Chapter 64
James
“Come on, cat, you have to eat.” I frown at a listless Malice.
She’s curled up on the barstool that my wife preferred to sit on when she had her breakfast. She’s missing her.
So am I.
It’s five days since Harper moved out of my penthouse. I have tossed and turned each night, unable to sleep. I miss her terribly.
I’ve taken to hugging the pillow she slept on, so I can smell her. I’ve taken to wearing her hair ties on my wrist while I’m home, so I feel close to her.
"That’s the second meal in a row you’ve missed." I scratch her under her chin.
"What if I gave you extra-fine pieces of the Grade-A Bluefin tuna as a special treat? Would you eat then?"
Her ears perk up.
Taking that as a yes, I head for the refrigerator and pull it out. It’s not yet time for her treat, but if it gets her to eat, I’ll be happy. I slice up the tuna carefully and serve it to her on the pre-chilled saucer next to her still full food bowl.
She sniffs it and demolishes the slices. When she licks her mouth and stares at me, a warmth creeps into my chest.
Before my wife, I didn't react in such a visceral fashion to situations. I couldn't name the feelings that arose in me. Now, I let the moods come. Accept that I control nothing. Not even what my cat eats. Or when.
I cut more of the tuna for her, which Malice polishes off. Then, looking perkier, she jumps off the island counter and pads toward the balcony.
I wash up the saucer and put it away. I reach for my glass of whiskey, then spot the white wine she loved.
My heart squeezes in my chest. My stomach feels heavy.
Malice is not the only one who’s lost her appetite.
I’ve been unable to eat beyond the obligatory tasting of dishes in the kitchen since Harper left.
I’m grateful to get to see her at work every day. But it’s also agony, having to remind myself that she won’t be coming home with me after the dinner service. And it's all my fault. I honestly don't know why I can't bring myself to say the words she wants to hear.
Doesn’t mean I’m not going to find excuses to brush past her, inhale her scent, and steal glances at her as she cooks.
I’ve used every opportunity to lean over her shoulder, under the guise of monitoring her technique.
Truth is, she’s progressed so much since she joined, I don’t need to hover over her anymore. But if it’s the only way I can be close to her, then I’ll take it.
I want to ask her to come into my office.
So I can see her, touch her, hold her, kiss her, and worship her body.
But I don’t. That would be against the spirit of what she asked of me.
She said she needs time to figure things out, she said.
I suspect she means, I need time to figure things out. And I'm working on it.
She hasn’t mentioned anything else about getting a divorce again. I feel stupidly grateful about that.
If she does raise it again…I’ll have to refuse her.
I may have given her space to think, but I’m never giving her a divorce.
I haven’t told her that I love her. And she’s right. She deserves to hear that. I've tried to practice saying the words out loud, but I only get as far as "I lo—" before my throat closes up. How pathetic am I?
Now, I pour myself a glass of her white wine, instead of my usual whiskey. It makes me feel closer to her.
Then walk upstairs to the bedroom we shared.
The one where I made love to her. I pull open the dresser drawer and slide the hair ties onto my wrist. Then, I place the glass of wine on the nightstand and sit back against the headboard.
I embrace the pillow she slept on and sniff it.
The only way I’ve been able to get some shut eye is by hugging it and pretending it's her. I haven’t washed the sheets, which still smell of her.
I told my cleaning service not to come into my bedroom or hers.
I want to keep the clothes she dropped on her dresser and the shoes she pulled off in her closet exactly as she left it.
It makes me miss her more when I see them, but it’s also reassuring. A reminder that she’ll be back.
I’m acting like someone who’s lovesick. I tense.
For the first time in my life, not only am I feeling the emotions, but I’m also acting on them. It doesn’t alarm me. It feels normal. Healthy, even.
Except, I'm miserable.
She told me she loved me, and I was unable to repeat those three words. I left her standing alone on the edge of an emotional precipice.
She made herself vulnerable.
But I didn’t. I couldn't. My OCD and PTSD demand control. The only way I've kept them quiet is by keeping myself closed. Controlled.
My rib cage tightens. My breath comes in pants. I need her by my side to calm me down. I want her with me, under my roof, where I can take care of her. I reach for my phone and pull up her number. Then stop.
She asked for space. I have to respect that.
Instead, I dial Tristan’s number.
He picks up on the first ring. “How are you?” His face fills the screen. Then he catches sight of my features and winces. “That bad?”
I scratch my chin.
I’m not going to pretend I’m anything but miserable. Part of my new resolution is to not hide what I’m feeling.
“It’s not good.” I crack my neck. “She told me she loved me.” I say without preamble.
It’s taken me five days to process her declaration, and as I say it aloud, something deep inside me flickers to life.
"And you told her…what?" Tristan’s expression turns serious.
"That’s the problem, I didn’t.” Frustration bubbles through my veins. I jump out of bed and begin to pace.
"You do love her, don’t you?"
"I do."
"So, tell her." Tristan looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
Which I slowly am. Coming home to a space without her is gutting me in a way I’ve never experienced before.
My heart tightens. A sharp pang pinches my chest. I rub at it.
"You okay?" Tristan frowns. "You don’t look very good."
I have never confided in anyone else. Not my uncle or my siblings, or even my teammates in the Marines, about my personal life. That's my protocol. Keep emotions contained, locked down, and inaccessible.
It's kept me functional for thirty years.
It’s kept me safe.
But it's also kept me isolated.
I've been learning to feel again, thanks to Harper. I let her crack the ice around my heart. I’ve let myself acknowledge the heat and the hunger, and the terrifying realization that I don't just want her body.
I want her laughter. Her support. Her defiance.
Her presence in my space, even when she's driving me insane.
Feeling it is one thing.
Saying it out loud?
That's the bridge I haven't crossed. I need to start somewhere.
Perhaps, if I share it with my uncle, it’ll make it easier to share it with her?
I square my shoulders. "I miss her." I blow out a breath. There, that wasn’t so bad, was it? "I wish she were here with me. It’s not the same without her."
Tristan stares at me.
"What?"
"You do love her."
"I do." I swallow around the emotions which press down on my throat. "I lo…" I take a deep breath. "I love her."
There, I said it. And even though my heart is pounding in my chest, I'm okay.
"Have you told her?"
I shake my head.
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
"You’re not one to shy away from challenges. You qualified as a Marine. Then pivoted to become a very successful chef. Why not bring some of that mojo into your personal life?"
I purse my lips. "You telling me I’ve been acting like a coward?"
He throws his hands out in front of him.
"You said it, not me." He looks me up and down. "You’re unhappy without her. You look like you’re going to have a breakdown. Wouldn’t you be better off telling her how you feel than keeping it all locked up inside?”
I rub the back of my neck. "But… What if… What if she's changed her mind?"
He scowls at me like I just told him I don't know how to make a roux.
"I mean… What if she realized, she doesn't love me anymore?"
He remains silent, disbelief on his features.
I shift my weight. "I guess, it's only been a few days…"
"And?"
"So, it's unlikely she changed her mind. She seemed sure of herself."
He nods. "And?"
I hesitate. "If I don't take a chance and tell her, I'll always wonder what could have been."
"And are you happier with her or without her?"
"I'm miserable without her.” I work my jaw from side to side.
A small smile curves his lips. "Would you rather be safe and miserable, or brave and admit how you feel?”
I draw in a slow breath, already knowing the answer to that.
He folds his arms across his chest. “Nobody ever died from rejection, but I don't think you need to worry about that.
What's more likely to kill you is bottling up your feelings, trying to control them, and never allowing yourself to experience love.
Harper's a good woman, and you'll always regret it if you let her walk away. "
He's right.
She's not going to wait around forever for me to figure out my shit. If I don't tell her how I feel, she'll find someone who can.
The thought of that is more than I can bear.
“Thanks." I jerk my chin at him.
His features soften. “By the way, you don’t have to worry about Miller. He signed the NDA. Agreed to leave the country and never return."
He released a written apology earlier today, saying everything in the video was conjecture. And his way of getting revenge for being fired.
Both Harper and I approved of the statement before Tristan’s team released it.
I curl my lips. "I should have smashed his face in for what he did."
"Margot asked about Harper. I had to tell her that your wife was staying separate from you for a few days."
My grandmother makes sure she’s kept abreast of everything happening in her grandkids' lives. So, why hasn't she called me yet?
"I’m not hiding anything from her." That’s the truth.
But if Margot butts into my personal life again, I’m going to tell her to back off. She cares about me. But my marriage is not something I’m going to discuss with my grandmother again.