I was the man she needed me to be, but it was effortless because it was who I was. The man I’d grown into despite my past. And being free of that burden was a God send when all I wanted to do was forget.
Bottle in hand I moved to my bathroom and studied the cut on my lip and the purple and green bruise on my jaw. I was, once again, covered in Kat’s wrath.
Cupping water over my face, I stared at the evidence that wouldn’t be washed away. A day or two and there wouldn’t be a trace of her physically, but the anger that brewed was what fucked with me. It wasn’t hopeless, at least not in the way it used to feel, trapped.
Anger surfaces as I thought of how I had given Kat my life, my time and attention. She’d wasted it, wasted us both. I ran my finger over the faded scar at my temple, a gift from Kat, an everyday reminder she happened.
“Babe, haven’t you had enough of those today?”
“I’m hurting,” she muttered, absently recapping the pills.
“Your therapist said we should do as much activity as possible. Let’s get out today.”
“I don’t feel like it,” she replied low, her resentful eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
“Okay, let’s stay in.”
She sat at the vanity, running a brush through her hair while I lay in bed watching her. The first time she did her morning ritual, I thought it was odd, like out of some old movie where handmaidens would eventually come in to dress her. She’d been raised regal, and over the years I found it a comforting routine, and oddly sexy. I watched her as she combed through her dark strands, her hair cascading down her frame, her porcelain skin covered in silk.
“I know a few things we can do indoors,” I rasped out as I pushed off the covers and walked over to her table to kiss her bare shoulder.
“Don’t feel like that, either.”
“I miss you,” I said softly to her in the mirror.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m right here.”
“Are you?” I pushed a breath out and knelt in front of my wife, stilling her hands.
“Kat, you haven’t let me touch you in months. I’m hurting too.” I slid my arms around her.
She pushed at my shoulders as I kept hold. “Jesus Christ, Jefferson, is your dick all you care about?”
“No, but it would be nice if my wife gave a damn,” I said as evenly as I could manage. Her eyes flared, and I shook my head. “Forget it, I’m sorry. Let’s just do something today, anything you want.”
“I’ve got work to do.”
“Kat,” I reasoned. “It’s Sunday. The office can wait.”
She pushed my arms away and I hung my head.
She resumed with her brush as I sat on my heels. “You’re only thinking of you. What do you expect from me? I’m hurting!”
“Well, that’s surprising considering you’ve taken half a bottle of pills.”
She tilted her head and shot daggers at me. “Who in the hell are you to tell me when I’m not in pain!”
“You don’t sleep, you barely eat, our marriage is suffering.”
“You mean your dick,” she scoffed.
“I mean our marriage! I can’t get a few words past you without you twisting them and throwing them back. You’re always on the defensive. We need to talk about this,” I said, snatching the bottle of Vicodin off the vanity. “This fucking shit is wrecking your brain. You aren’t yourself.”
“Give them back, Cameron. Don’t you dare hang those over my head.”
I shook my head. “I want to talk about this.”
“You’re fucking pathetic, you know that?! The only problem here is you.”