Wrecking Ball (Hard to Love 1)

If I’m gone then at some point you’ll know what I’ve done. I’m not proud of it, but you should know that I didn’t start out trying to deceive or hurt anyone, least of all you. I was trying to fix a hole I was in and it got out of hand. I had, or have so many plans for us, for our family, plans that would’ve been impossible if I didn’t take drastic measures to stop the losses. I want you to know that I did it for us.

I hope you’re reading this when you’re old and gray and we’ve spent our lives together. I hope we had five kids. I hope that somehow I managed to right all the wrongs. I hope you were there to hold my hand when I left this planet. And if all those things didn’t happen, I hope you forgive me. And I hope you find someone to love. Because if you love him, then I’ll love him too.

Your Loving Husband,

Matthew Edward Blake

“Camilla…Camilla open the door.”

I don’t have the strength, or the will to answer. I’ve been crying hysterically for an hour and I have nothing left. No fight, no words, no ability to form thoughts.

“Go away.”

“Open the door, or I’ll break it down.

I lift my head off the tear soaked pillow and stare at the door because I don’t put anything past this man. “Please, please go away, Cal.”

“I don’t want to…let me in for a minute and I’ll leave you alone.”

My face looks like I saw the business end of a two by four. I’m an ugly crier, always have been. I get really swollen while my skin turns the color of raw meat. The last thing I want to do is open that door.

“I’m not decent.” A moment of silence and I think I may have won this time.

“You’re crying naked?”

Oh for heaven’s sake. I get up and unlock the door. I don’t dare look at him. No way––I’m not that brave. I turn right around and fall face first on my bed, hiding my swollen punching bag of a face into the pillow. The mattress dips. He’s sitting right next to my hip. A wide, warm palm gently covers my shoulder, which triggers another round of sobs. I can’t handle him being nice to me right now. I just can’t.

“Who’s the letter from?” I don’t answer because it’ll just start the tears all over again. “Your husband?”

A nod is all I can manage. His hand starts moving, traveling between my shoulder blades in a slow soothing circle. The weight and warmth of him seeps into my skin and trickles all the way to my bones. Pain and stiffness gives way to comfort. I’ve never felt more grateful for the power of touch. Of his touch. That launches me into another fit of hysterics.

“Can you please turn around and look at me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I look like I just went ten rounds with Rhonda Rousey.”

He snorts. “I don’t care what you look like. Turn around.”

Of course, he doesn’t. Why would he? Fuck this shit. I flip onto my back, warts and all in plain sight. I don’t have the balls to look at him though.

“There. Happy?”

He gently pushes a few strands of hair off my face, and I have to bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because…”

“What did the letter say?”

Aaaaand there go the tears again. My face crumbles into ruin, and my body convulses like it’s being jumpstarted with electric cables. I’m wrecked. Laid open. I cover my face with my hands in a poor attempt to hide. And he helps me––he helps me hide. He picks me up off the bed as if I’m a rag doll and holds me close. I wrap my arms around his neck in a death grip and empty every ounce of liquid in my body onto his t-shirt clad shoulder––shoulders that have been carrying a heavy burden since he was a boy.

His big mitt rubs up and down my back and I press harder against him, my breasts crushed against his chest. “Matt didn’t kill himself.” His hand stops moving, every muscle he possesses suddenly still.

“You thought he had?” The deep baritone murmuring in my ear is cashmere socks on cold toes, it’s cashing your very first earned paycheck, it’s watching a flamingo pink sunset at the beach. It’s one of the best things in life. Something you never forget, and never tire of experiencing.

“I wasn’t sure…then the reporter said he did.” The rubbing starts up again. He exhales heavily.

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“No…no. It’s not,” I grumble and crawl completely onto his lap. “Barbara said as much tonight.”

“But he didn’t?”

“The police said they found a dead deer a hundred feet away. The damage to Matt’s car was consistent with the injuries on the deer. He turned into the river instead of away…it really was an accident.”