Filed to story: Swallow Me Whole (Sadie & Ashton) Book Free
“One date?”
“One date,” he says.
“As friends.”
“I’ll take it. Maybe once you get to know me, you’ll want to be friends some more.”
I can’t help but laugh. This man is too likable. But worry is already nagging me because I know I can’t offer him more than friendship.
“Okay,” I say with a bit of reluctance.
“Fantastic. I’ve got a thing next weekend that I’m in desperate need of a date for.”
I cock a brow. “You? Desperate?”
He puts his hands up. “Okay, okay. Desperate is pushing it a little. But I’d love for you to come along. Say around seven on Friday?”
Before I can give him an answer, he rises to his feet. “Looks like I need to talk to someone about a gig.” With a wink, he gestures for me to precede him back down the stairs.
Shit. What did I just agree to?
13. My Dear Friend Loneliness
Cash
There’s nothing but disquiet at the dining table. Monica is sitting across from me with her usual wine glass clutched between her fingers, but wherever she is mentally, it’s not with me.
“What did you do today?” I really don’t give a shit what she does with her days, but if one of us doesn’t speak and break this intolerable stalemate, I might go insane. We’ve spent the last few weeks avoiding each other, especially on the weekends when work doesn’t dominate the day and evenings. But tonight, we’re actually sitting down to a meal together, and I wonder what’s the point if we’re just going to eat in silence?
“I went to the spa,” she says, setting her wine glass on the table. “After that, I went shopping. Bought a new dress for your birthday dinner next weekend.” Her voice is almost monotone as she pushes linguini around on her plate.
I twirl some pasta around my fork. “I don’t know why my parents are going to all of this trouble.”
“Thirty is a milestone, Cash. It should be celebrated.” She flicks her bright blue gaze in my direction. “What about you? Anything interesting happen today?”
“Mostly just caught up on work.” Yesterday was definitely the better day. I’m still on a high from the time I spent with Jules. Those stolen moments with her are vivid in my mind, refusing to leave me alone. I’ve become addicted to the inviting warmth of her brown eyes. The shy curve of her mouth. The pink tint high on her cheekbones. Just brushing my fingers over the back of her hand gave me a goddamn hard-on.
Maybe if my wife hadn’t morphed into a stranger, I wouldn’t be so hot for another woman. Deep down, I know that isn’t true. And I can’t help but wonder if I would have reacted so strongly to Jules on that plane if I hadn’t found out about Monica’s affair hours before.
Shamefully, I have no doubt I would have. I can’t explain the rhyme or reason behind this connection I feel to Jules, but it’s very real, and it’s so powerful it’s amplifying everything broken between my wife and me.
“I talked to your mother yesterday,” Monica says, her soft voice bringing me back to the here and now. “She sounded excited about the dinner.”
“You know how my mom is. She loves putting on a good dinner party.”
Monica’s fork stalls halfway to her mouth. “I thought it was going to be a small gathering.”
“It is. I talked her into a simple family get-together.”
“Oh, well that’s good.”
My thoughts exactly, since pretending to be a happily married couple in front of a bunch of acquaintances is about as appealing as swallowing broken glass. Bad enough we have to do it in front of our parents and my brother.
I keep my negative thoughts to myself. For some reason, Monica is being on the agreeable side tonight. A flutter of hope busts past the hardened shell of my heart, as this is the first time we’ve talked in weeks without an underlying aura of animosity tainting every word spoken.
“Maybe we should begin the celebrating tonight.” I eye her carefully, dissecting every nuance of her expression. For once, the mask is gone. It’s just the woman I vowed to spend the rest of my life with sitting across from me. She isn’t wearing makeup, and her hair is gathered in a messy bun, but she’s never looked more beautiful to me. If I try hard enough, maybe this night will feel normal. “We never opened that bottle of wine from our wedding.”
She lowers her head, and I watch her guard go back up, helpless to stop it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We both have to get up early tomorrow.”
My fork slips from my fingers, hitting my plate with a silence-shattering clink. “Are you still fucking him?”
She lets out a breath, and she actually has the nerve to look exasperated. “I’m not sleeping with anyone.”
“So you ended the affair?”
We’re engaging in a standoff on either side of the dining room table. It’s a ridiculous oblong monstrosity taking up space with too many empty chairs, but at least we’re not so far gone that we’re sitting at opposite ends yet. I pin her with a stare full of unwavering challenge.
Go ahead and lie to me again. I dare you.
“I’m not going to do this with you.” She stands and grabs her half-eaten plate of food—dinner I had the audacity to cook for her in hopes of getting past this road block she’s put between us.
Because I’m at the end of my rope, and sick and tired of grasping at the fraying threads. I shouldn’t feel anything for another woman, but I do, and the longer Monica shuts me out, the more I want to say fuck it and throw out everything I’ve ever lived by.
I jump to my feet and round the table before she makes it far. Her fingers loosen around the expensive china, and I take the plate from her before setting it on the table with a calmness I don’t feel. Crowding her personal space, I palm her cheeks, hell-bent on stopping her from retreating this time.
“Let me in. Whatever it is, just let me in.”
Her lids flutter shut. “I was wrong to marry you.”
I take a step back, my hands falling from her face. “Why would you say that?”
“Because neither of us are happy.” Her eyes pop open, and I find her blue orbs glistening with unshed tears.
“I was happy,” I bite out with a glare. “And you were happy. Until you fucked someone else.”
She looks away, and that tells me everything I need to know. She might as well just admit to fucking around on me, because her continued silence is more incriminating than that photo.
“Why can’t you be honest? Is it that hard to tell the fucking truth?” I’m getting too worked up, my chest heaving as I fist my hands at my sides. Slowly, I unfurl my fingers and will the rage to cool.
“The truth won’t change anything,” she says, her voice little more than a soft whisper.
I gape at her, stunned. I have no idea what I expected her to say, but that’s the closest she’s come to admitting her wrong-doing. “Look at me.”
Clenching her teeth, she drags her gaze back to me.
“All I’m asking is that you meet me half way. If you made a mistake, just tell me. We can’t work through it until you do.”
“There’s nothing to work through.” She crosses her arms, and the ice is back in her eyes. “The only mistake I made was marrying you.” She turns her back on me and leaves the dining room, and her debilitating statement hangs in the air, the black cloud of her cruelty threatening to douse me with pain.
I push it down so deep I’m not sure it’ll ever resurface. Her infidelity didn’t destroy us. Neither did her lies. No, the ice around her heart—refusing to crack, let alone thaw—is the final nail in the coffin of our marriage.