Beauty from Love (Beauty 3)
How did it come to this? I didn’t do anything wrong yet I feel like a bastard. My wife is upset and crying and I don’t know how to fix it.
The car’s headlights shine on us when Daniel pulls into the drive and I ask if she’s going to let me come home with her. She has a habit of making me leave when she’s angry. She doesn’t answer immediately and my heart pounds. She sighs. I know she probably wants space but I don’t want to be away from her tonight. I think being apart could cause more harm than good. “Please don’t make me stay somewhere else tonight.”
She reaches for her purse and gets up, leaving me on my knees. “Come on. Daniel’s waiting.”
She doesn’t utter a single word on the drive home—and neither do I. I can only guess what she’s rolling around in her head right now, but I’m predicting it isn’t good.
We arrive at the apartment—our temporary home while visiting Sydney—and I can’t believe this is how we’ve spent our first New Year’s Eve as husband and wife. We walk toward our bedroom, me following her, and I totally expect her to slam the door in my face or tell me to find another place to sleep. She doesn’t.
She’s a little unsteady from Evan’s painkillers so she leans over to hold the footboard as she kicks off her pumps. “I hope you know you’re not putting your hands on me tonight.”
I look at the time and see it isn’t yet midnight, but it’s close. This isn’t how I want our first year to end so I decide to take a leap—one I hope doesn’t land me on my face. “It’s almost midnight. I don’t want to go into next year like this.”
Tonight’s events aren’t small, so I’m sure Laurelyn has things she needs to say. She’s hurt and her wound can fester, causing damage to our marriage. As her husband, it’s my responsibility to contain this infection known as Lana.
“We have five minutes before we begin two thousand fourteen. I want you to take these last moments to say anything you’d like. Rant and rave. Kick and scream. Tell me you hate the way I’ve lived and what I’ve done in the past. Tell me if I’m fucking up this marriage. Say or do whatever you feel you need to so we can move beyond this night. Let me have it good, babe.”
I’ve stunned her speechless.
This is probably the stupidest idea I’ve ever had. She’s incredibly hurt and angry so if she takes me up on this offer, I should expect her to say harsh things. But I want to give her this outlet. She needs it. “There’s nothing you can say to make me unlove you, so go for it without looking back.”
“I’m not doing it unless you do the same. Tell me the things you’d like to say yet choose to hold inside.”
Is it possible to make these confessions, not discuss them, and move on as if nothing happened? It suddenly feels like a challenge—a game of truth or dare—and is no longer about Lana. This is something more and goes deeper than tonight’s events.
Women are so different from men. We are pissed off for a little while but get over it quickly. Women have long memories and hold grudges so this might not go well for me. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I can always handle anything you say, as long as it’s the truth.” I get this now. She wants my true confessions.
“I’ll agree but only if you swear you’ll have no regrets. You can’t dwell on anything I say.”
She’s terrified but excited. At least that’s what I think I see in her eyes. “Do your worst. Tell me your fears and the demons you hide.”
I set the timer on my phone. “A three-minute confession. We squeeze in whatever we can in a hundred and eighty seconds. Say it, get it off your chest, and move on without discussion or explanations. When the timer ends, it’s a new year, a new start. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
I press start on my phone. “Go.”
She looks at me, bewildered. “I don’t know if I can. I’m afraid.”
She’s overthinking this so I’ll go first—starting with her sorry-ass mother and father. “If your parents ever treat you poorly again, I’m telling them to fuck off, especially your mum. She really pisses me off.” Laurelyn’s eyes grow large and she doesn’t reply. I don’t think that’s where she expected me to start. “If you don’t say anything, that means you forfeit your turn and I get to go again.”
“I despise what you did with those first twelve women because of Lana. I understand it’s irrational for me to be angry about things that happened before you knew me, but it doesn’t stop me from being pissed off every time I think about it—which is often.” This isn’t surprising to hear. I often think about her being with Blake, as well, although their relationship came before us.
Speaking of Blake … this grievance is all on me but she should know the way I feel. “I’m furious with myself because I was tending to business instead of being with you the night Blake attacked you. I have to work very hard to not see the image of him on top of you with your dress shoved up to your waist.” I look down because I can’t look at her when I say the next part. It’s bad. “And sometimes I wish I hadn’t heard your voice telling me to stop because I wanted to kill him. I still do.” I’ve probably scared the shit out of her, but damn, that feels good to get off my chest.
She doesn’t give me time to dwell on what she thinks of hearing me say I want to kill Blake. “I worry you’ll miss the thrill of being with other women.”
I’d like to address that one—to tell her it isn’t possible to ever be thrilled by the thought of being with a stranger after having something so real and true with her. But what we’re doing now isn’t about explanation; it’s about confession. “I worry that one day you’ll figure out I’m not worthy of your love.”
“I’m terrified you’ll decide I’m too complicated and not worth the trouble I cause you.” Never. She’s a complication I can’t live without.
“I’m afraid you’ll never get over my past and what I did with those other women.” I’m worried more than ever now because she has admitted she thinks of them often.
“I’m still pissed off that you almost added a fourteenth to your list of companions.” Can’t blame her for being pissed off about that one—what a total fuck-up on my part.