake
Why couldn’t she fucking see? This was so much deeper than a car or money or even my pride. As much as I loved her and this baby¸ I’d hit a big fucking brick wall, and no matter how I’d run and wrestled and persisted, I hadn’t become the man I needed to be. Losing my nest egg was just the final nail in my coffin. I wasn’t sure I’d recover from this, financially or mentally.
I wasn’t giving up. I’d never started the race.
Before I could open my mouth to speak, Dee jumped up and began to pace. “Sometimes, I swear, I don’t know what to do with you, Blake.” She raked a hand through her hair and yanked in frustration. I let her walk it off as she mumbled things about stubborn ass men.
“Babe,” I said.
She ignored me and strode to the front window to gaze outside. The morning sunlight caressed her skin and lit up the deep red streaks in her dark hair that was still in a sleepy disarray around her shoulders and down her back.
How could I make her understand? Especially when I didn’t fully understand it myself?
A sudden memory slammed into me with the force of a comet . . . something I hadn’t thought of in years and something I’d never shared with anyone since I was twelve-years-old.
I bust in the back door from shooting hoops down at the rec center. I’m hot and thirsty and dripping sweat like a sumo wrestler who’d just run a mile.
“Move it.” I shove my brother, Brent, aside as I yank open the fridge and grab a cold soda.
“Hey!” he protests, shoving me back just as I’m taking my first sip, making it spill down the front of my chest.
I narrow my eyes, ready to pummel him. He may be bigger than me, but he wasn’t tougher. I could kick his ass. “Punk . . .” I slam my drink down, ready to take him, anger still spiking my bloodstream after seeing my dad shove my mom around last night and feeling so helpless. I’d sworn, then and there, to do anything in my power to protect her.
“Boys!” Mom walks into the kitchen, her eyes lit with concern.
“I didn’t do anything,” Brent complains. “He pushed me.”
She faces me. I shrug, still brimming with anger that had nowhere to go. “Brent, go to your room,” she says without taking her eyes from me.
“But—” he starts.
“Go,” she says, waiting until he’s gone to move to the dining table. Her movements are slow, almost pained, and she looks like an old woman. She waits until I sit across from her then reaches over and grips my tight fist. “Blake, honey.”
I lift tear-filled eyes to her and try to suck it up, but I can’t. I’m pissed and hurting, and as angry as I am at my dad, I’m pissed at her too for taking his bullshit. When he’s not working, he’s still absent, lost in his beer and TV shows.
“Your father isn’t a bad man,” she says, making me roll my eyes. “He’s not. He’s had a rough life, faced a lot of pain.” She pauses and takes a deep breath. “Your grandpa used to beat him. Badly. He left home at fifteen to get away from it. I know he isn’t perfect, but he tries to provide for us. We have a roof over our heads and food on the table. And he swore when we had you boys that he’d never raise a hand to you.”
Shock fills me. I’d never known this. But it didn’t change a thing. I didn’t care that he worked or if he kept us in Ramen noodles and milk. He was a prick. “So he hurts you, Mom? How is that fair? He needs to pick on someone his own size. Let him hit me. Or Brent—”
“No!” she cries before visibly calming herself. “No. Honey. I’m sorry you had to see that last night, but he’s only done it once before. And only when he’s stressed and drinking. He doesn’t mean to hurt me . . .”
I cannot fathom this. I just can’t.
She lifts her own teary eyes to mine and reaches up to caress my cheek. “You’re a lot like him, Blake. And before you take that as an insult, please try to see what I see. He’s hardworking, a good provider. He used to be fun, too.” A small smile flits across her lips then it’s gone. “Please remember that for all his faults, he’s not a monster, just a very wounded man.”
My mother had been the buffer between us boys and our dad. It had been that fateful day, just a couple of weeks before she died, that I think my destiny was sealed.
Because as far as I was concerned, he was a monster, and I would not be like my father. And I hated my mother a little bit for loving him.
But, for all my determination to be different, had I become him? Nothing more than a hardworking robot full of anger, driving everyone I loved away?
I stared at my wife’s back. My beautiful, perfect wife. She’d stuck with me these last years while I had my head up my ass. What did I really want? Just to be her provider? Yes, but it had to be more than that. I wante
d to be the man worthy of her unconditional love and devotion.
It was time to tuck the monster away for good.
“You working today?” I asked as she still gazed out the window.
She spun to face me with puzzled eyes. “What? Uh, no. No appointments today. Why?”
I studied the wariness in her expression. Wariness that I’d put there. “Let’s go to the beach.”
“The beach?” she echoed, frowning. “Isn’t it a little cold for that?”
I shrugged. “Bundle up. Let’s just get out of the house for a while, okay? I’ll buy you lunch at that little seafood place you like.”
She tugged her blue flannel robe tighter around her chest as if to ward off a chill. “Aren’t you going to the shop today?”
Like I do every day.
I could finish that thought for her. But I was grateful she’d bitten her tongue. “Look, babe,” I said, moving toward her. She stood stock still, but didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I fucked up. Yesterday, this week, this month, these last ten years. I want to fix it, if you’ll just tell me how. What can I do?”
Her face began to fall, but she quickly pulled back, erasing all emotion. “How can I believe you, Blake? After everything?”
I grabbed her hand and traced the back of her knuckles with my thumb. “I don’t know. But I want you to try. I need you to . . .” I sucked in a breath as the memory of my mom tugged my heart. “I don’t want to be a monster, Dee,” I choked out on a sob.
Silence.
I finally glanced up into Delilah’s beautiful blue eyes. A mix of confusion, patience, frustration and love filled her expression. “What do you mean? You’re not a monster.”
I dropped her hand and spun away. I was so fucking confused myself, I didn’t know what to say. I’d spent my entire life up until then running from my father’s shadow, only to find myself living in it. It was my self-imposed prison and I’d never known how fully I was trapped.
