“I’m not afraid of your husband.”
He’s immovable and I drop it because I really wasn’t trying to offend him.
Since I don’t respond, he folds his arms across his chest and says, “Speaking of, you were supposed to explain how he’s not really your husband.”
I grab my beer and give it a shake. “You were supposed to wait until I had a little more of this.”
He smiles as I take a sip, but waits for my answer.
I take another long sip, snippets of my farce of a wedding playing across my mind. Father McCarthy’s wrinkled brow dripping sweat as I stood at the altar wordlessly. The threatening glares of Pietro’s goons, the man himself seated calmly beside my mother in the family pew, knowing his will would be done regardless.
“I never consented to it,” I finally tell him. “I never spoke the words, never signed a paper. I wanted no part of it. It just didn’t matter.”
“How do you get married without saying a word?” he asks.
I shrug. “It was a small ceremony. I told them I wouldn’t say the vows, so no one who didn’t already know I was unwilling attended. They threw a reception for everyone else.”
>
“You went?”
I nodded. “Got drunk and told anyone who would listen that I didn’t want to get married, but they either thought I was joking, or wanted to believe I was joking. Same difference, really.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why force you into a marriage you don’t want?”
“Served two purposes. Punished me for refusing to accept Pietro, ‘rewarded’ Paul for some job well done, I guess. He was obsessed with possessing me, didn’t care that I wasn’t into it. They all figured I would cave eventually. Obviously they underestimated the depths of my stubbornness.”
Liam nods, accepting the explanation. “Well, that sucks.”
“Agreed.”
“Didn’t your mom know you didn’t want to marry him?”
I nod once, lips pressed firmly together. “Yep, she sure did.”
He shakes his head. “That’s fucked up. I’m sorry.”
“Life sucks and then you die, right?” I take another sip of beer, then decide, fuck it, and finally take a bite of my sandwich.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and I frown at him, confused.
“You said that already.”
“No, not for that. I mean… the tree thing,” he specifies. “I didn’t realize at the time, obviously, about Paul—”
Now it’s my turn to stop him. “Oh, no, don’t. Don’t do that. I’m not some delicate flower, I’m honestly used to Paul, and I don’t… I don’t want you to treat me like….”
I’m not exactly sure how to finish—a battered woman? A victim? I don’t want to use any of those words to describe myself, but he doesn’t make me, as he nods, understanding my meaning.
Just to clarify, he adds, “I’m not like Paul.”
I meet his gaze and hold it. “I didn’t think you were.”
Missing a beat, he admits, “I did like pinning you to that tree though.”
I snort, like the delicate fucking flower I am. “I liked being pinned against that tree.”
“I like that you give as good as you get,” he tells me.