Page 4 of Surviving the Merge
“No, you love me.” He stroked my hair with a deceptive gentleness. Coming from Damon, the touch was worse than the violence of a second ago.
Leaning in close, he added on a whisper that matched the feel of his caress, “And when I’m done with you, you’ll know to whom you belong.”
2
Irolled over, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. Sitting up, I rubbed at my eyes with the heel of my palms, trying to piece together how I ended up in our bedroom.
I remembered entering the condo and collapsing onto the couch fully clothed. Still dark out. Now, the sunlight speared through the blinds, and I lay in bed naked.
Shit, Blake.I groaned, flopping to my back.
Which meant he saw the fingerprints from Damon's grip on my hips, along with the bite mark on my shoulder and slight bruising on my throat. They must look worse now than they did hours ago.
Getting up—wincing in the process—I threw something on to go search Blake out.
Blake leaned against the kitchen island, staring unseeing at nothing in particular. Already dressed for the day, holding his morning cup of coffee. The steam long gone. I watched my husband from the other end of our open-plan condo, belatedly spotting the packed bag by his feet. My pulse hammered in my ears, and my feet—of their own will—carried me closer. “Where are you going?”
“Away,” he said in a detached voice. He wouldn’t look at me.
“Blake, let’s talk this out,” I said, approaching him.
“No talking. Not now, Justin.” He turned to me. “Look what Damon did to you...” His voice cracked at the end.
“I can handle it. I’ve got it under control.” I’d resorted to lies. From the disbelieving look he gave, the only person I was lying to was myself.
He stalked to the sink, placing his mug down. “I can’t do this right now. I can’t see you like this.” Heading for the door, bag in hand.
I took a hesitant step forward and forced the air out of my lungs. “How long will you be gone?”
“I don’t know.”
“Blake, you can’t leave and not tell me when you’ll be back.” The silence screamed between us. This was my worst nightmare. Losing Blake because of my inability to choose. But what kind of choice would I be making? Wasn’t he tired of living a lie? “How long will you be gone, Blake?” I repeated.
“A few days.” The door closed behind him. Not with a slam, but a resigned click.
* * *
“You’re moretense than usual, Justin.”
Leaving the window behind, I made my way over to the couch. With Blake walking out, a session with my therapist was in order. I’d been seeing Julie for about four months. Ever since Damon came back.
She pushed a tin of homemade cookies across the coffee table that separated us. I was prepared to say “no thank you,” but her hopeful smile that reached her slate-blue eyes caused me to reach in and grab the biggest one I could find. “These things are dangerous. Not everyone is as naturally thin as you,” I said. I took in her graying brown hair that flowed in waves past her shoulders. Such a contradiction to the youthfulness of her face. Mid-to-late forties would be my guess. Of course, I’d never ask.
Built-in bookshelves lined the perimeter of the warm, earth-toned room. It drew you in, made you feel at home. My favorite accessory were the windows that dominated a whole wall in the cozy space. The room served its purpose.
“I went to Elite last night,” I said. Julie patiently waited for me to continue. “I’m sure you can imagine how things went.”
“Why don’t you tell me anyway?”
“One of our roughest encounters. Damon fucked me with no regard for my comfort or lack thereof. Six weeks. That’s the longest I’ve ever stayed away since his return. Funny thing is, I don’t know if I stayed away because I genuinely believed I could end things or because I wanted to see him that sick and twisted.” I roughly pushed up from the sofa and ventured back to the window, staring out into the dreary sky, hands in my trouser pockets. I knew the answer, but while that bitter pill might not have been hard to swallow when alone and unable to hide from my own verities, admitting it to someone outside my triangle of love felt unacceptable.
“How did that make you feel?” she asked.
I contemplated the question unnecessarily. Purchasing time, I supposed. Delaying the unveiling of my weakness. Then, so quietly I barely heard it myself, I whispered, “Loved.”
‘The truth be an ugly thing.’ And my truth? The more Damon subjugated me, the closer I felt to God.
“Did that not cross the line for you?”
