Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)

Kris picks up on my change at work. She drags me outside to the garden table for lunch and sets down a box of chow mein takeout in front of me. I feel bad that Charlie is eating alone inside, but when I mention it, she shakes her head and points a chopstick at me.

“Stay put. We’re going to talk.”

I groan.

“You can give me that look all you like,” she shakes out a napkin in her lap, “but you’re going to spill the beans. What’s eating you?”

“Hormones.” Lately, I’ve been using that a lot as an excuse.

Her chin sets in the way that says she won’t give up. “How are things at home, with Gabriel, I mean?”

I don’t want to saddle Kris with my problems, but I do need a friend to confide in. “Not well. He’s a walking corpse.”

She stuffs her mouth with noodles and mumbles, “Sounds kind of normal with what he’s going through.”

Immediately, I feel selfish and bad for thinking of my needs when I should be placing his first.

“Mourning takes time,” she says.

“He hasn’t been back to work, and he hardly leaves the house.”

“He doesn’t need to work if he doesn’t want to. He’s got enough money.”

“I’m worried about him sitting in his study all day.”

“I’m sure he’s doing stuff.”

“I wish I knew what to do to help.”

“Give him space.” She takes another big bite. “And be patient.”

When I don’t say anything for several seconds, she stops eating and looks at me again. “You want things to work out with him, don’t you?”

This is the crux of the problem. “Yes,” I whisper.

“You feel you shouldn’t because of how the two of you started.”

“I don’t know what I feel. I only know I want this to be real. I don’t want to pretend, anymore. I want a real husband who loves me for me, not an owner who married me so his enemies won’t decapitate me.”

“Whoa.” She laughs. “It sounds harsh when you put it like that.”

“But true.”

“Yeah. Harsh, but true. What are you going to do?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me. What should I do, Kris?”

“I guess it depends on what you want.”

“I want him.”

“Then fight.”

“Fight?”

“Yes. Give him another few months to mourn and then start walking around naked. That should catch his attention.”

I swat at her with my napkin. “We have other people living in the house.”

“I know. Maybe that’s part of the problem. You need time alone. Send the guys away and bring Charlie over to me.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“I’m practical.”

“You’re still a good friend.”

She checks her watch. “Eat your food. We’re back on in five. See? I’m practical.”

That gets a laugh out of me.

Pulling weeds from the vegetable garden, I sit flat on my ass on the ground as I can’t bend down anymore. Dr. Engelbrecht, who does a house call every second week, tells me I’m gaining too much weight. Some of it is water retention, but for the most part it’s unhappiness. I gobble down ice cream with peanut butter sauce when I’m sad, at least since I’m pregnant. The extra weight restrains my movements, and I still have two months to go.

The July midday sun beats down on my head. Even in winter, it’s hot. I seem to have an internal heater inside, making things worse. Unless I want to faint from overheating, I better seek out the cool interior of the house. As I’m battling to lift my heavy body, a pair of hands clasps my elbows and helps me to my feet.

I look up into Quincy’s face. “My knight in shining armor. Thank you.”

“Where’s Gabriel?” He looks pissed off. “Wait, don’t tell me. In his study.”

“This is hard on him, Quincy.” I don’t know if I mean me, the baby, or Carly’s passing. Probably all three.

“Yeah.” He motions at my stomach. “This is not hard for you.”

“It’s not the same.”

He looks like he wants to argue, so I say quickly, “Charlie has a session with Christopher. I’m going to make a fresh pitcher of iced tea.”

“Need help?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

He watches me broodily as I make my way back to the house. Christopher is already there, chatting to Rhett. I show the doctor and Charlie into the cinema room with an uneasy feeling. The last few sessions left a mark on Charlie. He was agitated afterward, but Christopher wrote the mood swings off to a normal mid-phase of the therapy. Today, I wait by the door, immediately noticing the tense set of Charlie’s shoulders as he exits.

I grab his arm before he can escape. “How did it go?”

“Po–pool.” He jerks free and skirts around me, heading for the sliding doors.

“I made iced tea,” I call after him. “It’s apple and cinnamon.” Charlie’s favorite.

He gives me a backward glance, but walks away with quick steps. He’s irritated and won’t be swayed.