Chapter Twenty #3
“If I knew a Bible verse about not being a dick, I’d quote it,” Caine mutters. “But all I’ve got is ‘the power of Christ compels you,’ and it doesn’t work.” He pauses a beat. “Or maybe it does; he sounds like a demon.”
My laugh catches me off guard, mainly because it’s real. “Good as anything else.”
“How long were you together?”
I wince. “Six years. Twenty-four to thirty.”
He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “Rough.” Letting out a hard exhale, he warns, “This next question is going to sound shitty, so hang in there.”
Stifling a laugh, I nod.
“Why is he doing this?” Before I can speak, Caine raises the scrub brush. “I’m not questioning why he would want you back—obviously he’d want you back—I’m questioning why he thinks snakes, blood, and threats are the way to do it. Whatever happened to a nice love letter?”
It’s all I can do not to scoff at the idea.
Discomfort washes over me. The scent of blood suddenly seems stronger.
I can’t tell him that I tried to kill Nicholas, and I suspect this is how he’s enacting revenge.
But I’m a horrible liar, so I need to tell him a partial truth if I want to come off the least bit believable.
Guilt over Caine’s earlier request for complete honesty twinges.
He said completely honest about sexual situations—this is different.
Semantics is a dangerous game, but I’ve been playing it since Nicholas.
“I gave up trying to understand how he thinks a long time ago,” I grumble. “He could still be angry I turned him in and wants to punish me. Or he could want me to manage his ‘comeback tour.’ Whatever his reason, it has nothing to do with love.”
Beyond love, I don’t think Nicholas even liked me.
He needed someone to keep his career ducks in a row, and I was good at that.
Useful was more important than lovable, and for a while, I convinced myself the two were interchangeable.
I thought managing his work events, social calendar, and all the domestic responsibilities would make my husband stop tolerating me and start loving me.
Caine contemplates while we scrub. “All this confess and atone—had to Google that one, by the way—business. Is he serious? Or is he an overgrown theater kid doing it for dramatic effect?”
I shouldn’t burst out laughing, but I do. Big body-shaking laughs that feel like they’re doing more for my soul than weeping would. When I’m done, awkwardly wiping watery eyes on the shoulders of my T-shirt, I finally answer Caine.
“Do not insult theater kids like that. I was one. Always the production side, but still.” I hiccup, swallowing one last giggle.
He chuckles.
I don’t want to be grim again. “He’s serious. The Bible is the ultimate weapon for him; he can twist the words until they justify any behavior he wants them to. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for not seeing it sooner.”
Caine makes a low sound of disagreement. “Cruel people don’t usually lead with their bad intentions. They hide behind a pulpit, or a badge, or ‘I love you.’ Whatever gets them closer to what they want. You can’t blame yourself for not seeing something hidden.”
When he says it like that, it sounds simple. It also feels like it’s my blood we’re washing off the porch. As if he’s sliced me open, peeked inside, and now we’re cleaning up the residual mess. It takes a few swallows before the lump in my throat shrinks enough for me to ask, “Are you religious?”
“I’ve seen The Exorcist a few times,” he says mildly.
Despite myself, I laugh. “Ah, the gospel of spinning heads and projectile vomiting.”
“Of which I am a disciple.” He groans as he puts some muscle into scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain, and I try not to notice how attractive his forearms are.
Focus.
“No, we went to church when we were kids.” His tone has changed, almost imperceptibly, but there’s an edge.
“That’s what nice families do. Line everybody up in a pew once a week, and that’s that.
” His scrubbing has become more intense, foam flecking his jeans as it flies.
“After all, it doesn’t matter what you do the other six days as long as you’re a happy family when people are looking, right? ”
I make an affirming sound but don’t answer, hoping he’ll keep talking.
“I like god fine. There are plenty of reasons why believing in a higher power is comforting. It’s the blatant hypocrisy that kills me.
Because how do you go in and nod along to a sermon about loving your neighbor and then decide your neighbor is only people who look like you, or act like you?
Or listen to lectures on turning the other cheek, then go home and kick the shit out of your kids—” He cuts himself off with an exhale.
“Sorry, I sort of went on a tear there.”
“You’re fine.” My laugh is grim. “Trust me, I get it.”
Hours later, after the sun has set, we admire our handiwork. Despite reeking of blood and dish soap, and being sweat-soaked and sticky, I feel shockingly light. My soul is the kind of calm that usually takes a therapy appointment, a horror movie, and a half-dozen orgasms.
Caine whistles. “Forget the blood: I think we cleared off a decade’s worth of crap.”
“Yeah.” There’s a lump in my throat, but this time it’s the good kind. “We did.”