Page 172 of Seizing Control: Part Two

LILY: I need to know if he has the letter

LILY: Nads!!!!!

While Nadia plays possum with the truth, I give in to the temptation to read the replies from my husband and Lazarus. I hold my breath, agitated yet hopeful at the same time, as I scroll through the new messages.

SLASH: The little man takes after his dad x

LAZARUS: How rude... the G-man is much better looking

SLASH: I hope Ezra takes the boob tomorrow

SLASH: Lucky boy ;)

LAZARUS: Seriously? You’re objectifying my boy and his imma...

SLASH: In the same way that Garrett is a protein connoisseur, I am a breast enthusiast

LAZARUS: Chicken breast?

SLASH: I refuse to dignify your ridiculousness with a response

LAZARUS: Funny... because I swear your response is directly above this one

Their messages die off for a few hours before they return with an entirely different tenor.

LAZARUS: Miss you, sweet thing

LAZARUS: Can’t wait to meet the little miss properly tomorrow

SLASH: *selfie of two shirtless men eating two-minute noodles for dinner*

My reaction to the phot that my husband has sent is immediate and embarrassing. Even though I’m alone, I still feel heat creep up my neck to settle in my cheeks. They are gorgeous. Hot as hell in their own individual way. Matching pieces of my heart. Perched on a sunlounge in the back yard, my first love is fierce, tattooed from head to toe, with a body that radiates brute strength. The Styrofoam bowl of noodles that he’s holding is tiny in comparison to his hands, but I can tell from the label that it’s the biggest cup. With his chest on display, I can see his ink. Piece after piece, the story of his life covers his skin.

I am represented, over and over, as integral to his life as he is to mine.

We’re connected on a primordial level, but he doesn’t see us as partners.

For Lazarus, I am a possession he must protect at all costs, instead of a living, breathing woman with the capacity to save myself—and that’s the fundamental truth we need to change.

Next to my first love, Slash peers at the camera over the rim of his insubstantial dinner. Head slightly tilted, he poses with an air of bad boy aloofness that most male models can only dream of achieving. Lightly tanned, his golden skin is the perfect foil for his dirty-blonde hair and his ice-blue eyes. My husband is the one taking the selfie, and I can only imagine the conversation that took place as he talked Lazarus into posing with him. Losing myself in his soulful gaze, it’s easy to forget how many times his inability to acknowledge his own trauma has spilled over me.

Harshly, painfully, unbearably, the demons my husband refuses to accept stand between us. His suffering has changed him in a manner that will destroy me if he doesn’t learn to love himself as a fallible human instead of the saviour he believes himself to be.

Chin wobbling, tears threatening, I chew on my bottom lip as I allow myself one final look at them before I determinedly scroll down the thread.

SLASH: Mumma says she won’t cook for me unless you tell her it’s okay

SLASH: Please tell her it’s okay, duchess... I won’t survive on chicken noodles and instant oats for long

SLASH: If I can’t have you, at least let me have my mumma’s scotch pie

LAZARUS: And her shortbread

SLASH: All jokes aside, I wish you’d change your mind

SLASH: ‘Cause I’m fucked without you

LAZARUS: ^^what he said, metukà shelì... only x100

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