23. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I spend Tuesday night lying on the sofa with my handgun. I keep the TV on low, too anxious to sleep upstairs and halfway hoping Mark will come out to make sure I’m not on the bench. But he never does, and I never sleep. Around five, I go upstairs and shower before making coffee, which I drink alone at the table. I go to work before daylight because I have no reason to hang around the house.
Lila’s insisted on coming in to work this week, though I’ve made her stay confined to the desk, answering phones, scheduling appointments, and helping with paperwork. She’s still healing from her laparoscopic surgery, and performing massages really works your core. I’ve just gotten myself a second cup of coffee from the kitchen when I find her escorting one of my clients down the hall.
“Thanks for showing him to the room, Lila,” I say. “I’ll be right with you, Paul.”
Paul has no sooner closed the door than I round on her to scold her. Before I can open my mouth, she rolls her eyes. “Don’t you think you’re being a little overprotective?”
I snort. “Says the woman who threatened to remove Mark’s testicles with a rusty razor blade.”
She grins. “I’d do it, too, and he knows it. Frankly, it’s still not off the table.”
Tom finds me in my office as soon as I finish with Paul. Lila is there too, sorting papers into somewhat manageable piles. Both are undeterred by Mark not changing his mind yet.
“Be patient,” Lila encourages me. “You know how stubborn he is. He’s not going to cave immediately, even if he wants to.”
Tom agrees. “Absolutely. We’ve barely gotten started.”
I nod, but in my heart, I’m worried. Mark is stubborn. He won’t back down when he truly believes he’s right. He’ll dig in his heels like a preschooler in a cereal aisle. It’s a great trait in the military when persistence is needed, but in situations like this, not so much.
I stay late in my office Wednesday, working till long past seven. Tom stopped by earlier and offered to take me to dinner, but I told him I was too tired. With the exception of being passed out drunk for three hours Monday night, I haven’t slept in days.
Fatigue eventually lets my anxiety level drop low enough for common sense to kick in. If I want Mark to realize he loves me, then he and I need to talk. I work out what I want to say, gather my courage, and head home to face him. But when I get there, he’s already in his room with the door closed.
I stand outside it for a long time, debating whether to knock. In the end, I surrender and spend another sleepless night on the couch.
At four, exhausted yet wide awake, I go upstairs, completely miserable.
How did things get to this point between us? Mark won’t even stay in the same room with me. He’s avoiding me like the plague, all because I fell in love with him.
How could I have been so wrong about his feelings for me?
I start to wonder what the point even is anymore as despondency soaks into my soul.
In my bathroom, I turn on the shower and sink to my knees, praying the drumming water will muffle my sobs. I cry for a solid half hour kneeling in the tub, then get stiffly to my feet and wash my hair and body in water that has long since turned cold.
I don’t know what to do. Should I wake Mark and tell him we need to talk? Should I redouble my efforts with Tom to make him jealous, or will that make things worse? I honest-to-God have no idea, and I’m hanging on by my fingernails.
I meet Lila at the clinic door as soon as I hear her. “Has Tucker said anything about Mark?”
She studies my swollen eyes and tucks my hair behind my ear. I know I look terrible. Dark circles loom large in my pale face, emphasizing my red-rimmed eyes. I’ve not had a decent night’s sleep since Sunday, and the last time I ate was soup with Tom a couple of days ago.
“He’s not said a lot,” she answers gently. “Mostly that Mark feels like what he’s doing will be better for you in the long run.”
“It’s so frustrating that I don’t even get a say in this. He’s decided for both of us. And he’s avoiding me. We live together, but I haven’t laid eyes on him since Tom left two nights ago.”
Lila gathers me into a hug. “Things will work out. You just have to be patient.”
“I’m not sure I have any other option.”
Tom bounces in a few minutes later, full of energy and determination. “You and I are going out tonight,” he announces. “I’m picking you up while he’s there and bringing you back home, and there will be actual public displays of affection in his presence. We need to step things up.”
I’m not sure I have the energy to manage it. I’m weary all the way to my soul.
But Lila nods enthusiastically. “He was obviously jealous the other night,” she points out. “Tom’s right. Mark needs to be more jealous than afraid.” She studies my face and squeezes my hand. “It will work, Charlie. Boys are stupid and easily manipulated.” She grins at Tom. “Present company excluded, of course.”
He smiles easily. “I know we’re stupid and easily manipulated. That’s why I suggested making him jealous. It’s effective because at our core, we’re all a bunch of dumb, possessive cavemen.” He turns to me. “Pick a restaurant.”
I suggest somewhere quiet, and Tom makes reservations.
I take more care than usual with my appearance, partly because I want to remind Mark what he’s missing, and partly because my fatigue and stress levels demand it. I dress per Lila’s explicit instructions, donning the fitted black pants that she swears makes my ass look fantastic and a plunging silk blouse that matches my eyes. The black lace push-up bra beneath it definitely accentuates my assets, and I’m wearing a matching thong in case Mark comes to his senses. Plan for the future you want, right?
I style my hair in loose waves and apply makeup, including Lila’s strongly recommended smoky eye. I add jewelry and skyscraper heels and send a picture to Lila, getting her immediate approval. When Tom pulls up, I decide to make Mark answer the door.
I’ll make an entrance he won’t easily forget.
I hear him open the door, and I wait for stilted conversation to filter up the stairs before I descend, adding a little extra shimmy to my walk. I glance innocently at Mark and watch his jaw drop.
Literally, his mouth falls open, and he gapes at me.
I have never had that effect on a man before.
Best. Compliment. Ever.
Tom sees Mark’s reaction as well and steps forward to greet me with a kiss on the cheek and a hand on my waist. “You look amazing,” he murmurs.
“Thank you,” I answer, smiling up at him as I run my fingers down the front of his shirt. Mark whirls on his crutches and disappears.
Tom is opening the car door for me when he chuckles. “You really do look amazing. Mark obviously agrees, because his jaw nearly hit the floor.”
The thought makes me smile, my first genuine smile in days. “That was my goal.”
“You nailed it,” Tom winks.
Tom and I have a nice dinner. Conversation is comfortable as we talk about work, clients, Lila, Tucker, Maya and Skyler – anything and everything except Mark. It’s only when we head back to my house that I feel the familiar tightening of my stomach, dreading what’s to come.
Tom notices my change in demeanor. “Relax. We’ve got this under control.”
“Are you sure? Because nothing about this feels ‘under control’.”
“It’s like Lila said. Boys are stupid. Despite our attempts to become more emotionally evolved, at heart, all men are neanderthals.”
“So Mark wants to club me over the head like a seal and drag me back to his cave?”
He laughs. “No. He wants to club me over the head and drag you back to his cave.”
“I’d rather no one got clubbed.”
Tom grins. “I’d prefer it myself, but I’m willing to take a hit.”
“You’ve not done anything to get punched over,” I protest.
He winks. “The night is young. I told you, we need to step things up. You alright with that?”
I nod. “Actors do it all the time, right? Eye on the prize and all that.”
Tom laughs. “That’s the spirit.”
We enter the house hand in hand again. Mark is in the living room again, this time with the television on a music channel. Tom waves with our entwined hands as he leads me into the kitchen. He’s facing away from Mark, but he’s clearly within his line of vision.
“Dance with me,” he suggests as a slower song comes on.
I smile. This is familiar territory, because he and I have slow-danced together before. I slide my arms around Tom’s neck as he wraps his around my waist, crossing his wrists and letting his hands dangle loosely above my backside. I catch a glimpse of Mark’s dark expression. He can’t see Tom’s hands, but he obviously thinks they’re cupping my ass. I hide a smile. We sway slowly to the music, my head on Tom’s chest as he rests his chin on my head. When the song winds down, Mark turns off the television.
“You guys can have the television. I’m going to read.” I hear the squeak of the couch, and Mark moves to the chair by the window where he has a direct view of us.
“Stay right where you are, but stop dancing,” Tom whispers, and I do. I lean into him, tightening my arms around his neck as Tom dips his head, tilting it and resting his cheek against mine. I wonder what Mark thinks and hope he’s jealous enough to decide I’m worth fighting for. Finally Tom pulls back, looking down at me and brushing my hair back from my face. “Walk me out?” he asks loudly enough for Mark to hear.
“Yes,” I say immediately, taking his hand and leading him into the hallway, passing the living room without giving Mark so much as a glance before going out the front door.
Tom props himself against the porch column, and I lean into him. He wraps his arms around me, pressing his face to my hair in a comfortable embrace. “Mark hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”
I look up. “You think so?”
“I know so. He’s watching from the window.”
I steal a quick peek. I can see Mark in the chair – a chair which, to my knowledge, he’s never sat in before tonight – but I can’t tell for sure if he’s watching.
“So what now?”
“Now you go in and block the door to his room so you can talk to him.”
“You think it will work?”
Tom smiles at me. “He loves you, Charlie, and I can feel his eyes burning a hole in me. I think you’ve got a pretty good shot.” He kisses my forehead. “You do look amazing tonight. Now get in there and work your magic.”
I can do this.
I can get Mark to admit he loves me.
I don’t have any other choice.
As far as shitty weeks go, this is one of the shittiest. The only time worse than this was when those bastards took Charlie from me and I didn’t know where she was or if she was still alive.
I thought telling Charlie Monday night I didn’t love her was the worst I could feel. Then she didn’t come home.
Of course, she did the next morning, after spending the night with Tom.
Tuesday night was their snuggle session on the sofa. I downed an entire six-pack in an hour, trying to dull the monster raging in my chest, but it didn’t work. I escaped to my room while they were outside doing things I can’t let myself think about.
Wednesday night, I knew I couldn’t face her. It’s too much to ask from my battered heart. Instead, I holed up in my room with the door closed, but I kept cracking my door open and peeking to be sure she’s not sleeping on the damn bench with her gun again.
Not that I have any idea what I’d do if she were. Probably drag her to my bed to let her feel safe and end up proclaiming my undying love for her, saddling her with a useless cripple because she’s too stubborn to walk away.
She stayed off the bench, though. She spent the night on the couch, but I don’t think she slept at all. She got up this morning long before daylight and went upstairs. I know she got in the shower, because I heard the water running.
But what I heard most were her sobs, her desperate, heart-rending sobs. They ripped my soul to shreds because I’m the cause of her pain. And her sobs went on, and on, and on.
I’m miserable, and I don’t know what to do.
Charlie deserves someone healthy, someone whole. I’m not that guy. I never will be. I’m too physically damaged. And even though I’m desperately in love with her, there’s no way I can tell her. She deserves so much more than I can give her, and the right thing to do is to walk away so she can find it.
And if the last few days are any indication, she can find it with Tom.
That thought only deepens my despair, even as I know it’s for the best.
And then tonight… Jesus. Rub my nose in it, why don’t you?
She leaves with him, looking like a fucking goddess, all green eyes and lush curves and smiling at him like he hung the damn moon.
They come back here after dinner and slow dance in the next room. I can’t compete with that. I’m a fucking cripple. And I can tell he’s got his hands all over her – grabbing her ass, touching her face, probably kissing her.
Then she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer, and my heart shatters.
Fuck, this hurts.
It’s like there’s an anvil on my chest.
I can barely breathe, but despite the pain, I can’t take my eyes off them.
I’m almost relieved when they go outside, until I glimpse them through the sheer curtains. She’s leaning against his chest, wrapped in his arms.
I turn away and remind myself that this is what I told her I wanted.
This is what’s best for her.
But inside, I’m raging.
At her.
At him.
But mostly at myself, for being so goddamn useless.
Once again, as I enter the house, I hear the click of the lock on Mark’s bedroom door. “Nope,” I say aloud. “Not tonight.”
I stride to his door and knock firmly. There’s no answer.
“Unlock the door, Mark. We need to talk.”
I’m greeted with silence.
“I swear to God, I’ll kick this door in if I have to. Open the door.” I kick off my ridiculously high heels, and they clatter to the floor.
“Fine,” I hear him mutter, and a second later he opens it. “What?” he barks.
“We need to talk,” I answer, pushing past him into the room to face him. His blue eyes are cold. Distant. But I see a hint of something else. Maybe anger.
I can work with that.
Mark remains at the door. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Really? It seems there’s quite a bit we should discuss.”
He studies me. “You seem angry,” he says tartly. “What’s the matter? Is Tom not lighting your fire? I’m surprised. You two seemed awfully cozy.”
I look at him, observing the hard set of his jaw. Yep, he’s mad.
Good. It’s getting to him.
“Does it bother you to see me with Tom?” I ask innocently. The muscles in his jaw flex.
“Not a bit.”
I tilt my head to one side. “Then why are you gritting your teeth?”
“You know, for someone who claimed to love me, you certainly didn’t waste any time,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
What. The. Fuck.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. Jesus, you jumped straight out of my bed and into his.”
I’m tired and overly emotional, and my temper erupts like a volcano. I step closer, invading his personal space, feeling the fire I know is flashing in my eyes.
“You can take your self-righteous bullshit and shove it right up your goddamn ass, Mark Chandler.” His eyes widen at the palpable anger in my voice. “Sunday night with you was the most loving night of my entire life. I felt beautiful. Desired. Cherished –” my voice breaks on that word, and tears well in my eyes.
Dammit.
I look away and fight to regain control, gritting my teeth. It’s a full minute before I trust myself to speak again.
“You were gentle, and tender, and it felt different between us than it ever had before. Then I come home the next evening and you accuse me of loving you, like I’ve committed some horrible crime. When I admit I’m in love with you, you end things. And in case it’s not shitty enough that you threw me aside like smelly fish for being in love with you, you announce we should start seeing other people, and oh, by the way, you’re already dressed and ready for your date with some woman you’d already lined up before you bothered to let me know you’d gotten tired of fucking me. You blindsided me, and you did it on purpose to hurt me and punish me, and that’s not okay. After everything we’ve been through together, I deserved better.” I shake my head. “Get off your self-righteous high horse, Mark, because of the two of us, you’re the one who didn’t waste any time.” My voice is barely audible when I finish.
His expression has grown progressively guiltier as I’ve spoken. “I didn’t actually have a date. I just wanted you to know I was serious. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You’ve got a damn funny way of showing it,” I snap.
“I never wanted to hurt you," he repeats.
I move away from him and sit down on the foot of the bed. “Well, you did.”
He moves further into the room, leaning against the dresser to face me. “I’m sorry, Charlie,” he says quietly.
“Then why are you breaking up with me? I don’t understand.”
“Because you deserve better. You deserve someone whole.”
“You keep tossing that word ‘whole’ around. What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway?”
He raises an eyebrow and gestures to his missing limb.
“You’re breaking up with me because you're an amputee?” I ask in disbelief. He hesitates, and my temper boils over again. “So you’re cool with fucking me, and you’re fine with fucking me over, but not with loving me, because you’re missing half your leg?”
“You know it’s not like that,” he growls angrily.
“Really?” I retort, venom in my voice. “Because that’s how it looks from here.” I feign a thoughtful look as I tap my lips with one finger. “Hmmm. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure you only had one leg when you first kissed me.” I nod slowly. “Yep, same thing when you promised getting involved wouldn’t destroy what we had. Just the one leg then, too. And when we made love in your bed. And the shower. Oh, and don’t forget the chaise. Repeatedly. Just the one leg then, too.” I narrow my gaze at him. “So I was good enough for you to fuck with one leg, but not good enough for you to love?”
“It’s not just the leg.” His tone is biting. “You deserve someone better.”
“Better, as in someone with two legs?”
“Better, as in a real man.”
I smack my hands down on the mattress in frustration. “Oh, just stop with your bullshit! So by your definition, someone’s only a real man if they have two legs? So what, any guy with two legs is a real man? And anyone without two legs isn’t?”
He glares, but says nothing.
“I know,” I say, pulling out my phone, “Let’s call Stubbs. You can explain how losing half your leg makes you half a man. He’s lost both legs. Does that make him a quarter of a man?”
“Stop,” he says, his jaw tight. “That’s enough.”
“No, I need to know these things,” I continue, sarcasm oozing from me. “Let’s talk about the ratios. What if a guy has both legs, but he loses some toes? Maybe he gets frostbitten. I mean, this is Colorado. It happens. So if a guy loses a few toes, what percentage of a man is he? Does it depend on how many toes he lost, or is it more about which ones?”
He glowers at me. “You’re turning this whole thing into a joke.”
“Because you’re being an idiot,” I counter heatedly. “What can a guy with two legs do for me that you can’t?”
“Dance with you in the kitchen,” he responds immediately.
“First of all, that was swaying, not dancing, and you can do that, even on crutches. It’s a hug with sideways movement. We can do it right now if you like. And second, you’ve already had your surgery, and in two months, you won’t even need crutches. You’ll be walking around like everybody else. So drop your bullshit excuses.”
“It’s more than just the crutches,” he says impatiently. He pushes off from the dresser and levers to the bed, throwing them down angrily as he flops next to me. He shoves the left leg of his shorts up. “I’ve got one thigh that looks like a cheese grater where I was burned.” He pushes up the right leg of his shorts. “I’ve got ugly purple scars all over this leg, and at the end of my ugly-ass stump is a goddamn metal peg, and it’ll still be there every fucking night when my prosthetic comes off.” He pulls up his right shirt sleeve to the shoulder, exposing the pink scar on his bicep. “Let’s not forget this ugly scar,” he says sharply, “or this one,” he lifts his shirt to expose the wide one crossing his abdomen, “or the dozens of little ones from the shrapnel. You deserve someone better, Charlie.”
“What a bunch of crap,” I say angrily. “So being wounded and scarred means someone doesn’t deserve love?”
“That’s exactly what it means!” he roars. “Good people deserve something better than being stuck with someone who’s all scarred up!”
No.
The blood drains from my face as Mark confirms my deepest fear, and I can’t breathe.
That’s the same vile poison Blake spewed in his drunken rant.
That I’d always be alone because of my disgusting scars, because no one should have to look at them.
At me.
I have to get away.
The familiar band crushes my chest, and my breathing picks up speed. I’m hyperventilating, and I can’t stop.
I see Mark’s startled expression as I back across the room from him, whirling away.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Slow and deep.
It’s several minutes before I can speak, and I’m trembling like a leaf in the wind, bracing myself on the bookcase by the window.
“It’s good to know how you really feel,” I finally say. “In case I ever wondered."
When I turn to face him, tears are flowing unchecked down my face. He looks bewildered by my abrupt change from anger to hurt.
“It’s good to know that people who are broken and scarred don’t deserve to have someone love them. It’s good to know that decent people deserve better than anything I have to offer.” He stares at me blankly until I unbutton my blouse.
“I didn’t mean –” he starts, his expression horrified, but I cut him off.
“Those were your words. Your exact words,” I remind him sadly as I pull off my shirt, then reach behind and unhook my bra, dropping it to the floor.
“I was broken and scarred in battle, too. Not the same way you were, of course, but battle-scarred nonetheless.” I trace the scars across my full breasts before turning away again, moving my hair in front of me to expose the thick purple and lavender scars covering my back. I unfasten my pants as well, stepping out of them and pushing my thong low enough to expose where the scars stop across my hips, below the small of my back. “It’s good to know Blake was right after all. That I don’t deserve love. Maybe that’s the real reason you’re ending things.” I pause. “Maybe that was always the reason.” I turn back to find his pale eyes wide with shock.
“How can you say that? You can’t possibly believe that.”
“How can I not?”
“I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about me.”
“Scarred and broken is scarred and broken, Mark. Either it applies to both of us, or it doesn’t apply at all.”
Mark vehemently shakes his head, looking away. “It’s different, and you know it.”
“Fine. Tell me how it’s different,” I challenge.
He still won’t meet my eyes. “My injuries make me less of a man.”
“Being a man has nothing to do with how many legs you have. Those bastards that tortured me all had two legs, but that didn’t make them men. It made them cowards. Being a man is about who you are, not how you look.”
He stubbornly shakes his head again, and I finally lose my patience.
“Alright, jackass, let’s talk about what anthropology and evolution say defines a woman. Female mammals are equipped with breasts to feed their young,” I say, cupping mine in my hands and moving to stand mere inches in front of him. “They also have a womb for childbearing. They mutilated me so badly, I can’t have children. I’m unable to fulfill my evolutionary purpose.”
Mark’s eyes remain fixed on something behind my head.
“And my breasts, well, they’re all carved up, too.” He’s still seated on the bed, and I lift my breasts slightly, moving them closer to his face. He swallows, but doesn’t move. “I’ve seen enough movies and magazines to know that my carved-up body isn’t attractive or womanly, according to their standards. So by your logic, since my breasts are scarred and my womb is useless, I’m less of a woman.”
He presses his lips together so firmly, they’re white. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Yes, it is,” I respond angrily. “It’s exactly the same thing, because it’s the natural extension of your flawed logic. If you being scarred and broken makes you less of a man, then me being scarred and broken in the areas that anthropologically define women makes me less of a woman. So again, I don’t deserve to be loved.”
“Charlie,” he says sadly, finally looking at me, “I’m letting you go because you deserve to be loved.”
“Then love me,” I plead.
“I can’t,” he says, looking away again.
“You’re broken and scarred, and I’m broken and scarred,” I say softly. “Maybe together, we wouldn’t be broken anymore. Isn’t it worth it to find out?”
I take a deep breath as I examine his strong jaw, still turned away from me. I reach out slowly, tracing his jawline with my fingertips. I gently tug until he faces me. I study his light blue eyes as I lift my fingers to run them through his hair.
I beg Mark to love me in the only way I have left.