Chapter 27 #3
They're all empty, even though they're not, but they are for me because he isn't there.
I call him and he mutes it almost instantly.
"Damn it," I hiss.
The cab driver must read my urgency and stops at the first slice of my hand.
I fold myself inside, the smell of some peppery perfume making me nauseous, or maybe it's not the scent, it's me.
Phone in hand, I keep calling, but he isn't picking up.
Shit. Why couldn't I just say those words? Why couldn't I get over my fear?
Because it's too much, it's too much, and I don't know how to get out of it.
Ben's voice loops in my head: Over. Over. Over.
No. I can't let that happen. Not like this.
I give the driver an extra tip for peeling all my nails on his back seat and leap from the cab like it's a race, passing the empty reception.
Call the elevator, tap my fingers on the wall, tap my foot, tap my head—like it could hurry it up if I just keep at it.
Curse under my breath because why is it taking forever?
Finally the doors open and I press 40 frantically, like it's a code to salvation.
Upstairs, I rush through the hallway, turn my key, and unlock the door.
The apartment's dark, but I run through it anyway, even though I'd smell him if he was here.
Then I take a deep breath and collapse on the barstool, legs dangling, staring at the silence and sigh.
Ten minutes pass—or is it a hundred?—and he doesn't show up. So I try to collect myself and go to the twentieth floor.
The house isn't quiet when I walk in. Richard should be at billiards, but he's on the couch, the TV glow flickering across the walls.
"How was it? How's the angry feminist?" he calls when he notices I'm home.
"Still angry. Still a feminist," I mutter flatly, passing by.
His eyes lift, drilling through my outfit with that husbandly audit I usually dread.
Tonight, though, I don't give a flying damn. His rules are the smallest of my problems.
Still, I rush to the closet, yank clothes off me so fast it feels like I'm tearing skin and shove myself into gray sweats—and that's when my phone buzzes in my purse.
I practically leap for it.
Ben: The word courage comes from the French word coeur
Ben: It means heart
Ben: Thought you should know
I blink, reading the messages over and over. Even without a voice, I can hear his anger, but mostly I can hear the hurt.
My throat cinches as the tears sting hot and my thumb flies over the screen: Meet me upstairs, now.
Delete. I can't vanish at midnight right after I walked in.
Then: Why the hell did you storm off?! Delete.
Then: Please don't leave me. Delete.
"Are you okay?" Richard's voice slices in from behind, startling me so hard my phone almost skids out of my hand. I shove it into my pocket before he steps close enough to see the screen.
"Oh... hey." I turn my head slightly and try to twist my mouth into some kind of a smile.
"Hey."
His voice sounds weird, like it belongs to a stranger.
When he brushes a kiss to my cheek, my body goes rigid, a crawl of cold running under my skin.
"Richard—"
"Mm? You smell nice. What perfume is that?" He keeps pressing slow, heavy kisses, his hand sliding around my waist to reel me against him. I nearly slap it away.
"I'm sorry, Richard," I say, holding his hand instead and twisting my head away. "I'm just exhausted."
He doesn't really stop, and now I taste bile in my mouth.
"You've been tired a lot lately." Not quite an accusation, but close. "Maybe you should see a doctor."
A doctor. There is a doctor I want to see.
I almost blurt it into the air, shatter everything, but bite it back, and turn around so that Richard can't find me again.
"No, it's fine. It's been a lot lately. That's all," I say, forcing a smile.
Richard nods. Then his face quickly hardens and his hand rises. "Or maybe you should let me see your phone."
I take a step back, feeling chills. "Excuse me?"
"Your phone." His fingers flick in a commanding gesture, and his voice drops to that terrifying, calculated quiet. "Let me see your phone."
Every message to Ben flashes in my mind—hundreds of them, some of them explicit. I'd rather die before he sees it.
"No. That's private." My voice is sterner than I expect and I clutch my phone in my pocket to make sure he doesn't snatch it, even though I changed my passcode months ago.
"Private?" His brow lifts. "Between husband and wife?"
"Yes, private," I say, clipped. "I don't read yours."
Richard pulls his phone from his sweats and puts it in my hand. "There. You can read whatever you want. I have nothing to hide."
"I don't need to read anything," I say, slapping it back into his hand and trying to sidestep and head for the kitchen, but he blocks me in the doorway.
"Let me go." I push on him, trying to squeeze in, but he just stands there, immovable. I glare. "Richard! What the hell got into you?! Let me go!"
I shove at him, hard enough to make space, and force myself through the door.
My cheek stings from where I scraped it against his wool sweater, but the burn on my skin is nothing compared to the heat flaring behind my teeth.
I stomp across the room, heading for my office to lock myself in. Breathe. Think of something.
Then his voice comes from behind me, lower than I've ever heard it: "You think I don't know you're texting him all day?"
I freeze mid-step, every hair on my neck spiking.
I turn slowly. "What do you mean?"
He's standing at the kitchen island, arms crossed, jaw locked, and his eyes—pure winter.
"Ben Bellini." He spits his name like it's a death sentence he's already signed.