Page 11 of Rainstorm

She hugged me passionately, giving me a small glimpse of the woman hidden behind those warnings about her overprotective family. And I was hypnotized. Bewitched and under her spell. Closing my eyes, submerged in the intimate moment. Just us two, in the middle of a restaurant full of unknown faces.

I kissed her shoulder, tasting the honey of her skin, ready to take her hand and carry her wherever life led us.

Chapter 3

Rose

San Diego, CA - Present day

It’s Sunday. Another day dragging itself slowly, clinging from the gray walls of our bedroom. The same space where I invested so much time. Every single detail here calls my name. From the hardwood flooring to the beaded lamp hanging from the ceiling.

Every touch reminding me of our efforts, our hopes and dreams woven tightly between the thick strands of our macramé headboard. Our bed, our playground, the place where we spent so many nights drawing loving lines across each other’s skin. Sweating, dreaming. Sometimes eyes wide open, fantasizing about the visions of that future we were building together.

Those same visions now fading out in the silence.

Agonizing slowly.

Walking down, step by step, pain filling the space meant for happiness.

Despite that, I refuse to let it go.

I just can’t.

After all these years, after all we lived through, I just can’t and I won’t.

Is there an antidote somewhere? A cure for dying love?

A cup of magic that revives passion and desire?

I want to cross the bridge beyond my insecurities, because I’m not the same girl anymore. I’ve changed. Not for the better, I’m afraid.

More than that, there must be something I can do about it.

My friend Mandy, now happily married and busy with three little rascals running around her ankles, told me a few days ago that I should go to a lingerie store and buy the sultriest item in their entire stock. “Be his slut,” she said. “I guarantee you won’t regret it.”

So I went to the store and bought a little tiny piece of silk and lace I haven’t had the courage to wear yet.

It’s not that I’m a prude. I’ve worn hot numbers for my husband before. This time it’s different, though. There is an ice wall between us, tearing us apart, growing wider every day.

Like the proverbial light bulb above my head, an idea comes, and eager to follow it, I run to the bathroom to check my appearance in the mirror. My hair is pulled into a messy ponytail and I have no makeup on, so I hurry to apply some concealer and a bit of lip gloss, but not too much. Glancing over my body, checking out my navy tee dress, that should do.

Chase has been in his office all day, refusing to even stop for lunch. This isn’t unusual, his schedule is always very busy since the board made him a partner, and tomorrow morning he’s flying to Sacramento. Yes, his promotion meant a lot of extra money, but also a shitload of extra work. Sometimes I want to blame his job for how he’s changed, force him to give it all up, but I quickly discard the idea, refusing to be an ungrateful spoiled bitch.

So I’m going to the mattresses—in my best Godfather’s interpretation—if this means war, well, I’ll fight. Our relationship means too much to not try every available option.

I walk barefoot to the third floor, where my study and Chase’s office are located, feeling a weird kind of comfort with every step over the soft, rich carpet. “Don’t ever forget, Rose,” he’d murmured a couple days after we moved in. “This is our place, and it’s full of love.”

That same love is making me brave right now.

I find Chase sitting on the loveseat in front of a wooden coffee table we bought on one of our romantic getaways, a trip to Indonesia, reading a sheet of paper in his hand. He now wears reading glasses, and whereas some people would find that an unflattering sign of age, I’ve discovered that my husband wearing those black framed specs really turns me on, awakening the butterflies in my belly.

“Hey,” I murmur, calling his attention.

His eyes look for me, lighting up in an instant. That blue flame burning.

Yes! I want to scream, there is hope here.

“Hey, doll,” he replies softly.

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