Silent Is The Heart

CHAPTER 29

Aaron

“It’s okay, babe. Come on, Aar . Breathe. I’m fine. I’m here. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Gasping, I’m afraid to open my eyes as the familiar voice repeats those words over and over. The body crouched down on the floor next to me, the heavy arm wrapped around my shoulders…it is him. He even smells like him.

Tears spill down my face. It feels like my heart is breaking all over again. It’s grateful that he didn’t experience the agony I imagined so many times that he did. It’s sorry for all the pain I went through grieving for him. But it’s also confused, so fucking confused.

Raising my head, I summon the courage to open my eyes to this apparition. My God, it is him. This is really happening.

“But you…you’re…you were… They said you…” I don’t even know what to say to convince him that he shouldn’t exist. “I saw your car! It was…it was destroyed.”

“I know. I know,” he soothes, pulling me tighter to him and rocking me. It’s constricting. I already can barely breathe. This only makes me feel like I’m further suffocating. “I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

Rising, he hooks his hand underneath my elbow. It’s Jason, or at least some part of my brain is registering that it’s Jason, but each touch feels like I’m being mauled by a stranger. I stare up at him stupidly, trembling like I’m looking at a ghost. For all intents and purposes, he should be.

“Come on. Get off the floor. Let’s go sit down and I’ll tell you everything.”

It’s like walking in a dream, being hyperaware of the smallest things. The floor creaks under his weight, telling me he does, in fact, have mass. I can hear the scrape of his shoes against the boards. The couch cushion depresses as he sits on it and pats for me to take the place next to him. He looks so foreign sitting here; like a puzzle piece that got thrown into the wrong box. As I sit down and take in his new look, a thick but trimmed beard covering his once impeccably shaved jaw, the bizarre dream is starting to feel like a nightmare. There’s only one man I’ve stared at sitting across from me on this couch, and his name is Easton, the man I’m in love with. It’s not his playful, smiling face staring back at me. It’s not his wavy brown hair and smooth face. It’s a past I worked hard to get over and it’s… back. My husband is back. I should be crying with joy.

“What…what happened? How? I…”

Sighing, he sets a black gym bag down on the floor I hadn’t even registered he was carrying and unbuttons his coat. Each move of his hands is more surreal than the last. Sitting back, he leans his elbow over the back of the couch like it’s perfectly natural for him to be lounging in my living room and… not dead!

Reaching out, he grabs my hand off my lap and holds it in his, brushing his thumb over the top of my knuckles. It’s a hand I tried to remember holding so many times after I thought he died. Right now, it sets off an unusual panic in me as though it’s a bear trap and I’ll lose fingers or exchange the death I thought he had with my own.

“Do you remember that addition I had put on the clinic a few years ago?”

“Yes.”

Why is he talking about his clinic? He should be talking about how he didn’t die. I have to be dreaming.

“Remember all those problems I had with the contractors screwing me over, changing the estimate and the labor hours repeatedly?”

“Yeah, but…what does that have to do with anything?”

“They were criminals. I didn’t tell you, but they kept threatening me, saying I owed them more money, and each time I refused to pay, they added interest.”

What does this have to do with him being killed in a car accident? A car accident that didn’t happen. Or did it? My head feels like it’s going to explode. Easing my hand back, I rub my temples.

“I don’t understand. You never said anything. Did you tell your lawyer?”

“No, Aar, you don’t.” He frowns, shifting. It’s the annoyed tone I remember he always used when I couldn’t understand something because he wasn’t telling me all the details. “They were organized crime. Not the kind of people you can solve disputes with by getting a lawyer.”

Like the mafia? Is he telling me the mafia was after him?

Holding up my hands, I try to piece together why being on the wrong side of an organized crime faction would make someone disappear for almost two years and then show up with a beard and glasses.

“Are you in the witness protection program or something?”

My mouth gapes open, watching him laugh. It’s a loud, amused sound that has no business in this conversation. “Oh, my God. You still watch one too many movies. No,” he adds, leveling me with a coy look. “I’m smarter than that. I played them at their own game. I found out that they were going to come after me.”

“Come after you? Like…murder you?”

He traces his fingertip over my shoulder and grimaces. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I went to the police, but they wanted to put a wire on me and have me meet with them, but I wasn’t going to risk losing you if it all went south or have our names all over the news.”

I wait for more, but his very real-looking mouth doesn’t move again. That’s it?

I blink stupidly, trying to wrap my head around the information, but the fingertip tracing anxious circles on my shoulder is distracting; like a spider crawling on me—a dead spider.

“So…so what? You…pretended that you died?” Instantly, a pang of guilt hits me at how accusatory the question comes out. “Or did you really get hurt? Your car…I saw it. It was completely crushed.”

Scoffing, he rolls his eyes and stands. “Aaron, enough about the car, okay? I’m a doctor. I know how to get medical records.”

I blink, unbelieving, as he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his black slacks and starts to leisurely pace around the room. He… planned to die. Or… planned to fake die. Am I really hearing this?

“I had to lie low for a while and wait until you got out of town. I figured you would,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at me with a pleased gleam in his eyes. “And you did. Just like I hoped.”

Seeing any kind of joy on his face after I was so miserable for so long has me suddenly frustrated. He planned this entire thing down to how he thought I would move on with my life in his absence? It’s all just too much.

“You never said a thing to me. You could have told me something.”

Sighing, he swoops in, taking a knee in front of me. I flinch when he cups my face, but blame it on the quick movement. Why would someone flinch when their husband touches them?

“Babe, I couldn’t. They were watching the house. It wouldn’t have been safe for either of us if I’d tried to contact you.”

I remember all the nights spent feeling so numb it seemed like I’d been electrocuted; sickening nausea, being unable to eat, and my eyes so puffy I physically couldn’t cry anymore.What does he mean he couldn’t have ended that misery? He could have sent me a postcard or an anonymous phone call.

“I went to your funeral, Jason! I…” My voice cracks. Liquid heat fills my eyes as I grip two handfuls of his lapels, trying to grasp onto some sense of relief from him not suffering what I thought he had. “I thought you died,” I warble, unable to hold my head up any longer.

His arms wrap around me again, pulling me against his chest as I fall apart, lost in a sea of gratitude, confusion, self-pity, and an odd sense of betrayal. I don’t know which feeling to cling to. Making soothing sounds, he rubs my back. It’s the type of comfort I wanted from him before he died and shortly after. Right now, it feels like being held by someone on a blind date whose face I haven’t seen yet.

Drawing back, his hands clamp onto my shoulders and give me a gentle shake. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m here now. I told you; everything will be fine now. We’re safe.”

Safe?

It’s one more word out of his mouth that doesn’t make sense. Each week since he’d ‘ died ’ became a new week of trepidation over my future existence. The unexplained bills. Trying to find out how and where I would live. I haven’t felt safe in a long time. At least, not until… Easton.

Oh, God. Easton…

Can I not see him anymore? Should I even be thinking about that? I’m still married. I’m a married man … again .

A new wave of nausea crashes into me. And then another for feeling nauseous over being married. Am I a horrible person?

Staggering to my feet, I sidle out from between the coffee table and couch. The need for air and space seems tantamount.

“I had to sell the house,” I blurt, nonsensically. He’s done all the talking so far and likely has no clue about all the things that have happened since he…left. “There were bills. All kinds of bills. Things I had no clue about,” I explain, trying to sound more informative than accusatory. “You didn’t leave any notes. I even had to sell the cars. That’s why I moved back here, but creditors still keep calling. Your mom said…” I stop in my tracks, remembering all the unpleasant calls from Grace. It’s one ray of light in this discovery—that Jason is finally here to explain everything to her. “Wait. Does your mother know?”

“My mother?” he parrots, rising from the floor. “Do you think my mother would approve of a scandal like that?”

I’m not sure if he’s referring to these criminals who tried to blackmail him or him faking his own death, but either way, he’s right. Grace Reider holds her public image highly, making me feel foolish for even asking.

I nod, dumbly trying to take an odd sense of pride in the fact I’m the only one he’s appeared to have trusted with the knowledge, even if the information is coming well overdue. I honestly didn’t know he held me with more regard than her in the trust department, sometimes feeling like a third wheel in his relationship with his mother.

I find him in front of me suddenly and realize I’ve just been standing here, staring at the floor, and biting my thumbnail. “Come on,” he soothes, turning me toward my room. “Don’t worry about any of this anymore. I have a plan, but for now, let’s just go to bed. It’s been a long day. We can talk more tomorrow.”

As my feet move obligatorily from years of following his lead, I stare at my bed through the doorway in horror. The sheets are still rumpled from Easton and me last night. I slept next to Jason for eight years, but the thought of lying next to the man I married right now makes my throat constrict. It feels like it would be a desecration of one of the places I relate to the greatest joy of my life. It’s heartbreaking and treacherous all at once. My legs stop moving and he bumps into me.

“I…I can’t.”

“You’re tired. I can see it in your face,” he soothes, rubbing the back of my neck over my stiff muscles. “I haven’t had much sleep myself lately. Why don’t we just crawl into bed and hold each other? Remember how we used to do that?” He smiles, his voice going soft.

I do remember… in the beginning. Years ago. Shortly after we moved to Seattle, though, it was all work, work, work. He’d often come home late and silently move my arm or hand out of the way if I’d drape it over him like it was disturbing his pose or comfort. Even after sex… he wasn’t much for holding each other… not the way Easton does. It always made me feel pathetically needy and yet left a chasm of disconnect between us.

“Yeah,” I laugh breathlessly and try to smile. “But…I’d rather not.”

“What?” He laughs like I’m joking.

Glancing at the bed and then back at him, I try not to squirm under his gaze. “I…it…it’s just a little strange. It’s a lot to process.”

His eyes study me for what feels like an eternity. Can he see through to my soul? Hear the moans I’ve let out in that bed? The laughter with another man?

I wanted to be what he wanted for so long, and yet it feels like if I walk into that room with him, my life will never be as wonderful as it has been of late. Maybe that makes me a terrible husband. Maybe I was never a good one to begin with.

Straightening, he nods, looking resigned. Stroking my cheek, his smile seems forced, but he leans in and pecks me on the lips. It’s a kiss, causing a little flicker inside me because it’s a kiss, but it’s just skin-to-skin. It’s an action with no reaction, leaving me further floundering about why I’m not overjoyed that he’s returned.

“All right. Yeah. I’ll give you some time. We’ll talk soon. Okay?”

He turns back toward the couch and picks up his gym bag. The amount of relief coursing through me that he appears to be leaving is shameful.

“Where are you staying?” I ask. It’s such an odd question to voice. “Do you…have somewhere to stay?”

Buttoning his coat, he flashes me a smile and a wink, motioning with his head to the front exterior wall. “Nearby.”

What does ‘ nearby ’ mean? How long has he been here, I wonder? And still… why now, after almost two years? I have so many questions that I no longer feel guilty for asking him not to stay. I do need to process. With any luck, I’ll wake up tomorrow in Easton’s arms and this will all have been a horrible nightmare… even if that makes me a horrible husband.