42. Audra
The house feels strange. Different. As if it knows Pete is dead.
Pete!
Just thinking his name sends a new wave of anger rushing through me. I barely slept last night. Between the anger and his betrayal, my mind was a churning mess.
I couldn't go back to Gabe after what Maggie told me.
I just couldn't. I knew I needed time to digest her revelation.
Memories flicker. Not clear at first. Just fragments.
Conversations that didn't make sense then.
Pete brushing things off. Smiling. Changing the subject whenever kids came up with family.
Then clearer. About five years ago, right after we got married, we were sitting on the couch, takeout containers between us, some stupid show playing in the background.
"I want a big family," I said, half laughing, half serious. "Like… loud. Chaotic. Kids everywhere."
Pete went very still. I remember that now. The way his hand tightened around mine.
"I just want you," he said. "Just you. Forever."
I laughed it off. Thought it was sweet. Romantic, even. Another memory surfaces. A weekend. He came home from work early on a Friday, pale, tight-lipped.
"Not feeling great," he muttered before he went to bed.
He spent the entire weekend there. Said it was the flu.
But it wasn't. I remember now. The way he winced every time he went to the bathroom.
The low, strangled groans he tried to hide.
The way he snapped at me when I asked if he needed a doctor.
I thought he was just being a baby, the way men are when they have the sniffles.
Now I want to slap myself. How wrong I was.
How trusting. How stupid. My stomach drops.
No! My mind tries to reject it. Push it away. But it fits. Too well.
All the times I cried because I got my period again.
"It's okay, Audra, don't worry."
"We don't need kids, we have us."
"I love you, Audra. We'll try again."
I squeeze my eyes shut. I had no idea. He didn't tell me. He didn't ask me. He just… decided. For me. For us. Most terrifying of all: we built a whole life on that decision.
My chest tightens, pain that feels like a sharp knife twisting deep inside me. I don't know what hurts more, the lie or the fact that I never even questioned it.
After that bomb dropped, I had Brick drive me to the house—my house, not the penthouse—the only place I could think of to find some peace and maybe some trace of why Pete did this to me.
Of course, Brick had to clear it with Gabe, and I still resent the hell out of that phone call.
I almost resent Brick. But it's not his fault.
I get it. Gabe is not just his boss. He's a…
killer. A made man. A mobster. If Brick hadn't made that call, he wouldn't simply be fired…
So what does this say about me that I can think about that so nonchalantly?
I'm not going there right now. That and Gabe are a whole other can of worms that will have to wait its turn. First, I need to get my head clear about Pete.
The doorbell rings.
I consider not answering, that's how much I don't want to talk to anybody right now. Not even a delivery person—although I didn't order anything—and certainly not a neighbor or one of those church people. But manners and curiosity win out.
My butt gets off the couch, and I answer the door. There is nobody there, but a stack of grocery bags has been left on the ground. Not just any bags. Not from the local chains. No, these are from the gourmet store I drive by every so often.
Having a pretty good idea who they're from, I sigh and suppress a smile while I carry the loot inside.
Steak. Potatoes, veggies, a salad, fruits, eggs.
A six-pack of beer and… this time I do smile.
A bottle of tequila. Also, a carton of chocolate ice cream and a box of chocolates that look delicious and obscenely expensive.
Gabe.
A small flutter moves through my chest.
I'm aware that he could have sent an army and forced me back into his penthouse. Hell, he could have come himself and dragged me out of here, and there would have been nothing I could have done about it.
That he hasn't… makes me grudgingly respect him.
I set the carton of ice cream to the side and put the rest of the groceries into the freshly cleaned fridge. I wasn't in the mood to do much when I arrived yesterday, but two weeks of slowly spoiling food hadn't been pretty. The fridge stank. I had to clean it. Now I'm glad I did.
Taking the ice cream, I go back to the couch, open it, and begin spooning the gooey goodness right out of the box.
In my other hand, I balance my phone. Brick had insisted on programming his and Gabe's numbers into it before leaving yesterday.
After he left, I changed Gabe's contact information.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment in indecision, then I start typing.
Me:
Thank you.
Devil:
For what?
Me:
Groceries. Not dragging me back.
Devil:
Don't get used to either.
A pause. My stomach flips.
Me:
I need time, Gabe.
Devil:
You have it. For now.
Me:
Maggie told me something… I need to think.
Devil:
Then think. But don't shut me out.
Me:
I'm not.
Devil:
Good. Because I'm still watching you.
Of course he is.
Me:
That's not comforting.
Devil:
It's not supposed to be.
Why the hell is that so hot? If any other man had said that… but that's the problem, isn't it? He's not just any other man.
Me:
Thank you… for giving me space.
Devil:
Careful. You keep thanking me, I might start thinking you're going soft on me.
Me:
Don't push it.
Devil: You burned my kitchen, Audra. You don't get to pretend you're harmless.
Fuck, he did it again. Heat curls low. Damn him.
Me:
You'll survive.
Devil:
Yeah. Probably.
A pause.
Devil:
I won't wait forever.
Eat something. Sleep. Think about whatever she told you.
Then come back to me.
Then come back to me.
I stare at those words for a long, long time. Until the letters blur. Until all I see is the meaning behind them. My traitorous body is ready to pack a bag and head straight back to the penthouse. My brain thankfully still has a vote.
I get up to find something for the headache building behind my eyes and end up rummaging through the bathroom cabinet. That's when I find it. A half-empty orange prescription bottle shoved behind a box of bandages.
Sertraline, the generic of Zoloft. I pick it up and stare at it. The label is almost worn off. For a second, I don't even remember when I stopped taking it. Then I do. The memories arrive all at once.
I remember a kind of ferocity driving me all my life.
An intensity. The feeling that everything mattered too much.
Until one day I sat in a doctor's office and told her I couldn't do it anymore.
Everything felt out of control. Mom was Mom.
Pete was Pete. I was working full time, taking care of everyone, trying to keep the peace, trying to be good enough.
I told the doctor there were days I burned dinner and felt guilty for hours afterward.
Not normal guilty. Catastrophically guilty.
The kind where one mistake felt like proof I was a terrible person.
I remember telling her that when my husband and mother looked disappointed, I didn't feel like I ruined a meal.
I felt like I'd run over somebody's dog. The doctor listened. Then she handed me a prescription. The magic blue pill. And it worked. God, it worked.
The constant anxiety softened. The guilt stopped swallowing me whole. Everything became easier. More manageable. More distant. I lean against the bathroom counter. The bottle cool in my hand. I'm not blaming the medication. Or the doctor.
Neither one forced me to stay. The truth is uglier than that. I needed a change. I needed therapy. I needed boundaries. I needed to get away from Razor's ghost. Away from my mother's expectations. Away from a marriage that slowly became a cage. Instead, I made myself smaller. Quieter. Easier.
I adapted. And adaptation became habit. Then years passed. Five. Six.
I stare at the bottle. At the life I built. At the woman I became. And for the first time, I wonder if somewhere along the way I stopped asking what I wanted and started asking what would make everybody else comfortable.
Is it possible… Is it possible that these were the culprits that put old Audra to sleep? I remember forgetting to take the pills lately. Instinctively, I had weaned myself off. Was that the reason why I became so dissatisfied?
I finish the ice cream I started a while ago, get a stomachache, throw up, and take a nap. I want to forget all of this.
When I wake, it's almost dark. I pick up the phone and call my mother.
"Audra, where the hell are you? Jack and Mario just got here. Just. Now. I've been alone all day. Did you even come home last night?"
I sigh. I had been mentally prepared for the onslaught, but I wasn't even close to being mentally ready for this call.
"I need some time, Mom. I met with Kelly and Maggie yesterday, and Maggie told me?—"
"So you leave me alone here? With a mobster? A criminal?"
Deep inhale, Audra, deep inhale. I perk myself up. She's in one of those moods. I know there's no talking to her when she's like that.
"I just called to tell you I'm okay. I'll see you in a couple of days, Mom."
"Oh, you're okay? What about me? I could be dead right now for all you care. You don't care about me, Audra. You don't. You've always been selfish."
That hurts more than it should. I tell myself that she's just in that mood. That she'll be over it in the morning and sorry. In my current state of mind, though, it doesn't help. Tears roll down my cheeks.
An incoming text dings; I hang up on Mom and check it.
Devil:
Why are you crying?
I close my eyes. I'm not in the mood for this right now. I'm really not.
Me:
Quit stalking me.
Devil:
Why are you crying?
He's not going to stop until he knows, I realize. Also, if I don't tell him, he might come here to take me back, and I really don't need that. I wouldn't say no to his dick. Nobody in their right mind would, but the rest that comes with it? It's just too much right now.
Me:
It's nothing. Mom is overwrought because I'm not there.
Devil:
She's fine. We just had dinner. She's playing blackjack with Jack and Mario. She's having the time of her life.
A small smile escapes me. Those two have really grown on Mom. And Gabe? I have to admit, he knows what to say to pull a girl out of her funk.
Me:
Good night.
Devil:
Go to sleep, baby. You're safe. You're mine. Nothing changes that. Don't overthink tonight. Don't let whatever she told you get in your head. Sleep well, my little arsonist. I'll be the one you dream about.
Shit, I might have to change his name.