“First, figure out where you want the garden.”
I cock my head and scan the yard. “How about over there?”
“What are you growing?”
“Vegetables.”
He nods and waves me along as he starts walking toward the spot. “Vegetables need a good amount of sunlight. You should start small and then build on as you get more comfortable with it.”
I use my hand as a visor over my eyes. “How do you know so much about this?”
His chin drops, and his voice softens. “My mom loved growing vegetables. She was the only one on the block who had the concrete in the backyard removed and replaced with soil.”
A smile blooms on my face. “What did she grow?”
“Zucchini, tomatoes, eggplant, cucumbers, and some herbs. She liked to make her own sauce with fresh ingredients.”
“I bet it tasted amazing.”
“It did. Josie tries to replicate it, but it just isn’t the same.” His eyes dart up to mine. “Don’t tell her I said that.”
I wink. “Secret’s safe with me.”
“What made you want to start a garden?”
I pick at the frays on my shorts. “Just wanted something to keep me busy, I guess.”
He scratches the back of his neck. “If this is wrong to ask, just tell me, but don’t you get bored sitting home all day?”
Maybe it’s because of the honest way he asked, or maybe I’m just dying to be honest with someone for once. Dying for someone who understands.
I look into Cole’s cobalt eyes, and I let the word yes fall from my lips. “That’s why I want to grow a garden. I love to cook. I’ve always dreamed of opening my own restaurant.” I laugh, shaking my head as if it will shake the thought from my mind. “Somehow, growing a vegetable garden seemed comparable. It’s stupid, really.”
Cole takes a step toward me, and ever so slowly, he tucks his finger under my chin and lifts it until I’m sucked into his hypnotizing gaze. “It’s not stupid at all, Callie. You should go after the things you dream about. The things that make you happy.”
My heart pounds, and my knees tremble under me, but not because I’m scared of Cole. It’s because I’m scared of believing him. Scared of the notion that it is, in fact, possible to have the things I long for.
To feel happiness again.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
Cole’s eyes tighten. “Why not?”
I want to open up to him, want to fling myself into his arms and beg him to take me far, far away. But that would only continue to mask the problem. My problem.
Cole can’t save me. I don’t need saving. I’m not some damsel in distress locked in her ivory tower. I make my own choices, and I’ve made my bed here. I have a wonderful life filled with wonderful things. Life’s not always perfect, but I have to appreciate what I have.
Things could always be worse.
I pull away from Cole, and he lets the conversation die. He shows me how to measure the area and then the pieces of wood. I’m eager to get my hands on the saw, but he says it’s best to remeasure before we cut anything. I don’t argue. This is the longest he’s gone without a scowl on his face.
I like this side of him. Easygoing. In his element. Calm. Nothing like the wound-up, abrasive version I’ve come to expect.
With the tool belt on. Let’s not forget that part.
It turns out, I get enjoyment out of sawing. It’s an exertion of physical energy and manual labor that makes me feel strong and capable. Sweat beads along my skin as I push and pull the saw, back and forth, back and forth, and when I cut through each block, a surge of confidence runs through me.
I needed this.
I pound the nails into each corner, and once the box is constructed, we stand back and admire my work.
Cole removes his hat and wipes his forehead with his T-shirt, revealing a spectacular set of abs. Deep grooves separate each cube, and two ridges are carved into each side of his pelvis. Droplets of sweat trickle down his torso, and my eyes follow them on their descent, leading down into the waistband of his tattered jeans.
Heat crawls over my skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind.
Cole puts his cap back on, and his face twists in disgust as he glances over my shoulder. “Uh, I think your dog’s eating something.”
I snap out of the trance I’m in and rush over to Maverick. “Stop that! Gross, Maverick! Come on.”
Maverick darts away from the scene of the crime and takes off running around the outskirts of the yard.
I groan. “The vet said he eats his own poop because he’s anxious.”
“Looks like he’s doing it because he likes it.”
I snort. “I think maybe you’re right.”
“What does a dog have to be anxious about? They have the life.”
I open my mouth to answer, but then the back door slides open, and Paul steps out onto the patio. Maverick barks and runs toward him like he’s been shot out of a cannon.
My stomach flops when I see the perplexed expression on Paul’s face, his brown eyes bouncing between me and Cole.
I push up a smile and wave my arms like Vanna White, gesturing to the garden bed. “Hey. Look what I made!”
Paul moves slowly, like a lion ready to pounce on its prey.
Cole steps forward, moving in front of me, angling his body.
Like a shield.
When Paul reaches me, he moves around Cole and snakes his arm behind my back and pulls me against him. His lips dip down to meet mine, but they’re hard and unforgiving.
I pull back to look at him. “It’s a garden box.”
“I see.” He glares up at Cole, his fingers digging into my hip.
Cole’s scowl is back in place, fists balled at his sides.
“Cole offered to teach me how to build it,” I say, attempting to break the awkward ego showdown.
“I bet he did.”
The corner of Cole’s mouth twitches. “I’ll get this cleaned up and be out of your hair.”
“Thank you for your help.” I pry myself out of Paul’s possessive hold. “I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” Cole gives me a tight nod and turns to collect his things.
Paul stands still as a statue, watching Cole until he’s out of our yard. Then he turns and walks into the house, leaving me outside as if I’m not even here.
“Come on, Maverick. Let’s go in. It’s dinnertime.”
Maverick trots behind me, and when we step into the kitchen, Paul’s already scooping Maverick’s food into his metal bowl.
“How was your day?” I approach him with tentative steps.
“Go take a shower. You’re filthy. We’ll talk over dinner.”
My stomach twists into a knot. I rush up the stairs and make my shower quick. Letting my hair air dry, I throw on a pair of lounge shorts and a T-shirt and head back downstairs.
Paul’s sitting in the dining room with the lights off again, drinking a glass of scotch. I wonder how many he’s had while I was upstairs. The setting sun casts a sliver of light through the window, streaking across his face, giving him a menacing glow.
“Want the light on?”
He shakes his head. “Just hurry up with dinner. I’m starving.”
My head jerks back, but I say nothing. I need to diffuse the situation, not make things worse.
I throw together a quick pasta primavera dish and toss in some sautéed shrimp. I heat up Paul’s favorite garlic bread in the toaster oven, and when everything’s finished, I carry it into the dining room.
“Wasn’t really in the mood for shrimp,” he says when I place his dish in front of him on the table.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Want me to make something else?”
He gulps down the contents of his glass and slams it on the table, making my shoulders jump. “No. This is fine.”
“Are you sure? There’s chicken in the fridge. I can make it in twenty minutes.”
“I said it’s fine. Sit.”
Chewing on my lip, I take my seat across from him and start eating.
After a few minutes pass, Paul asks, “Why didn’t you tell me that Cole was coming over today?”
I place my fork down and wring my hands together under the table.
Here we go.
“I hadn’t planned on it. When I got home, one of the bags broke as I was taking them out of the car, and Cole came over to help. He asked if I had the wood to make the garden bed, but I didn’t know what he was talking about, so he offered to show me how to do it. Gave me the wood for free too.”
Paul nods as he pours himself another drink. “I don’t want him here alone with you.”
My eyebrows pinch together. “Why not?”
He watches me over the rim of the glass while he takes a long sip. “Because we don’t know him. He’s a stranger, and I don’t want you alone with him.”
“He’s Josie’s brother. Not exactly a stranger.”
Stupid, Callie. Why are you arguing?
Paul’s jaw tenses. “Josie hasn’t seen him in years, and Dan said the guy’s got issues.”
“Issues? What kind of issues?”
“I didn’t ask. I just need you to listen to me. I don’t want him hanging around here anymore. Got it?”
I nod once and lift my fork again. “Got it.”
Silence falls between us as we continue to eat. It feels as if the storm is passing, the dark clouds beginning to retreat. That’s why I’m caught by surprise when Paul’s glass whizzes past my head.
The crystal explodes when it hits the wall beside me, shards flying onto the table and floor. Maverick yelps and runs out of the room.
My heart thunders in my chest like a hundred galloping horses. I wish I could hop on one of them and ride it away from here. Away from what’s about to happen.
I push back from the table and begin cleaning up the glass, too afraid to look at Paul.
His chair scrapes against the floor. “Stop cleaning, Callie.”
My hands shake as I use my napkin to sop up the liquid around me. “It’s okay. I just want to get the glass off the floor so Maverick doesn’t—”
Paul’s hand is on the back of my head, fisting my hair as he yanks me up. “I said stop cleaning!”
I swallow the scream that wants to break free.
Be brave, Callie.
Paul shoves me against the wall, holding me there with his forearm across my chest. His brown eyes harden, shades darker than usual, shadowed by the severe angle of his eyebrows. Gone is the handsome, golden-haired man that I fell in love with. There’s a hollowness to him now, a fury replacing his soul.
“Do you want to fuck him, Callie?”
“No!”
His arm presses harder against me. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not! Paul, please stop. I’m not lying.” My body trembles, fear and adrenaline coursing through my veins.
When you’re in a dangerous situation, people say you have one of two choices: fight or flight. You react on instinct, without thinking. Your body knows what to do. Either you kick your attacker in the balls, or you run away.
But I can’t do either of those things, because my attacker is my husband.
I can’t fight back. He’ll always be stronger.
And there’s nowhere for me to run. No safe haven. This is my home.
I’m stuck.
My hands come up, trailing the skin on Paul’s arms, attempting to soothe him with my touch. “You’re hurting me,” I say, my voice a whisper.
“Well, I’m hurting too.” His eyes are glassy, unfocused. “All I ever wanted was to give you a family.”
“I know that.” My hands cup his face. “It’s not your fault. We tried everything we could.”
His lips press into a firm line. “And it still wasn’t enough. I’m not enough.”
“Don’t say that.”
He digs his arm into me, my chest feeling like it’s going to crack under the pressure. “If I were enough, you wouldn’t be running around with that asshole behind my back!”
I shake my head, tears streaming down my face. “No, Paul. I’m not running around with anyone. I love you. Only you!”
He steps back, releasing me, seeming to snap out of his stupor. He thrusts his fingers through his hair, yanking on the ends of it, blowing a stream of air through his lips.
Then, without warning, he swings his arm and backhands me across my cheek.
A cry rips from my mouth as my hand comes up to cover the throbbing skin. I squeeze my eyes shut, turning to face the wall, cowering against it, bracing for the next blow.
But it doesn’t come.
I hear glass crunching under Paul’s shoes as he moves, followed by his footsteps echoing in the hall. I keep my eyes closed until I hear the slam of the front door.
Maverick’s collar jingles, his nails clacking against the floor as he tries to enter the room.
“Maverick, no. Stay.” I move toward him with my hands up, and pain slices through my bare foot. “Ow, shit.”
He whimpers and sits in the doorway, head cocked with his ears back.
“I’m okay. Everything’s okay. Just have to get this glass off the floor.”
Blood smears in a trail behind me as I walk around the table. I tie a linen napkin around my foot, wincing as I tighten the knot. I’ll worry about my foot later. Right now, my focus is on sweeping the glass away and clearing the dinner plates.
I go through the motions, working until it looks like nothing ever happened in the dining room.
A hysterical laugh bursts from my throat when I think back to the nickname Cole had given me the other night. “Callie the Courageous. Hardly.”
More like Callie the Contemptible.
I grab a bag of peas from the freezer and hobble up the stairs to the bathroom. Propping myself against the sink, I twist my leg to inspect the underside of my foot. After I pluck the glass out and disinfect the area, I bandage it up and carry the peas into my bedroom without so much as a glance in the mirror.
I don’t have to look. The throbbing pain tells me that my face is swollen, that the bruise is already marking my skin.
Maverick curls up beside me as I pull the covers over my legs, resting his head on my chest. I press the freezing bag against my cheek and close my eyes.
In the calm stillness of my darkened room, the sadness I’ve shoved down for the past hour creeps out. My chest tightens as a silent tear rolls down my temple and into my hair.
I put myself in Paul’s shoes and try to understand his anger. If I can understand why he reacts the way he does, learn what triggers him, then maybe I can prevent this from happening again. I’ve gotten good at tiptoeing around his temper.
Paul isn’t a wife beater. He isn’t a bad person. He loves me, but he’s frustrated, and he’s hurting. We’ve been under a lot of stress, and rightfully so. Infertility puts a strain on every relationship. Add in the way he’s been feeling since the doctor told him that it’s his fault we can’t conceive, and it’s the perfect storm.
But that shouldn’t make husbands hit their wives, my conscience screams.
I blow out a breath. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
And it will. We just have to put this behind us.
It’s late when Paul crawls into bed, reeking of liquor.
I keep my eyes closed and pretend to be asleep.
His fingers are gentle as he grazes the tender, puffy skin on my cheekbone. “I’m sorry, baby,” he slurs, placing a kiss on my temple. “I’m so sorry. I love you.”
Then he rolls over and falls asleep.
Maverick.
California king bed.
Walk-in closet.
Dream kitchen.
Yard with a pool.
Mercedes.
But for the first time, the exercise doesn’t make me feel better. It doesn’t calm my mind. Instead, I question what Cole said at Josie’s Fourth of July party.
Are all of the lavish things I own really worth
this?
Eleven
Cole
What the hell am I doing?
I pause at the curb and look down at the bags in my arms.
I’d stopped at the nursery on my way home from work and picked up a few things for Callie’s garden bed.
She hadn’t asked me to.
Her husband certainly doesn’t want me there.
And I didn’t need to be spending my extra money.
So again, I ask myself: What the hell am I doing?
Something just doesn’t feel right. Something deep in my gut. Felt it the moment I saw the look in Callie’s eyes when Paul came home two days ago.
Fear.
On top of that, Josie said she’d invited Callie over yesterday, but she declined, stating she was sick.
Yet she looked fine the other day.
I keep telling myself it’s none of my business.
But if something happens to that woman—sweet, innocent Callie—and I could’ve done something to stop it, it’ll add guilt right on top of the heaping pile I’ve already buried myself under.
Against my better judgment, my legs carry me to Callie’s front door, and I ring the bell.
Maverick barks on the other side of the door, but nobody answers.
I set the bags down by my feet and knock after a minute goes by. “Callie, it’s Cole.”
The curtain covering the window sways, a shadow flashing by.
“Come on, Callie. I know you’re in there. Just saw you in the window.”
The door cracks open, barely wide enough for me to see Callie. She’s wearing a baseball cap that’s too big for her head, pulled down low over her eyes.
“I’m sick,” she says softly. “You don’t want to come any closer.”
I bend my knees and lower my head in an attempt to see into her eyes, but she jerks her chin down to her chest.
“What do you want?” Her voice sounds strained.
I gesture at the bags by my feet. “Got you some things for your garden.”
Her lips part. “Oh. That’s ... that’s so kind of you.”
My heart thumps against my chest, alarm spiking through my veins. “Callie, are you all right?”
She nods, the brim of her oversized hat jerking up and down. “Just not feeling well.”
What's Left of Me Page 8
