Chapter Fourteen
Atlas
November
“Why?”
"I-I don't—I can't—" I stumble over my words, my mouth opening and closing uselessly.
Wendy's green eyes soften as she watches me struggle, all the sharp, angry lines of her face smoothing away like she's forcing herself to remember that I'm her husband.
I'm her Atlas, and not just the man who’s hurt her.
Fuck, and if that only makes me feel worse.
Even now, after all I've done to her, she still cares about me. She still loves me. She shouldn't, but my wife isn't mean or cruel. Wendy has always been kind and genuinely good, to a fault.
My blood still boils thinking back to watching her mother slap her in the middle of the store, the sharp crack of it echoing in my head even now.
I'd never hit a woman, but I sure as fuck wanted Wendy's father in front of me so I could beat the shit out of him.
From Wendy's reaction, I could see that it wasn't the first time her mother had laid hands on her, so either he just let it happen, or he was laying hands on her too.
Either way, I wanted to fucking kill him. I knew her mom was a vicious bitch, but I didn't think...
Wendy never held a grudge, never let it affect her being a mother, never let the abuse poison the way she loved our children.
I remember her telling me one night, Liam sleeping on her chest, having fallen asleep while she was breastfeeding him—a beautiful sight that always knocked me flat on my ass—that she forgave her mother.
I felt angry, not at her, but just at her mother because she didn't deserve my wife's forgiveness. They moved away after Liam was born, and we never heard from them again. Good fucking riddance.
They never actually sought forgiveness from their daughter, nor did they ask about their grandson. When we saw them in public, they would walk past Wendy and Liam as if they were strangers.
I hated it, hated them, but Wendy never let it bother her, or at least, she never let it show.
When I asked her how and why she could ever forgive them for what they did to her, she said that holding onto it would breed resentment, which she would never allow around our baby.
She forgave her parents so that it would not affect our son.
I've always known Wendy was strong. I mean, I watched her push our nine-pound son out of her body. That was the most terrifying thing I ever witnessed at the time, and I wasn't the one who had to do it.
But that quiet little moment just sealed it for me. My wife is the strongest woman on this earth because of her kindness and her compassion, because she could forgive the unforgivable, because she loved our son more than she hated her mother.
"Atlas," Wendy's voice is so sweet and soft, too soft, and I don't deserve it. "Please... please, just talk to me. Tell me..."
Her wide eyes fill with tears as they silently plead with me to talk to her. To let her in on what's going on in my head.
But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is, "I can't..."
All the softness building on her face tightens, the appeal in her eyes dies, and her mouth flattens into a thin line.
The dread builds in my gut as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, steadying herself.
"Then you need to answer my questions, and I need honesty now."
"Wendy—"
"Is there another woman?"
She asks the question so abruptly that it stuns me. Another woman? How could there ever be another woman when all I see is her?
I've loved Wendy since I was twelve years old, when I first met her in sixth grade. She stood in front of our class to introduce herself as Mercy Ride’s newest addition. Her yellow shirt was like sunlight and her long hair was bright red and curly.
She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
I went home that day and told my mother and my eighteen-year-old brother that I had met her—the girl I would marry.
"That's nice, honey," my mom had chuckled, my brother rolling his eyes at me.
Neither took me seriously. I was twelve and so young, but I was dead serious.
A month later, we kissed at the dance, and that was it. My dad had always said he had met my mom once and just knew.
Well, so did I.
From then on, for me, it was only Wendy. When all my other friends were dating girls and having crushes and trying to get me "to explore my options," I wasn't interested.
It's Wendy for me, and it'll always only be Wendy.
"No!” I exclaim immediately, taking one step closer to her. Desperate for her to believe me, I drop to my knees. "No, Wendy. How could you even ask me that?"
"Are you serious?" Her eyes go wide, nostrils flaring.
"How could I not ask you that? What the fuck am I supposed to think, Atlas?
When was the last time we had sex? When's the last time you even kissed me?
I tried to initiate sex, and you rejected me!
I paraded myself naked in front of you like a fucking pathetic moron, and you didn't even look up! "
The embarrassment in her furious voice makes me flinch.
I remember. I remember how fucking sexy she looked, kneeling in front of me and grinning while she asked to suck my dick. I remember how it took all of my fucking willpower to tell her that I was tired.
I waited till she was asleep and went into the shower and violently jerked my dick like I was punishing myself, thinking of her the entire time.
Then, that night, I had a nightmare of her being stabbed and dying in my arms.
I remember that time when she walked around our bedroom naked, looking so goddamn delicious and tempting. I wanted to crawl to her, worship her the way she deserves, and beg for the privilege to touch her.
But I didn't. I had to force my eyes on my phone, my teeth gritted hard enough to crack.
The last time we had sex, I couldn’t get into it because I kept thinking—is this the last time we'd ever have sex? Is this the last time I'd ever touch my wife?
I came and rolled off of her, retreating to the bathroom.
I didn't lick her pussy until she came, not stopping until she was shaking from the two orgasms I got out of her because I felt bad for coming too soon. Not like I used to. I used to always take care of my girl.
We're the only ones we've ever been with and I know her body better than I know my own.
I acted like a selfish dick.
Now, I wonder if maybe while I was pulling away, I was trying to make her do the same to me.
Because maybe it would hurt less if she hated me.
"Wendy," I hold my hands out to her, stressing every single word, "I would never cheat on you. You're the only woman I want. The only woman I'll ever want. I love you, baby."
Her eyes fill, her face crumbles, and the loudest sob I've ever heard from her tears from her throat.
Stumbling from my spot on the floor, I move toward her, unable to help myself. She buries her face in her hands, shoulders shaking as she sobs.
My mind is collapsing in on itself, and I fold her in my arms, damn all the fear and terror, she's breaking apart in front of me, and I'm the fucking cause of it.
I hold my wife, and she drops her hands to bury her face in my neck, gripping my shoulders with her nails, digging into my skin painfully.
She can dig in as deep as she wants, until she's tearing away chunks of my skin and muscle. She can make me bleed if she wants, as long as she's still in my arms.
This is agony and euphoria all at once. I haven't held her like this, when she's been awake, in far too long. I'm like an addict relapsing, desperate, the high rushing through my blood and making me lightheaded with pleasure.
I'm going to pay for this later, and I don't fucking care. I press my hand to the back of her head, the other around her back, firmly pressing her body into me.
It takes a couple of minutes for Wendy's sobs to ease into hitching breaths.
Then she's pressing her hands into my chest... and pushing me away.
"Do you even remember the last time you told me that?" She asks me tremulously, raising red-rimmed eyes to mine, the green so clear and vibrant. She's all puffy eyes and wet cheeks, and looking so fucking beautiful it hurts. "That you love me? Because I can't... I can't remember, Atlas..."
I blanch when I realize that no, I don't either.
And that makes me feel like an even bigger sack of shit.
I don't say the words out loud, but I say them in my head nearly constantly—late at night, when I pretend to be asleep till I know she's out and will roll over and stare at her.
When I watch her leave in the mornings with the boys, juggling our circus so easily.
When I peek around the corner and watch her helping Liam with his math homework, or watching Noah paint while she cooks dinner that I won't sit down to eat, I'll instead find some excuse and leave the house.
I love you. I love you, Liam, and Noah so goddamn much. I love you guys more than air, more than my own life, more than anything in this whole world.
She sighs and shakes her head, harshly wiping away the tears still falling.
"I can't even remember the last time you held me—no, I do," she says, her voice hoarse. "But you were asleep, so it wasn't really you."
It was me!
I want to tell her. I want to say that I held her because I wanted to, because I couldn't resist anymore, but I fell asleep and then had the nightmare and fucking ruined it all again.
She steps back, and then again, until she's sitting back in her seat. I stay in my spot, standing in the middle of this living room like a useless decoration.
"Why did you miss the couple's therapy appointment?"
My stomach drops to the floor. The goddamn therapy appointment.
"Do you even know how humiliating that was? Waiting around for you... how low I felt?"
I didn’t go because then I might have to admit the truth, and if it's out loud, what if that makes it come true? What if I speak it into existence, what if I have to admit that you dying is my greatest fucking fear, and I don't know if I'll survive it?