Chapter 17 – James
JAMES
The unanswered texts are the first sign of trouble.
James
Building management might come in to change the batteries in the smoke detectors.
Nate mentioned that Cat’s home for the afternoon. She might stop by.
Should I order sushi for dinner tonight?
Normally, Maura responds promptly to texts like these. If she's busy in her studio, there might be a delay of an hour or so. Since she hasn't responded to any all day, not even with a sarcastic remark about my diamond order, I can guess that she hasn't forgiven me for my optics comment yet.
If I'm honest with myself, I wouldn't have even texted her in the first place if it weren’t for the gnawing guilt in my stomach. My reasonable, grounded wife was upset enough about my comments to go on a spending spree designed to make me angry. That wouldn't happen if I hadn't been so careless.
Not only was I cavalier with my words, I was unforgivably stupid with my timing.
Two weeks have passed since Maura's fertile window.
She would have told me if she was pregnant, which means she must know by now that she's not.
Instead of being sensitive to that, I fucked her and I acted like it meant nothing.
Our marriage might be based on a contract, but that doesn't give me the right to ignore her feelings. I have an idea for a gesture that might make it up to her, but I owe her an actual apology.
I'm not surprised to find her in her studio when I get back to the penthouse, but I’m not prepared for the full chaos in the room.
Only half the boxes have been unpacked, and the other half have been opened and strewn around the room.
Paint cans are open everywhere, with drips scattered across the drop cloths below.
Half a dozen half-finished canvases stand propped against the wall, their discordant colors clashing with each other.
Maura stands in the center of it all, her shoulders tight. She grips a paintbrush tight in her hand, black paint dripping from the tip onto the floor. She’s wearing another paint-stained jumper, making me marvel that she has more than one monstrosity like it.
“Maura?” I ask tentatively.
Her head turned sharply to look at me. Her eyes are red, emphasizing the red blotches on her face. She's obviously been crying, but the reaction might be exacerbated by paint fumes.
“No,” she snaps at me. “I'm not in the mood, James.”
I take a step forward. “We should talk.”
“You don't want to hear anything I have to say,” she says darkly.
If I were anyone else, I would walk away. She's obviously in no mood to have a rational conversation, but my apology can’t wait. Any relationship we've built is eroding with every hour from my toxic words.
“There's something I have to tell you,” I say.
“What? Am I not holding up my end of our contract?”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Save it. I already heard enough from my father. I’m letting you both down. Maybe if I rested or took the right vitamins or ate a fucking pound of walnuts, I’d be pregnant,” she snarls. “Sorry to disappoint you all.”
Shit. The way I acted was bad enough, but whatever insane idea Victor put in her head has driven her beyond reason.
“I’m not disappointed,” I say.
“You’re not, huh?” Her brown eyes flash with hurt. “That’s not why you offered to schedule extra pity fucks to help knock me up? Or was that just for optics?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“First I’m a headline, then a broodmare on a schedule. One who’s not performing right!” she snarls. “And now that I’m making a scene, now you pretend you care? Fan-freaking-tastic. Tell me again how this isn’t just optics, James.”
I swallow.
She shoves the nearest canvas, and it crashes to the floor. A bowl of dirty rinse water and a can of paint spill, a paintbrush rolling across the drop cloth. Maura whips around, flinging herself at a different canvas on the other wall.
Fuck, she’s going to try and destroy the place. Destroy her paintings, destroy the first nice thing I ever gave her. I’ve got to stop her before she damages something she cares about.
I reach for her, but she ducks out from under my arm. She grabs another painting, a larger one. She picks it up as best she can and swings it against the wall like a sledgehammer. The awkward size means she drops it, and the wooden edge of the stretcher bar breaks off in her hand.
A sudden crack, and her quiet gasp of pain.
A violent streak of red across the palm of her left hand.
My blood turns icy cold.
Maura stares at the blood on her hands like she's not sure how it got there.
She sinks to her knees, staring at it as it seeps from the cut, mixing with the black paint staining her hand.
She turns it over, and for a second I think she's examining the severity of the wound.
Then she tilts her head, like she's getting a piece of art.
Like it's not her fucking hand, slashed open and bleeding all over the goddamn floor.
I'm moving before I even realize it. I stride over, yanking her against me and taking her wrists in my hands so I can pin them against her chest.
“Let go of me!” she demands, trying to yank her hands away.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Get the hell off me!” Maura thrashes against my hold, spitting and cursing. I ignore her demand to let her go. She's not in her right mind, and she's going to seriously hurt herself if she doesn't stop moving.
“Stop, Maura,” I say, as calmly as I can with my wife’s blood dripping all over my suit.
“Fuck you!” Her thrashing gets weaker, but she keeps fighting me. I just tighten my grip.
“You're allowed to be angry, at your father and at me. But I won't watch you bleed for it.” My voice is low, and rougher than it should be.
A sob tears out of her. After a few more vain attempts to struggle, the fight slowly drains out of her.
She collapses against me, and I let go of her wrists when I feel her turning to face me.
Her fists curl in my jacket, and she buries her face in my shirt.
She sobs against me. It’s messy, unconstrained, and absolutely fucking warranted.
After what feels like half an hour, her sobs start coming more slowly. She sniffs and lets go of my shirt.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, sounding a little like herself again. “Oh, James, your clothes—”
I glance down at my bloodied suit and shirt. Dark red blood blots the pale gray wool and crisp white cotton. “It’s nothing.”
Maura shakes her head. “We should run them under some cold water, try and get the blood out before it stains.”
“Forget it. This is my dry cleaner’s problem.”
“But —”
If she weren’t still so fragile, I’d groan with frustration. “Maura. You’re bleeding. That’s all that matters, not the goddamn suit. Now let me see your hand.” I turn over her palm and examine the wound. It’s still bleeding, but it’s clotted at the edges. It’ll heal if it’s treated right.
“I'll call my doctor,” I say. “He’ll come clean this and bandage it.”
She shakes her head. “I don't want a doctor.”
My jaw tenses. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t need stitches.”
“I don’t. Seriously, the last thing I want right now is some guy in a white coat hovering over me, lecturing me about wound treatment.”
“Don’t be stubborn when you’re still fucking bleeding,” I hiss. It comes out angrier than I mean it to, but I can’t handle her stubbornness when it comes at her own expense.
“Please, can you just bandage me up yourself?” She blinks up at me, her eyes still swimming with tears. “We can call the doctor if the bleeding doesn't stop.”
“Fine.” I don't like it, but if she lets me clean it and bandage it, at least I can be sure it won't get infected. I can always send a photo to my doctor for a second opinion.
She follows me to my bathroom, where she perches on the counter while I get supplies out of the medicine cabinet.
She winces when we run her wound under water and wash it with soap, but she doesn’t say anything.
I suspect she thinks if she complains, I’ll call the doctor whether she likes it or not.
She might be right about that.
Fortunately, once I clean the wound, I see that it’s actually smaller and cleaner than I expected. It stops bleeding long enough for me to apply antibiotic ointment. By the time I’m wrapping her hand in a clean bandage, my hands are shaking as much as hers.
“Thank you,” she says when I’m done.
Asking her if she’s alright seems pointless, since the answer is obviously no. Instead, I ask, “No stiffness? No problems moving your fingers?”
“No. It feels fine—I mean, apart from hurting a bit. I can take some Tylenol.”
I bite my lip. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her to stay with me tonight, just in case something happens. But it’s not like this is a head wound. If it starts to hurt, she can always just come to my room and get me.
“You’ll tell me if the pain gets worse?” I ask.
She shoots me a crooked smile. “I think you just saw the worst it could possibly get. But I’ll let you know. Good night, James.”
As I watch her walk back to her room, I hope she’s right.
I don’t want to see her in pain like that ever fucking again.