Chapter 6 The Fortress #2
Another pause, as though he’s trying to pick out the right words to keep from hurting me.
“I don’t know, Luce. You two… you didn’t get along,” he says, a touch of an apology to his gentled tone.
“He kicked you out when you were eighteen. You’re thirty now, baby.
I think you’ve talked to him… three of four times since then that I know of.
You had roommates,” he continues. “Worked. Took care of yourself. You didn’t need him. Trust me.”
Hearing all of that hits like a kick in the teeth. I’m sure, before my accident, I didn’t care. I probably have reasons why I avoided my parents. But now that I’m basically alone in the world…
Only I’m not, am I? I have a rich, handsome husband, and so long as I can trust Dallas, everything should be alright. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be even better since I’d almost lost him, too, before I fell.
The reminder of that has me letting out a hollow laugh as I realize just how fucked-up my life was.
Dallas frowns. “Luce?”
“Let me get this straight. So my mom left, my dad didn’t want me, and my marriage imploded—”
He cuts me off immediately, laying his hands on my shoulders.
“No. I told you, baby. That was my fault. I won’t let you blame yourself for that.”
I look away from him. “I don’t know—”
Dallas frees one hand, using it to grip my chin, turning my face so that I have to look into his gorgeous one.
“I know. You’ll remember, but until then, I’ll remember for you.
What happened to us… I was too stubborn to apologize.
Too proud to come after you. I thought… I thought if you wanted me, you’d come back. ”
“How long?” I whisper.
His face shadows over. “Too long.”
It was at least a year, if not longer. Too push Dallas to confess how long wouldn’t be fair when he obviously regrets it.
And then he says, “I wanted you desperately. Every day you were gone… but I thought you were happy. I thought you were safe. But I want you to understand something, okay? You moved to California after you walked away from me, but you were right outside the airport when you fell from that window in a hotel. You were trying to call me. Maybe… maybe you were finally coming back to me.”
There’s a pleading note in his voice that I pick up on. Like he wants to believe that was the case.
You know what? I want to believe it, too.
“I don’t know what you were thinking,” he adds quickly. “Maybe you were coming back. Maybe you needed my help and you knew that, no matter what, I’d always give it to you. It doesn’t matter now.”
That’s what he says, but it matters to me. “Dallas—”
“I’m here,” he says, cutting me off. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re my wife. I need you to understand that more than anything.” The intensity in his voice makes my pulse jump. “I never stopped loving you. I only hope that, in time, you remember that you loved me once, too.”
His words hang there, like a pronouncement I can’t ignore. I have no doubt in my mind that he means them; with everything else so confusing, his love for me shone loud and clear from the moment he walked into my hospital room. But maybe it wasn’t his love for me that was in doubt.
Maybe I stopped loving him.
And if I did… why did I? Or did something else happen?
If only I could remember.
I knew that I once lived in California, but that before I did, I grew up in Harmony Heights, just like Dallas.
How? Well, he told me, and I can’t see any reason why he would lie.
While I was in St. Luke’s, with Carol watching closely as our chaperone, Dallas did everything he could to prove that he was who he said he was.
He has pictures of us in his phone. He showed me plenty, watching me for some sign of recognition as he explained where we were and what we were doing in each of them.
Nothing sparked in the back of my mind, though I enjoyed seeing the happiness on our youthful faces, evidence of the love that was once there.
Here, in the penthouse, there’s no sign of that.
No sign of his family, either. As we continue to tour the entire floor, I notice how…
how empty it is. It’s completely void of personality, and if he decided to say, psych, and tell me he was thinking about buying it instead of having lived in it for so long, I wouldn’t have any trouble believing him.
There are no photos on the wall. No mess anywhere.
It’s almost sterile, and the only time I feel like this place really is Dallas’s is when he points out his bedroom.
It’s the only room in the house with color and life and—to my quiet relief—a purely masculine air that suggests it rarely sees a female guest.
I shouldn’t be like that, especially when there’s video proof that I walked into a hotel with another man.
I don’t know who he is—though Dallas has asked me a couple of times, and so has that detective at the hospital—but, yeah, I can’t remember that, either.
Whether it was a fluke and we walked in together at the same time, or I had somehow moved on from Dallas, it doesn’t matter.
We weren’t together at the time. If he found pleasure with another woman, who am I to judge?
But I’m his wife. His wife. That’s what he keeps telling me, that I’m his wife, and he’s my husband, and that’s why I’m torn between being grateful and slightly disappointed when he eases past his bedroom and leads me to another room a few down from his.
He opens the door, gesturing inside. “Here you go, Lucy. Until you feel more like yourself, how about we make this one yours.”
I step into the room. While it gives off definitely ‘guest room’ vibes, I can’t help but notice the new bedding in neutral colors. At his urging, I peek my head in the closet, gasping softly when I see that it’s more than half-filled.
“I hope it’s all the right size. I asked the patient advocate to check the clothes you came into St. Luke’s in, then Loni…
you’ll meet her eventually, she’s Adrian’s wife…
she helped him get some stuff together for you while I waited with you to be discharged.
If you don’t like it, we can place some orders together, but I thought you’d want to come home, shower, and change into something new. ”
While he hovers right behind me, waiting to see my reaction, I inch closer to the closet.
I see dresses. Jeans. Sweaters. A new coat hanging on the back of the door, and at least three pairs of shoes on the bottom of the closet.
Moving to the dresser, I peek in the top drawer.
New underwear—both bras and panties—are folded neatly, placed inside with the tags still attached.
“You went to all this trouble for me,” I say softly. “I don’t know how I can thank you enough.”
“You don’t have to, Luce. I wanted you to be comfortable.” Dallas moves behind me, brushing his fingers possessively over my shoulder. “I want you to feel like you’re home.”
I glance up at him. “And this is my room? I… I mean, if we’re married… shouldn’t I be staying with you?”
I see something flicker in Dallas’s green eyes, there and gone again. “You’re staying with me here. In the penthouse. For now, that’s enough.” He lowers his head, pressing his lips to the top of mine. “I’ll give you your space, okay, baby? For as long as you need it.”
There’s that flash of gratitude warring with rejection again.
And all I can ask myself is: what if I need it forever?