Page 82 of This Woman Forever

“Is he mad at me?”

“He’s mad with both of us, baby.”

“Me too,” she whispers. “I’m sorry for kissing another man.”

“And I’m sorry for fucking you like you were just another lady of The Manor.”

“I’m the Lady of The Manor,” she slurs. “And you’re the Lord.”

I can’t smile. I want to be her Lord. Not the Lord.

14

I work my way through at least half a jar as I listen to the whir of the appliances in our otherwise silent kitchen, while staring at the missed call from Ava’s brother. I won’t call him back. He saw and heard way more than I’m comfortable with, and I’m too exhausted to take him on this morning. I have more important things to do. Like fix my marriage. It’s been tumultuous and we’re only a week in.

I screw the lid back on and pop the jar in the fridge, reading a message from Jay as I get a glass down.

You and your wife (if you’re still married) are barred.

I chuckle sardonically, sending him a thumbs up—fine by me—as I fill the glass and empty a sachet of Alka Seltzer into it, listening to it fizz before giving it a quick stir. I take it up to Ava, perching on the edge of the bed and taking a few moments to appreciate the quiet before I wake her. Before I take her on.

“I love you,” I whisper, reaching for her face and pushing back some strands of hair. She murmurs sleepily, her closed eyes squinting. My own head bangs in sympathy, but if she’s going to be reckless with alcohol, she must face the consequences. As must I, apparently. She’s going to be good for nothing today, feeling sorry for herself. Perhaps that’s a good thing. No one wants to argue when their head feels like it could fall off.

She gingerly opens her eyes, obviously preparing for her head to explode. “Drink.” I hold out the glass, and she grunts, throwing me a disgruntled look before turning her back on me.

“Leave me alone.”

I laugh. It’s the only way forward. Laugh or bite and take us back at square one when we were tearing strips off each other. “Hey, come here.” I pull her across the bed with little effort and put her on my lap. “Drink,” I order more sternly, tipping the glass at her lips. “All of it.”

She does as she’s told—it’s a novelty—before she falls into my bare chest in a heap.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

Yeah, I can smell it. I rid my hand of the glass and move up the bed, resting back against the headboard.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, making me peek down at her head in surprise. “...ish.”

I smile into her hair. “Me too.” That’s it. We’re both sorry. It’s a good start. But now she’s back where she should be—and I’m not consumed by the fact that she walked out on me, that I was alone, feeling hopeless and lost—I have space in my mind to feel sad about what led us here. I’m absolutely gutted she’s not pregnant. Gutted. It’s an added layer of worry and something I need to look into. I’m... broken.

The silence stretches, Ava’s breathing shifting frequently from deep to shallow. She’s clammy and a little shaky. It’s not nice. “What are you thinking?” I ask.

“I’m thinking we can’t go on like this. It’s not good for you.”

Me? I’m fine. Probably infertile, but I’m fine. Ava, however, is becoming irrational. Reactive. “I don’t care about me.”

“What are we going to do?”

That’s a good question. I am fully aware that our relationship is volatile. I know my insecurities are a contributing factor to that. Problem is, I’m a man who has lost everything I’ve ever loved, and now I have Ava, I’ve become quite... attached to her. No man loves harder than a man who needs it returned. Or a man who’s hiding endless pain. I don’t want to be that broken man for Ava, but it’s clear that by trying to be strong and dependable, I’ve become unbalanced.

I get Ava onto her back and lie on top of her, snuggling between her boobs. “I don’t know,” I whisper, kissing the center of her chest. “But I do know how much I love you.”

“Why did you do it?” she asks quietly, making me pause, breathing her skin in. Why? Because I was desperate. Five days without her felt like I relived the past twenty years in slow motion, except without the usual distractions from my misery.

I look up at her, hating the hurt I see in her eyes. “Because I love you. Everything is because I love you.” My craziness, my protectiveness, my extreme... everything.

“You treat me like a slapper,” she says with a frown. Oh? She’s talking about last night? Not the fact I stole her pills? “Fuck me in the toilet of a bar with no words,” she goes on. “And then walk out to go and feel up another woman?” The frown’s turned into a mild scowl. It’s warranted. Because I fucked her like she meant nothing. I didn’t mean to. I only meant to prove that no matter how hard she tries, she will always gravitate toward me. Respond to me. Need me. “Did you do that because you love me?”