Page 5 of His

“There isn’t a strong enough chemical on earth to keep away swamp bugs. Trust me on this. They’re the size of my fucking fist.”

After sleeping on Sabine’s front porch after my first (failed) visit, I’d awoken to hundreds of insect bites, head to toe. I bathed in antihistamine cream for the following three days. Eventually, I just got used to them. Just like I’ve gotten used to wearing supermarket T-shirts, worn Levi’s, and boots instead of suits every day. I can’t remember the last time I wore a suit, or got a haircut. Even the five o’clock shadow I used to trim to perfection has grown into a full-on beard.

Yes, I am a shell of the man I used to be. I’m aware of this.

I just need to get Sabine back and everything else will fall into place.

“The swamps.” Cillian chuckles and shakes his head. “She really didn’t want you to follow her did she?”

“She knew I’d find her, just like she knows she’ll take me back.” I sniff.

“Not if you die of malaria first.”

“I’ll buy some spray,” I say, exasperated.

Cillian’s computer dings with another email, pulling our attention. One of the million emails intended for me that are now being handled by Cillian.

When he accepted the interim role, I wasn’t sure how he would handle the demanding position. Turns out, Cillian is a shrewd businessman. Before now, Cillian’s strength lay in his fists. The man was a born mercenary—a savage predator known for his brute physical strength. Now he spends his days on the phone with the United States Department of Defense and studying case files.

So much has changed.

Everything has changed.

“I was just typing up your daily summary,” he says.

I dip my chin, and again, we fall into silence. Both too tired to talk about work.

“How’s Valerie?” I ask, finally.

He blows out of breath, sinking deeper into the chair.

“She slept most of the day and night. She was really out of it when she was awake.”

“So, normal, then?”

“Yes. And that reminds me—Charles sent over a few dates and times for you to meet with the attorneys he’s vetted to help work on the divorce.”

“I’ll take a look, thanks.”

After learning that Sabine was alive, I reached out to Charles, my main attorney, about navigating a divorce with Valerie. While in the ER, I made a promise to Valerie that I would be by her side while she learns to navigate her diagnosis, and I meant it. However, I understand that I cannot continue in a fake, loveless marriage while the love of my life is out there.

When Valerie and I got married, she signed an iron-clad prenuptial agreement, which I’m certain she didn’t read. (And, admittedly, I didn’t push her to do so). Valerie was much too eager to step into the “Astor Stone lifestyle” to care about much else. However, with her recent schizophrenia diagnosis, things have become muddy. Apparently, divorce becomes exceptionally complicated when it requires an attorney who specializes in the grounds of legal incapacity.

“Did she speak today?” I ask.

“Not to me, but I think she said a few words to Jackie when she came by for her daily visit.”

Jackie is Valerie’s home-care nurse. After interviewing dozens of candidates, I hired Jackie years ago, not only for her competency but also her no-bull attitude. Despite being barely five feet tall and two decades older than most nurses these days, Jackie walks into the room like she owns the place.

“Oh,” Cillian continues, “and she left a ‘how to live with someone with schizophrenia’ pamphlet on the counter over there.”

I snort. A pamphlet. Ha. Since Valerie was diagnosed months ago, I’ve read every article available on the subject. Even still, I feel completely out of my comfort zone.

“How were her vitals today?” I ask.

“High blood pressure again and a slight temperature. I think Jackie took some swabs or something,” he jerks his chin to a piece of paper sitting on the counter, next to the pamphlet. “There’s the summary of her visit.”

We drink our beers somewhere in-between the comfortable silence that comes with being friends for so long, and a simmering tension from things unsaid.

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