A Sorrow of Truths

by Charlotte E Hart

  “No, Hannah. Not for you. For me.”

  She stares at me some more and then looks back at the loose soil beneath her feet, her fingers reaching into her pocket. “I don’t know what these mean, or meant,” she mumbles, holding up her wedding band and engagement ring. “Do you? Don’t know what they’re for anymore. What’s the point in them? They seems so full of lies. Commitment does.”

  They drop from her hand to the ground absently, and she walks away from the grave, tossing the flower with as much care as she can muster given the cheating fuck she’s stood over.

  I watch her small frame go with foreboding cursing the body I’m trying to keep upright. “Hannah?”

  She keeps walking, not even a glance backwards, as if she’s as done with me as I was with Heather. Fuck that. This is not done. No goddamn way is she walking away from this now I’ve found her, and definitely not after she was the one that instigated, provoked, and pushed me to this point in my life. I need her now. Want isn’t the conundrum anymore. It’s need. It’s instinctual. Primitive. Something that, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t deny and no longer have to.

  “Don’t do this now,” calls out of me. “Stay. With me. I love you.”

  Her feet stop, hands going up into the air, and she turns to face me. “He loved me,” she murmurs, pointing at the grave. “He told me that. He told me over and over again, and he still fucked anything else that he could. What says you won’t?” She frowns and folds her arms around herself, her eyes searching the ground rather than looking at me. “And where is there to go anyway, Gray? We’ve already done it all. We started at the end. And if we go anywhere now it starts with death. His death, hers. Back to Malachi’s? Live a life that isn’t real and-”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “This. Us. It’s backwards. What happens now? I’m different. Changed. All this and us and I don’t know who we are, what we are. Are we just going to fall into bed again, doing the thing we’re good at and pretending your wife isn’t dead because of us?”

  “That wasn’t my plan.”

  “No? What was it? Tell me. Because I can’t see anything that doesn’t involve guilt and shame. I don’t want that. I don’t … Can’t … I need to be new. I need time to find me out here, be me and find those things that I was before-”

  “I was going to ask you out on a date.”

  Her mouth stops moving around words she was still trying to articulate until she eventually finds something. “A date?”

  “Yes. Dinner. A movie. The theatre possibly. We could not fuck. I know that part of you well enough anyway.” She seems bemused, as lost as she looked the first time I saw her at the opera. “I’ll watch you eat instead. You need instruction in that.” Her eyes widen, as I walk closer. “And then maybe you can ask me about me, who I am. Maybe I’m new now, too.”

  “I don’t know who you are.”

  “You don’t know parts of me.” My hand reaches for hers softly, gently bringing it up to my chest, fighting her reticence. It splays under mine, fingernails gently holding onto a heart she’s already got. “Because I haven’t let you see that until now. I might even have forgotten who I am without reality to guide me.” My frown deepens at the thought. Years wasted. Time stalled in determined resolve to get my own damned truths. And now a new life beckons for me, for us if she’ll have me. “Either way, you do know me, Hannah. You knew me before I did. Help me find that guy I used to be again.”

  She’s shivering, trembling, as she looks up at me. Wet lips parted, dark eyes reminding me of corners and dancefloors. “We’ll dance. Just dance.” My hand pulls her closer, gripping tightly as if it’s never letting go of this new volatile little thing she’s become. “And then, when we know each other better, when the past is gone and we can live in the future, you can let me know if you’re ready for more.”

  Another shiver rides over her, making me want nothing more than to warm her up and dwell in dark corners with her for the rest of our lives. That isn’t all, though. Parks. Light. Coffees in hand and ambling. A new home maybe. A new real to play with. One just for us.

  I smile at the potential in front of me, finally understanding the merits of what life truly could mean, and watch her lips beginning to smile.

  “Really? You’ll wait?” she murmurs.

  “Yes, if that’s how you want to play it. I just want a date first. That’s all. A chance.”

  She blinks and softens her stance, her body finally moulding rather than trying to tug away. “Just a date,” she says quietly, as she looks up at me. “Nothing more until I’m ready?”

  I nod. Just a date. More after that if I can get them.

  And then the future if possible.

  We’ll start from death and move forwards, hopefully finding our journey without limitations on the way.

  Chapter 22

  Hannah

  Two weeks later.

  T here’s nothing left in this apartment now. It’s empty other than the few bags Jackson’s carrying out of it and the neutrality that it was when I first walked in. I stare blankly at it, half smiling at the red wine still splashed all over the curtains, and do my long coat up.

  Maybe I’ll come back and deal with that, maybe I won’t. It’s not like Gray hasn’t got people to do that sort of thing, and, while I should sort it out, the new part of me feels like leaving it there for the next woman who might be moving in. She’ll see the anger in it, perhaps questioning who she’s with while she does.

  I chuckle and follow the stains of red on the floor, amused at my first steps into widowhood. It seems so long ago now, but it’s not. Such a short amount of time for everything to change. I’m stronger now. More resilient. Less of an idiot than I ever was and more of a fighter than I’ve ever been. I know me. I know what Hannah wants. What she needs. And what she needs is her own space around her. Hers. Not Gray’s.

  He didn’t take that well.

  Tough.

  I don’t belong to anyone.

  Looking up at the ceiling before I leave, I smile weakly and then follow Jackson down to the elevator. There’s nothing else to do now but get to my new apartment, settle in, and then continue being the new me I am. I’ve already contacted the relevant bodies in teaching, worked out what I need to do to get back into my career. A year or so catching up on my degree and I’ll be set. I’m not living off a man again ever. Not that I need to because of Rick's insurance, but that’s not the point. I’m not waiting under them. Not letting them control me. Not cooking and cleaning for them. And I’m definitely not giving them the ability to take everything away from me in a heartbeat if they choose to.

  Hannah makes her rules now.

  And Hannah does as she chooses.

  The width of the park travelled and a few corners and I watch Jackson take the suitcases up to another elevator. He huffs as he gets in, as if being my bag carrier is beneath him. I chuckle and follow, smiling brightly at his clear irritation. Poor thing. He’s probably been taking the sharp end of Gray’s tongue over the last few days. It isn’t pleasant, no matter how attractive he is in the middle of temper tantrums. Blunt is his forte after all, but if he expected me to move in, be the little wife and behave accordingly, he’s been sniffing the wrong tree entirely.

  The door opens and I skip into the room, spinning in the space around me. Mine. All mine. No husband. No worries. No problems, other than the constant nagging feeling that I should continuously pray for forgiveness.

  I come to an abrupt halt, the vision of a tubeless Heather still circulating my mind.

  Not my fault.

  Not my fault.

  Not my fault.

  It’s the only way I’ve managed to contend with thought of it all. It’s replaced my taps for the time being, dulled them at least. I chant it every time she appears in my head, or every time Charlie appears there instead. Not my fault. It might be in reality, at least somehow, but there’s nothing I can do now, no matter how much I wish I could. She’s gon
e, and maybe that was the best thing for her. Perhaps heaven is better than a bed in a room with no ability to live. I don’t know. How do you calculate the death of someone, someone who cheated and lied with someone else’s life? Caused pain and heartache because of their deceit? That’s what she did to Gray and Charlie. She played with them. Toyed with their actuality and made it a game for her own version of life.

  And it’s just like what Rick did to me. Premeditated. Considered. Planned.

  So much pain.

  Both of us.

  I stare out the window, looking over to the other side of the park and smile. It is what it is now, and either way, right or wrong or indeterminable, this is where I am and what has happened to get me here is, while distressing and slightly mind-altering, also clarifying. I am stronger. A new me. A me who will rise from where she was and choose her own life and decisions without the need for reliance or support.

  The sudden vision of an enormous bouquet of flowers placed on the lounge table makes me startle out of my thoughtful gaze. That wasn’t there two hours ago. I frown and walk over to it, picking out the handwritten card.

  Welcome home. Come over for dinner so I can play.

  Bring him with you.

  MJ

  “Jackson?” I call.

  “Yes, Mam.”

  “Did you take these in?”

  “No, Mam.”

  “Some security.”

  Although, it is Malachi. I’ve learned through this time that Malachi appears to be able to do just about anything. Gray told me about it, explained the way he’d influenced everything to, and I quote, made him behave less like a calculator and more like a human. I quite like the calculator. Still. He’s honest. Sharp. Sincere, even if the brusqueness of his statements can be rude as hell on occasion. But the human - I smile and pick out a yellow rose, sniffing it and spinning some more – the human is all kinds of beautiful. He’s engaging. Swoon worthy. Romantic when he feels the need. Talkative. Intelligent. Appreciative. He’s also arrogant and pig headed, but I ignore that, mainly because he’s hot as hell when he’s in that mood.

  “Small.” The sound of him makes me turn, a smile on my face, and watch as Jackson leaves the apartment. “And pointless. You should be at mine.”

  “But I like mine.”

  “I don’t.”

  “How did you get in?” He holds up a key card, as his large body moves around my space carrying a small paper bag with him. “You’re not supposed to have that. You only stipulated that Jackson should have one for safety.”

  “Oops.” Oops? Where’s that come from? “Who are they from?” he says, not even looking at the flowers he’s talking about.

  “Jealous?”

  “Yes.”

  I laugh. “Good. Continue being so.”

  The twist of his head back to me, a maddened glower of disapproval on show, does nothing to make me behave any differently. I’m starting to understand this new version of him now, and he needs this from me just like I need that fleeting sense of fear that passes through me occasionally when he’s being obnoxious. It reminds me of his power, of that time he decimated my skin just because I let him. That’s what we were back then, what we still are now, and what we’re becoming in this new reality we’re creating for ourselves.

  “Who?” he growls.

  “Really, Gray. You’ll be getting duelling pistols out next.”

  “Hannah.”

  “Yes Gray?”

  “Tell me.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll fuck it out of you.”

  I smirk. “I’m a shivering wreck at the thought.”

  Although, I can still feel the imprint of his idea of reconnecting from last night all over my skin. It hurts a bit. A lot, actually, but I roll my shoulders to ease the ache and head into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine for us to share regardless. Pain is just a thing with him. It’s who he is, even out here in the real world. Hostile in bed mostly, harsh, unyielding, but somehow that bonds us in a love no other would understand without somewhere like Malachi’s castle behind us.

  Two weeks we lasted. Two weeks. Nine dates, two of which were in his apartment with him showing me remnants of his childhood, and the rest of which were perfectly gentlemanly, and then enough was enough with the simplicities of dates according to him. He said it was stupidity to deny ourselves any longer. That we were past that now.

  I disagreed.

  It got me nowhere other than running around his apartment, clothes being torn from me as I ran, in the hope that I could evade him. I couldn’t. Didn’t want to in reality either. I yearned and ached as much as he did, and that constant underlying need has only been enhanced by his ability to behave like a true gentleman these past weeks. It’s created a new start, a beginning that is full of what it already was, but now has some kind of innocence to it that was never here before.

  Uncorking the bottle, I sway back into the room and spin again, giggling. I suppose I could have kept it going, made the whole dating thing ongoing for as long as I chose, but I relented under the pressure of him against me. Who wouldn’t? He’s everything I’ve never had before. Dirty. Raw. Angry in his handling and yet tender in the aftermath.

  “I’m not happy that you’re so happy about not being with me,” he snips, taking hold of two glasses. “Could you at least attempt to be miserable about this separation?”

  “I am with you. I’m also with me.” I pour two full glasses and take mine from him, near falling back onto a still plastic covered sofa. “Me is a very important person, Gray. And I need recuperation time from you.”

  He snorts and sits on a chair opposite, taking his jacket off and slinging it as if he owns the place. “How is your ass?”

  “Surviving.”

  Just.

  “Strip and show me.”

  “No. I have unpacking to do.”

  “Jackson can do it. We have a date.”

  “We do?”

  “We do. In-” He checks his watch. “One hour. Get changed.”

  “Into what?”

  “Couldn’t care less, but you can start with naked.” He stares over the top of his glass, an arch in his brow that I know all too well these days and a half smile that tells me whatever is coming could be painful. My eyes roll, body rising slowly. “Or you can look in the bag.” I take a step over, looking at the mysterious bag that’s by him on the floor. “When you tell me who the flowers are from.”

  I shrug and grin. “It’s no one you know.”

  “That’s becoming annoying.”

  “Oops.”

  He’s up and coming at me before I have time to react successfully, his hands grabbing at me as I scream, turn and try bolting for the bedroom. My heels trip over the damn rug I haven’t laid out yet, body almost falling but for the strong grasp around me. I’m lifted, carried and then thrown. Thankfully, the soft swathes of an unmade bed catch my landing rather than the floor, and I twist immediately to look for him in the dark. He’s pulling his tie from his shirt, buttons being popped just as quickly.

  “How’s your mouth?” he asks, smiling.

  “What?”

  “As a hole? Pained?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Perhaps I can fuck the secret out of that then.”

  “That’s dirty talk, Mr Rothburg.”

  His knees hit the bed, body crawling across mine and tugging me down to him. “Well, we’re good at that. Start talking. Make it sordid. I’m feeling frisky.”

  “Frisky? Where the hell has frisky come from? First oops, and now frisky?”

  “I’m a changed man.”

  “I hope not.”

  Not entirely anyway.

  A chuckle comes out of him, long and low, as he drops his head to my chest and starts opening the buttons of my dress slowly. One pops, and a kiss lands on my skin. Another button, and another kiss. The third, and he bites delicately.

  My head lolls back, enjoying the feel of some softness after the handling I took last nigh
t. It won’t last. I can already feel the hard ridges of him becoming heavier, the teeth less delicate and more cutting with each new button popped. I don’t care. I enjoy it. Always have with him. It’s what we are, what we have been, and what we will continue to evolve into. It doesn’t matter the bed we’re in, or the country or venue.

  Hard and heavy, focused and connected.

  “You need to relax,” he murmurs, brushing his lips across my panties. “Get the volatility out before we get there. You’ll need charm and wit.” I don’t know what he’s talking about. Nor do I care at the moment. I’m buzzing, already feeling the sweet spot he knows so well and attempting to push his head towards it, as I close my eyes. “My cousin Ann is a bitch. She’ll hate you. She hates everyone. Including me.”

  My eyes ease open, both of them focused on the ceiling until I look down at him between my legs. “Your cousin?”

  “Yes. Our date. Jet. Home ranch. Christmas.”

  My body scuttles up the bed, legs kicking out at him. “Home?”

  He props his hands under his chin, watching me carefully. “Is that a problem? I thought you wanted more than just fucking.”

  “I … Yes. But that’s …I wasn’t ready for that.”

  “Surprise.”

  Surprise? Oops and frisky and now surprises? This isn’t something you surprise a girl about. This is family and relationship goals, or it was when I thought that was what relationships were about.

  My eyes narrow, hands clasping the dress he’s opened back together to somehow protect my virtue given this discussion about family. I’m not ready for it. Family means commitment and some sort of situation that might mean assurances or declarations I haven’t even contemplated yet. We’re not there yet. We’re thuds and heartbeats, both of us finding each other in a world of echoed storms we haven’t quite reconciled.

  He chuckles and sits up, eventually walking out of the room.

  “You can’t just throw this at me. I need to prepare, be prepared,” I shout to him, unsure where he’s gone or why in the middle of this conversation. “Frankly, I’d rather deal with Malachi’s idea of torment than meet family. Certainly if they’ll hate me.”