My Peace (Beautifully Broken 5)

Mila

I wake with a stretch, the sun on my face, and Pax is gone.

I know this because my fingers brush against cool sheets, instead of his warm body.

I glance at the clock. Eight o’clock. He’s at work. He didn’t wake me, that rascal.

I leisurely shower and blow-dry my hair, and then text Maddy.

What time should I come get Zu?

She answers immediately. Can I bring her home after lunch?

Ok, I answer.

She’s probably taking her shoe shopping again.

My stomach growls and I decide the baby needs to eat. I make my way down the hall to the kitchen, but on my way, I pass Pax’s study, and there is movement inside.

Pausing in the doorway, I see Natasha hovering above Pax, giving him a glass of water and pills.

“What the hell?”

I didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but seriously.

They both look up at me and Pax’s eyes are bloodshot.

“I’m sorry, babe. I couldn’t sleep last night and I fell asleep in here. Natasha just brought me some aspirin.”

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” I ask curiously, practically nudging past Natasha to examine him. I put my hand on his forehead. “You don’t have a fever, but you look rough.”

“I don’t know,’ he tells me, but he’s troubled. I can see it in his hazel eyes and they are so green right now. That’s what happens when he’s troubled. They’re green as moss, like a murky pond, hiding things in their depths.

“Natasha, can you excuse us for a minute? I ask.

“Of course,” she exits immediately.

“What’s happening?” I ask my husband, sitting next to him. “You’re sleeping in your study, you’re late for work.” I glance at the bar, and there is a scotch bottle out, and a used tumbler. “And you seem to be drinking a lot.”

“I’m just stressed, babe,” he tells me and he is so earnest, so genuine, but even still… there’s something. I feel it.

“No lies,” I tell him. “You promised me that once. You promised never to lie to me again. Remember?”

“Of course,” he answers sharply. “Of course I do.”

“Then why are you lying?” I ask simply.

His face contorts and his hand clenches in his lap. A vein pulses in his temple, the one that pops out when he’s furious.

“I’m not lying,” he snaps, and he’s suddenly so angry. “Why would you accuse me of something like that?”

His sudden anger seems out of proportion for the current situation. I stare at him, hesitant. I don’t know what to say.

“You feel different,” I say finally. “I don’t know how to explain it. You’re edgy right now. Like a caged lion.”

I wait, and he sighs.

“My knee hurts,” he tells me finally. Reluctantly. “It needs surgery.”