So Wrong It's Right

by Julie Johnson

  As the hours slip by, sleep eluding me like the fickle bitch she is, my brain keeps wandering to the man on my sofa. He’s still such a stranger to me. I know virtually nothing about him — not his favorite sports teams or where he grew up, not where he lives now or his relationship status.

  He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, so I assume he’s not married. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s unattached. The man may be a certifiable asshole but, much as it pains me to admit… he’s not entirely unpleasant to look at. Some — not me! — might even say he’s devastatingly handsome in a roguish, unpolished sort of way.

  But who would put up with him? I ask myself, scoffing into the dark. Any sane girl would run for the hills after a week with his overbearing neanderthal antics.

  Then again… a small voice pipes up from some remote corner of my brain before I can banish it. There’s something sort of nice about a man with a protective streak. Not like Paul, who treated me as a possession to be owned. Just… someone who knows the value of what he has and isn’t afraid to protect it.

  Punching my pillow into a more comfortable shape, I roll onto my side and scowl into the darkness. I don’t even know why I’m thinking about these things. I can barely stand Conor — it’s not like I’m interested in him romantically. I’m not interested in anyone romantically.

  Not anymore.

  Not ever again.

  As soon as my divorce is finalized, I’ll have no use for entanglements of any kind. Love is lost to me. After all, it’s only ever led me astray in the past. The last time I followed my heart for a man, it was Paul. I’d be crazy to ever risk doing it again.

  And so… here I am: twenty-nine years old and officially retired from the game.

  A spinster.

  I feel like that must be some sort of record.

  In lieu of a cash prize, I will accept a lifetime supply of cabernet sauvignon. Please send the goods to 29 Merriweather Street, Somerville, MA. (Blue Victorian. You can’t miss it — it’s the prettiest house on the block. Maybe the prettiest house in the Greater Boston area.)

  I wasn’t always such a misanthrope. Not that I was ever what you’d call a hopeless romantic, either. I guess I’ve always been somewhere in the middle, balancing on a tightrope of cynicism and wishful thinking.

  The way I see it, when it comes to love people generally fall into one of two categories — they’re either scared to be alone or they’re scared to be rejected. All those stomach-butterflies and sweaty palms and soul connections boil down to a single, burning question.

  What are you more afraid of — abandonment or commitment? Loneliness or love? Never putting yourself out there? Or potentially being blown off when you actually do?

  Me? I’m in the first category.

  Scared to be alone.

  At least, I used to be, when I first met Paul. Now, after a decade of being ignored by the person who was supposed to love me most, I’ve been alone so often, it feels far scarier to even consider letting someone in again.

  My self-imposed seclusion is a shield. A safety net.

  Superman and his Fortress of Solitude ain’t got nothing on me.

  Conor was a jerk, earlier… but he wasn’t entirely off base about my need for control. I do like order and organization. I like routine. I like perfection — or, at least, the appearance of it. There’s a certain comfort in living my life by a set of strictly-monitored rules, in making decisions and sticking to them like clockwork.

  Perfect Shelby Hunt, in her perfect house, with her perfect life.

  And if I know one thing, it’s that falling in love — crazy, dramatic, complicated love — is the exact opposite of control. It’s a spiral into chaos. A messy tangle of emotion and irrational thinking. Pure pandemonium with a side of heartbreak.

  Which is just about the last thing I need in my meticulously-managed little world.

  So I guess… maybe somewhere along the way, I switched categories. Maybe being alone isn’t the scariest thing in the world, anymore. Because the idea of loving anyone again… of putting myself out there, only to get my heart shattered a second time…

  That’s the most terrifying thing I can imagine.

  I jolt awake when a hand claps itself over my mouth.

  Panic floods my barely-awake brain. My eyes snap open and I begin to thrash against the hands holding me down, a violent scream bursting from my throat before I can stop it.

  Nooooo!

  It’s Righty!

  Or Lefty!

  Probably both!

  They’ve got me!

  I’m dead!

  So freaking dead!

  “Shhh! Shhh, Shelby! It’s me. Chill!”

  I go still as I register the voice. It’s suspiciously familiar — and suspiciously lacking the faint Russian accent I was expecting to hear. The room is pitch black, but after a few seconds I manage to focus on the face hovering scant inches from mine.

  Crooked nose. Pale brown eyes. Chestnut hair.

  “Paul!” I exclaim. Only it comes out as ‘PUUUHH!’ because his palm is still pressed tight over my mouth.

  “Quiet,” he pleads, staring into my eyes. “Do you hear me? You have to be quiet.”

  I sit up sharply, grabbing his hand and ripping it from my lips. The covers go flying, but I barely notice. I’m too busy glaring at my husband.

  If looks could kill, he’d be so dead right now…

  “What the fuck are you doing here, Paul?”

  “Shhh! Keep it down! That cop is still downstairs.”

  Conor!

  “Are you freaking kidding me?!” I whisper-yell, not entirely sure why I’m complying with his demands.“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t start screaming my head off.”

  “Because if you do, I’m a dead man.” There’s a desperate sort of conviction in his voice that tells me he’s not lying.

  “Paul…” I shake my head. “The police can help you—”

  “No!” Rocketing away from the bed, he crosses to the front-facing window and peers out at the street with a paranoid look. “If I’m in custody, I’ll be a sitting duck. You don’t understand. There are some people after me and if I don’t give them what they want… things could get bad. Really bad.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I hiss. “Who do you think they came after when they couldn’t find you?”

  He glances back at me and winces. “I worried that might happen.”

  “Thanks for the warning, jackass!”

  “Shh! Not so loud.” His eyes are more remorseful than I’ve ever seen them. “The last thing I wanted was to drag you into this, Shelbs. You have to believe me.”

  “Sorry, Paul, but your credibility is shot after the shit you’ve pulled.” I scoff in disbelief. “You have some nerve showing up here after everything you’ve done. Especially given what happened the last time we saw each other. Or did you think a few gifts, some flowers and chocolates, would make me forget about Christmas?” I touch my cheekbone absently, tracing an invisible wound.

  “God, Shelbs.” His face has gone stark white. “I’m sorry, okay? About Christmas. About all of it.”

  “No! It’s not okay! None of this is okay!” I throw my legs over the side of the mattress and clamor to my feet, planting my hands on my hips to scowl at him properly. “Petrov’s men kidnapped me yesterday! They duct taped me to one of our dining room chairs and held me hostage in an attempt to get your attention!”

  He pales further. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry…”

  “A little late for that, Paul.”

  “I’m going to fix it, okay? I have a plan.” He takes a few strides toward me, but I instantly backpedal away, maintaining a safe distance between us.

  He may’ve forgotten what he did the last time we were in the same room, but I certainly haven’t.

  Paul pulls up short, his handsome face contorting with hurt. Once, seeing that sad, puppy-dog look would’ve sent a dagger through my heart. Now, all I feel is cold indifference as I stare at the ma
n I married.

  “Shelbs…” His voice breaks. “I know we’re going through a rough patch right now… but don’t you trust me anymore?”

  “A rough patch?!” I explode, louder than I intended. “I filed for divorce, threw you out, and am now being targeted by the fucking Bratva thanks to your bad decisions… And you honestly think this is just a rough patch?”

  “Shhh! That cop is still downstairs.” Paul’s expression contorts from hurt to anger so fast, I have trouble keeping track. “What the fuck is he doing in my house, anyway?”

  I stiffen. “It’s not your house anymore. It’s mine.”

  He takes a step toward me. “Why did you have to bring the cops into this, Shelby? I told you, I have a plan!”

  “Maybe if you’d bothered to share that plan with me, I wouldn’t have been blindsided, kidnapped, and hauled in for questioning about your various criminal activities!” I hiss. “You have no right to question anything I do. Not anymore. And definitely not when it comes to this mess you’ve made.”

  “I said I was sorry, Shelbs!” He rubs his hands over his face nervously. “God, this has all gotten so out of hand. I thought, since we were separated, it would be safe with you.”

  “What would be safe with me?”

  He doesn’t answer. “They were never supposed to come after you.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Paul? What the hell did you steal from Petrov? And what does it have to do with me?”

  He sighs. “I’m going to sort it out, okay? I’ll tell them you had nothing to do with this. I’ll convince them you don’t have it.”

  It?

  His voice is almost manic. “Once they’re gone, we’ll have enough money to run away. Anywhere you want — spin the globe and pick a spot, Shelby. Sky’s the limit.” He takes a step toward me, brown eyes shining in the dark. “But first, I need you to tell me where it is. I swear, I’ve looked everywhere. Searched this house top to bottom.”

  “Where what is?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  “Now is not the time to play dumb, Shelby!”

  My heart kicks into higher gear as I stare at the man I married. He’s not making sense and, to be perfectly honest, he’s starting to scare me. “First of all, don’t call me dumb. Secondly, I’m not going anywhere with you. And thirdly, I don’t have the slightest fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

  He unleashes a frustrated groan and runs his hands through his hair. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it — as though he hasn’t had a haircut in quite some time. In fact, now that I’m taking the time to really examine him, I notice he doesn’t look so good. Certainly not like the snappy dresser I remember from our years together. His clothes are rumpled, as though he’s been wearing them for more than a single day, and there are deep shadows under his eyes.

  My sleep-dulled brain finally catches up with my body and several thoughts occur to me in rapid succession.

  “How did you even get in here, Paul?” I ask, narrowing my eyes on him. “There are a dozen FBI agents watching the house. Not to mention the one sleeping on the couch downstairs. I highly doubt you slipped in without a single one of them noticing.”

  “Wait. They’re FBI?” Paul groans. “God, Shelby, I can’t believe you did this.”

  “I didn’t do a damn thing, you monumental jerk!”

  “Bringing the feds into this is only going to fuck me over more thoroughly!”

  “And whose fault is that?”

  He sighs sulkily.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I prompt, growing impatient. “How the hell did you get in here undetected?”

  He suddenly looks a bit embarrassed. “I’ve… kind of been…”

  I arch my brows.

  “Crashing in the attic,” he finishes, avoiding my eyes.

  “WHAT?!”

  “Keep it down!”

  “Keep it down? KEEP IT DOWN? You just said you’ve been sleeping in our attic! Without my knowledge! After I threw you out of the house!”

  “Relax, will you? It was only a few nights last month, when these two scary guys started tailing me home from my office… ”

  “Oh my god! I knew I heard scuffling! I thought I had a raccoon living in the chimney!” My eyes shoot daggers at him. “I hired someone to come put a cap on it and everything!”

  “Yeah… surprise,” he says weakly. “That was me, moving around up there.”

  I’m too pissed to speak.

  “Silver lining? You don’t have a raccoon problem.”

  “That’s such a relief,” I snap sarcastically. “I’m just tickled pink that my ex-husband has been sneaking into my house at night to evade dangerous Russian mobsters, despite the fact that I had the locks changed to prevent ever seeing him again!”

  “Yeah… you should really start using your alarm system.”

  An angry growl rattles from my throat. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Anyway, who needs a key when you know about the basement window?” Paul shrugs lightly. “Remember — the one with the broken lock you were always harping on me to fix?”

  Rage floods me in a great tidal wave, setting my blood boiling. I’m suddenly so angry, I’d like nothing more than to wrap my hands around Paul’s throat and squeeze the life out of his body.

  The dirty-rotten, no-good, lying, cheating, breaking-and-entering bastard! As if everything he’s done to me isn’t bad enough…

  Scheming with mobsters!

  Putting me in the crosshairs!

  Sneaking into my house!

  To top it all off…

  He.

  Never.

  Even.

  Fixed.

  The.

  Damn.

  Basement.

  Window.

  !!!!!!!!!!!!

  Paul must recognize that I’m about to blow a gasket, because he holds out his hands in a placating gesture. His tone is soothing. “Shelby, baby, you’re making this a bigger deal than it needs to be. I needed a place to crash for a couple nights, after those guys showed up at my apartment. I knew there was an old twin mattress up there. That’s all.” He pauses. “Plus, no one would ever think I’d be stupid enough to hide out in my own house.” He cracks a grin. “I thought it was a pretty genius idea, actually.”

  “Genius wouldn’t be the word I’d use, Paul.” My syllables are clipped — short staccato bursts of fury. “Psycho stalker might be more accurate.”

  “I was trying to do something good! Checking in every week or so, just to make sure you were safe! But around dawn, when I got here and realized you weren’t home… I got worried. Decided to stay, just to make sure nothing had happened to you.” His expression darkens. “I didn’t expect you’d come home with a fucking Fed in tow.”

  “I wasn’t home because I was being interrogated by the FBI about the very large henchman who attacked me while they were looking for you, you idiot!”

  “I already said I was sorry for that.”

  “An apology doesn’t exactly make it okay, Paul.” I shake my head in disbelief. “And I suppose while sneaking in here you conveniently forgot about the restraining order that prohibits you from coming within two hundred feet of me.”

  “This is my house. You’re my wife. No piece of paper is going to keep me away.” His brown eyes narrow on mine. “We made vows. Till death do us part. In sickness and in health. For richer or poorer. You promised you’d be by my side, always.”

  “That was before I knew you were a pathological liar,” I say bluntly. “Before you spent a decade womanizing, manipulating, and putting your hands on me without permission.”

  “I’ll admit, I haven’t always been the perfect husband. We have some issues to work through…”

  I snort. Understatement of the decade.

  “But Shelbs, I need you by my side. I need you now more than ever!”

  “I’m sorry, Paul, but… I really don’t give a shit what you need.”

  “How can you say that?” he asks, an edge of angui
sh in his tone. “Don’t I get any points for checking in on you?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you get my gifts? My messages? All the flowers? I’ve been trying to make things right! You just need to give me a chance.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need. I don’t need anything from you except for you to leave. Now. Before I have a change of heart and call the nice FBI agents in to arrest you.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Oh, I think I would.”

  “If you do that, I’m as good as dead. These men who are after me aren’t screwing around. If I’m in custody, it’ll only make it easier for them to get to me.”

  “That’s not my responsibility, Paul. Maybe if you’d told me you’d been fired… or given me a warning about the freaking Russian mobsters you’ve gotten in bed with… I’d be slightly more inclined to help you.”

  Or not.

  But he doesn’t need to know that.

  “You haven’t taken my calls in months! How was I supposed to tell you about this? Huh?”

  “Oh, give it a rest.” I shake my head. “You’ve been lying about this for years, not months. Long before I cut off communication. Everything you say is a lie, Paul.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Isn’t it, though?” I hold up a hand and start ticking off a list on my fingers. “You lied about getting fired from your job. You lied about the fact that you’ve been working for your uncle. You lied about the fact that you even have an uncle. You lied about your family background, your childhood home, even your given name.” I sigh deeply, wondering how I could’ve been so blind as to trust this charlatan for so many years. “Tell me, Paul — was anything you told me in our decade together actually true? Or was our marriage just another facet of your elaborate fabrications?”

  “You’ve got it all twisted,” he says, voice plaintive. “I never meant to drag you into any of this. You, this house, our marriage… it’s all I have left. You are the one good thing I have left.”

  “Except you don’t have me anymore,” I tell him plainly. “You lost me a long time ago.”

  “Don’t say that!” Expression clouding over with anger quicker than a summer storm, he advances on me. I backpedal until I hit the opposite wall, heart pounding in my chest as I watch the distance between us shrinking rapidly.