Page 21 of King of Guilt

Shifting, I pushed away the sheets and pushed myself to sit up straight. I saw a message confirming her receipt of the money. “You’ve delivered and now, so have I.” My eyes remained on her wet raincoat, watching the few remaining drops of water as they unhurriedly descended along the black material.

“Why didn’t we talk about this?” she asked with questioning eyes.

“What’s there to talk about? It was our agreement, and the contract we signed.” I explained, genuinely mystified by her surprise. When she wouldn’t respond, standing there, staring at me with vacant eyes, I decided to tell her the full truth. “You also have a penthouse in West Chelsea in your name.”

“That wasn’t in our agreement,” she sternly said, her voice monotonous.

“No, and I didn’t know about it until it was done. It was a gift from Pearl.”

“Why? She didn’t know, did she?”

I smiled, running my fingers through my hair as I looked away. “She—uh… to her, you’re family. She wanted to give you something of your own.”

“I can’t accept it.”

“And I can’t undo one of the last things she did before she passed,” I argued. Looking into her eyes, I hoped she would understand. “It was her decision, not mine. And I owe it to her… after what I did. I can’t do anything about it.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“No, I won’t, Emma,” I raised my voice an octave.

“She gave me that because of the lie that’s eating you up inside right now,” she said. The harshness of her words pierced through my heart like a heated spear. “If you don’t undo this, you’ll feel even worse. She gave me something of hers that I don’t deserve, and you know it.”

No longer able to tolerate my seemingly relaxed position, I shifted and lowered my feet to the floor, resting my elbows on my knees while placing my face in my hands. From between my fingers, I stared down at my feet. “Emma, I can’t talk about this right now.”

“If not now, then when? Do I pack up and leave in the morning? Should I hand in my resignation?” She paused. “Dean, there’s so much we haven’t talked about, and now… you gave me all this—the money, the condo.” Pausing again, I felt her take a few steps closer and squeezed my eyes shut. “Suddenly, all these decisions have been made for me. Don’t you think that’s a little unfair?”

“Unfair?” I repeated, finally looking up at her, my eyes glaring.

“I—I mean…”

Gritting my teeth, I drew in a sharp breath while keeping my eyes on hers. I didn’t know what senseless thing I wanted to say at first, but the longer I looked into her eyes, the softer everything inside of me became. Finally, I realized what it was—I simply wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. Sighing, I said, “I really don’t mean to sound cold right now… but I’m exhausted. I need to get some sleep. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

When she dropped her hand holding the phone next to her thigh, her shoulders slouched down a bit, while her gaze remained fixated on my face.

As if afraid to miss a second with her in the room, I kept looking at her, secretly questioning the reason for her standing there motionless. She then took off her raincoat, and in slow, unhurried movements, turned around to place it on a hanger by the door.

And then she closed the door.

I froze in place, mentally going over everything I had just said, trying to find a hidden invitation that I might have missed. There was none.

Yet, here she was, making her way around my bed until she disappeared from my field of vision. I felt her sit on the opposite edge behind me and heard her shoes drop to the floor. I then heard the faint sound of her body rubbing softly against the fabric underneath us.

Without moving, I tilted my head ever so slightly and furrowed my eyebrows, wondering what she was up to now.

She was right behind me. I could feel the heat from her body weighing down on the air against my back. When her hand landed on my shoulder from behind, I closed my eyes.

No, I wasn’t going to repeat that same mistake. I wasn’t going to indulge whatever she thought she wanted from me tonight. If we were on the verge of saying goodbye, then—just like an addict—taking another hit was the last thing I needed.

Emma didn’t say a word. Instead, she let her hands do the talking. They pressed gently against my shoulder, in a direction urging me to lie down. And so I did, without turning to face her.

Lying on my side, I placed my head on the pillow, sliding both my hands under it. As if my hands didn’t earn their freedom. As if, if I were to let them go, they would instinctively reach out to find her.

Just like hers found me.

My wife slid one hand under my pillow, reaching to hold mine, interlinking our fingers beneath the comfortable weight of my head. Her other hand laid softly on my side, while she came closer, so close that she spooned me. With her arm now around my waist, she placed her palm on my stomach and kept it there, motionless, only ever so gently pressing.

I should have asked her to leave, but I couldn’t.

---