Page 151 of The Devil We Know

She turns to me, eyebrows raised as she says, “I'm not stuck anywhere, Mathias. I am not a fucking tree.”

“So, you'd leave me?”

She raises her hands in front of her and shakes her head. “Well, I don't see any point in being here. It's not like you're here.”

“But I love you,” I reply helplessly, having no idea what else to say.

She rolls her eyes and snorts. “And I love you, but I also love myself, and I'll be damned if I sacrifice everything I've worked for to spend the rest of my life feeling like I'm alone with someone else in the room.”

We fall silent, and she busies herself, continuing her typical bedtime routine. I stand there frozen to the spot, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

Finally, I whisper, “I don't know what to do.”

She says nothing in response. She just pulls the comforter and sheet back and slides into bed without comment.

I stand there for a few more moments, staring at the back of her head, and then I turn and walk into the bathroom. I go about my own sparse bathroom routine, methodically washing my hands and face, stripping out of my clothes. Then I stand there at the sink, staring at my own reflection in the mirror, hardly recognizing myself.

I place both palms on the counter, leaning closer and closer to the mirror until all I see is one giant eyeball staring back at me.

I inhale through my nose, expelling the breath out through my mouth, the one-eyed version of me fogging over until it's nothing but a shadow.

A shadow of my broken self.

Startled, I shove away from the counter, stepping back until I give myself a hard look in the mirror. “What have you done?” I whisper to my reflection, and a sudden twinge of unease zaps through me.

For me, the most difficult stage of grief is my tendency to bury myself in work, to push those painful, gritty emotions down andkeep them walled up behind anger, ambivalence, and the deep need to separate myself from that which might hurt me again.

But here I am, hurting myself.

Whirling around, I hurry out of the bathroom into the bedroom, over to the side of the bed where Jessica is still lying with her back to the doorway.

I grab the comforter in my hand, yanking it back, and Jessica rolls toward me, staring up at me, wide-eyed as she exclaims, “Matt, what are you doing?”

I stoop over, gripping her by her arms as I half-drag-half-yank her out of the bed. She manages to get her feet under her, and I use the added leverage to boost her up, my arms snaking around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides as I squeeze.

She's now at eye level with me, and I'm sure I must look like a crazed lunatic as I say, “You can't leave me.”

She looks taken aback, and then she frowns and shakes her head. “What? What are you talking about?”

“You can't fucking leave me. I won't have it.”

She laughs almost hollowly. “Well, you're not the one who has the final say on that.”

My arms tighten further, right to the point where it becomes visibly uncomfortable for her, and her eyes widen further as she squirms in my grip. I lean in close, my nose touching hers as I grit out, “Over my dead fucking body.”

She goes to speak, but she can't draw in any air, and only a squeak comes out, so I add, “Let me be crystal fucking clear with you, sugar. If you leave me, I'll make my friends look like docile little lambs.”

She narrows her eyes, her squirming turning into an outright struggle. Her knee connects with my thigh once, twice, a little harder each time, so I step closer to the bed, tossing her down on it, and then quickly follow, using the weight of my body to pin her down so she can't escape.

She manages to punch me once in the chest before I snag both of her wrists and pin her arms over her head. She attempts to knee me again, so I straddle her thighs, effectively stretching my torso out over the top of her.

My eyes scan down her body from her angry fiery green eyes to her heaving tits, and my dick immediately hardens against her hip.

I lean over her, licking a path up her stomach, between her breasts to her neck, until I have my face pressed into her hair by her ear.

I settle some of my weight over her, my chest pressing against her tits, so with every inhalation, her hard nipples rub against my skin.

I groan, adjusting my grip so I'm holding both her wrists with one hand. I slide my free hand over her shoulder, along her collarbone to her sternum, and down to her waist, quickly circling back around. Cupping her breast, I pinch her nipple with my thumb and forefinger until she gasps, pushing herself more firmly into my hand.

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