Small, cool hands grip my forearm, jarring me from my thoughts, and I look down into my mother’s worried eyes. “She’s in love with you, son. You take care with her. She trusts you and you’re . . . you’re . . .” Her eyes well with tears.
“Mom, I’m not going to hurt her. I will make this right.”
“You’re lying to her. You’re already hurting her. You just don’t know it.”
“She’ll understand when it’s all said and done. She’s not a cold woman. She’ll understand. And then she’ll forgive me once she realizes why I’ve done the things I’ve done.”
“That’s a big gamble. If you break her heart, you might not ever get it back.”
It’s my turn to frown. Although my insides clench at the thought that she might hate me when this is over with, however small the possibility, I still think Weatherly will understand when I tell her everything. She’ll understand why I had to keep some things to myself until just the right time.
But hearing my mom tell me that I might not ever get my wife’s heart back gives me pause. I haven’t had it nearly long enough. I’m not ready to give her up yet. Maybe ever. But the problem is, I’ve come this far, too far. How can I make it right without going back in time and being honest with her from the start?
That’s the rub. I don’t think there is a way. I think I’ve come too far to turn back now.
“But it’s already done. How the hell am I supposed to change it now?”
Immediately, I feel guilty for snapping at Mom. She doesn’t deserve that. She’s just trying to help. Hurting her was never part of my plan either. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for her. So she’ll never have to leave her home, so she’ll never have to worry about medical care. Whatever happens to me in my life, with all the crazy turns it’s taken, she’ll be okay. Even if I lose everything, she’ll be taken care of for the rest of her days.
“You could tell her. Before it’s too late.”
I bite my tongue, agitation and frustration welling up inside me. I was going to tell her that morning on the balcony, but other things got in the way, other things like her little moans and the hot, wet feel of her body gripping mine. After that, I just didn’t think about it again. Weatherly and her delectable body are very distracting.
But they’re not distracting me now. Damn it. And I get the sinking feeling that my window has closed. But maybe I should try anyway.
“Let me get a few things in order, then I will. I’ll tell her.”
“I just hope she understands. Trust and honesty are so important in a marriage. I just wish—”
Guilt and the fear of losing Weatherly forever is making me feel defensive, like I need to explain to my own mother that I’m not the monster here. I still feel like the bad guy. At least Weatherly was honest with me. I can hardly say the same.
“Ours wasn’t a regular kind of marriage, Mom. You can’t forget that she originally agreed to this out of convenience, too. She’s not the clueless, innocent here. We both did what we had to do,” I defend vehemently.
“But you knew her reasons. You didn’t give her that same courtesy.”
“I couldn’t. And you know why.”
“You could’ve. You could’ve trusted her. But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t risk you, Mom. You know that.” I feel like my mistakes are crowding in on me, a jury ready to convict. An executioner ready to cut Weatherly out of my life.
“I begged you not to do this.”
“Well, I did. I did what I thought was best and I suppose I’ll have to deal with the consequences, too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to town. If Weatherly comes down, tell her I’ll be back before dinner.”
And with that, I walk off. I leave my mother behind. I leave Weatherly behind. But I take all my messed up feelings over this with me so I can sort through them and figure out how the hell to turn this around.
—
The warm August sun is low on the horizon when I pull back into the drive. I fully expect to smell food when I walk in, as Mom called a couple of hours ago and said she wanted to fix us a special dinner tonight. To celebrate.
But I smell no dinner. I hear no voices. It’s just quiet. Oddly quiet.
I walk through the first floor, looking for signs of life. I find none. The kitchen is dark except for the single light that shines over the island. I take the stairs two at a time and find that our bedroom door is still closed. I knock softly, but get no response, so I knock again.
“Weatherly? Are you all right?”
Still no response, so I open the door and peek inside. I can see the outline of her on the bed. It doesn’t look like she’s moved since I left. Alarm streaks through me. I push the door the rest of the way open and walk quietly to her side.