Page 24 of Love Him Like Water

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “When you want something, you can ask me. Or the guards out front. We know all the good places around here.”

“Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile I didn’t feel, trying to keep my gaze down as I did so, though, because Elian saw too much. And a man who paid that close of attention wouldn’t miss the stains on my cheeks, the swelling of my eyelids.

I took my plain black coffee with me back upstairs as Elian started to load the dishwasher with all the glasses, feeling strange being in the common area doing nothing while he worked.

In the bedroom, I tried to choke down the coffee, hoping it would ease the clawing sensation of hunger in my belly as I flipped through the only book I’d brought with me, a romantasy retelling of Swan Lake that I’d been reading.

I didn’t go back downstairs again until I heard silence suggesting Elian had left. Or at least moved downstairs.

I took two of the drinks from the fridge—an electrolyte drink and a mixed coffee drink I found shoved at the back—and made my way back to the other side of the door.

I didn’t ask for lunch.

Even as my belly growled and clawed, I didn’t ask for dinner either.

Sometime around eight that night, though, there was noise down below. Despite myself, little butterflies skittered across my chest as I anticipated Renzo home for dinner.

Within a few minutes, there was silence again, making me unfold from the nest I’d made in the bed, and go to the door.

There was no one in the apartment, but as I made my way down, I found a brown bag sitting on the counter.

Inside, there was a hot sub wrapped in foil.

Dinner.

That I hadn’t asked for.

That hopeful part of me wanted to believe it was Renzo, that he’d thought of me, and had dropped off dinner between jobs.

The newly more pessimistic part of me, though, knew it was likely Elian, worried about a house without any food, and the fact that I hadn’t asked for any either.

It was the kind of thing my older brother, Nico, would have done. I wondered if Elian had sisters. If that was why he seemed to see me more, read me better, remember I even existed while my own husband clearly didn’t.

My lower lip trembled at that last thought, and I had to work to keep the tears at bay as I unwrapped the sub and started to eat.

I cleaned up afterward then went back upstairs.

Hating myself for it, but waiting for my husband.

Some part of me hoping he would come home, that he might show me another hint of the gentleness I’d seen the night before.

But as the hours stretched on, he never came.

Until, eventually, I fell asleep.

Then woke up alone yet again. Though his side of the bed was mussed like he’d appeared at some point, catching some sleep, then taking off again.

The next day was much the same, a punishing bath followed by a few hours of hemming and hawing about unpacking my belongings. Eventually, I decided to stuff my empty nightstand, but left my clothes in my bags in the closet, feeling weird about my worn, oversized, and wrinkled clothes hanging across from Renzo’s meticulously neat wardrobe.

He wasn’t a man who dressed up. Most of his pants were jeans or slacks, his shirts t-shirts, henleys, or casual button-ups. Everything was in shades of black or gray. And, sure, it might not have been fancy clothing, but the labels said they were all expensive items.

The only suit he seemed to own was the one he’d worn to our wedding.

Wedding.

My belly flip-flopped at just the thought of it.

Married.

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