Chapter 15 Sydney #2
It never took long for them to run out of sheer self-preservation.
He always meant to be faithful. It was the follow-through where it fell apart.
Funny how even the best-looking guy turns ugly when he spends his days and nights swinging between cheating drunk and vomit-all-over-himself-and-sleep-in-the-bathtub drunk.
Growing up, I promised myself that one day I would make my life the way I needed it to be.
I’d get married, and I’d do everything right.
I didn’t need, or even want, my future husband to be good looking.
That kind of thing makes people stupid. I wanted a best friend I could be mildly attracted to and rely on for mutual support.
I had goals. Focus on grades and soccer. Then concentrate on my career and friends. When I was ready, and no one could take away my safety or security, I’d start looking for the right person, and, eventually, plan, right down to an ovulation tracker, my future children.
I didn’t count on a man who makes me hot and bothered without even trying.
I close the compartment with a nearly silent snick, then the drawer. Then I turn off the lamp and head for the bathroom. When I get there, I brace one palm on the cool countertop. Look in the mirror. Do it. Get used to it.
Staring back at my own reflection is easier this time. I’m more prepared for what I’ll see. Look with kindness. How can I take care of this woman?
The skincare products he said were mine sit on the counter. I wash my face and pat my skin dry. When I apply moisturizer, the scent jostles free a memory.
I once stood in front of another mirror, putting this same lotion on my face. A diamond ring and wedding band winked on my finger. In my memory, my husband leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms.
“You’re a pain in my ass, McRae.” I fumed, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
He wiggled his eyebrows. “I’d like to be in your ass right no—”
I turned and threw a hand towel at his face. “Are you even capable of being serious?”
He caught the towel before it made contact. “I’m more than serious when it comes to your ass.”
“You should have warned me,” I said.
He dropped his arms. “You knew this could happen when you agreed to this marriage.”
I glowered.
“What do you want me to say? I have a past. It had nothing to do with you. I can’t change it. And I can’t hide from the public from fear of running into someone I used to know. That’s the entire point of these events.”
“It’s humiliating to have strangers blindside me with the fact that they’ve had sex with my husband.” Even I knew what I was saying was ridiculous, but I couldn’t back down.
“Maybe you should go ahead and assume I’ve fucked every previous acquaintance I’ve ever had. Then you won’t feel the need to clutch your pearls if you accidentally meet one of them in the wild,” he said acidly.
“Nice.”
“Why do you care about these people? You. Are. My. Wife. They’re no one to me. Anything I did with them before I met you is less than meaningless. I didn’t even remember her name until she introduced herself.”
Pure rage lit inside me. “That’s supposed to reassure me? It’s worse.”
Moisturizer forgotten, I struggle to process the memory. I knew he wasn’t cheating and never had, but I treated his past like it was a personal betrayal.
He is my husband. It’s not a lie or a trick. But I don’t know him, or even myself, well enough to say if that’s a good thing or not.
If I can’t make myself leave him, I should, at least, find another room to sleep in. It would be nothing to move across the hall.
Everything inside me rebels at the idea. There’s no point in making a list of the pros and cons when my stomach turns to knots at the idea of sleeping without him nearby. I don’t want to be away from him. That’s enough reason to stay for now.
I return to our room, climb into bed beside him and shiver, cuddling into the clean sheets and sinking into the fluffy pillow. The faint, wonderful, smell of McRae’s body wash reaches me.
He’s so still that if it weren’t for that scent, it would feel like I was alone. What if he stopped breathing? Is his heart beating? He could die in an instant. Anyone could.
I roll toward him, then inch closer, stretching out a hand and feeling my way.
The swell of his shoulder temporarily halts my progress.
When he doesn’t react to my touch, I keep going.
Lightly, so carefully, I trail my fingers across his clavicle, then down his pecs until I feel the deep rise and fall of his chest and the reassuring beat of his heart under my palm.
I startle, nearly panicking, when his hand comes up to hold mine against him.
“Love you, Sydney,” he mumbles. His heart rate never changes. His breaths immediately return to the slow cadence from before he spoke. He said the words without fully waking.
I melt against him like butter, leaning closer to rest my forehead against his bicep. More than anything else, I believe this. I’ll move back to my side before morning. For now, I sleep.