Page 85 of A Labor of Hate
My daily walks with The Spouse have resumed.Most nights, we make it back home after dark because we’re enjoying the time as ourselves too much.This has conveniently cut back on how often Colleen has been able to intercept us on our way back.
The Spouse has indeed become more openly communicative with me, verbally and physically.We haven’t crossed any lines with each other, but kissing him before and after work (okay, fine, and a lot of times after that) is a welcome change.
In related news, it has strangely gotten harder for me to repeat a variation of our nightly script for the listening device’s sake.The closer I get to falling in love with him, the harder it is to say “goodnight, love you,” and hear him say it in return knowing it’s for show.
We hosted Charles and Vivienne at our home for dinner.ButtFace and the bodyguard with the tattoo on his neck, heretofore creatively dubbed NeckTat, eyed us suspiciously multiple times throughout the night.Gavin caught on to this and watched us even more intently than normal.So that was fun.Not at all stressful.
Colleen has the most thoroughly weeded flower bed in the neighborhood.I know this because she’s always outside weeding it whenever anything happens, like the Gauthiers and their entourage arriving.She, more fearless than most, made her way over to introduce herself to each of them.Two of them wouldn’t look her in the eye.I suspect they were the ones on surveillance when she brought them a pound cake.
I have since considered bringing a pound cake as a gift for the Gauthiers to see if it could get me access to Charles’ lab.The Spouse vetoed the idea immediately, saying, “remember what happened the last few times you tried cooking?”This was a bold assumption, as, one: I have elected to block those instances from memory; and two: I couldn’t care less how palatable the pound cake is, as long as it gets me in the door.Maybe Charles could conduct experiments on it.
Vivienne and I have met for coffee four more times, no sadness required.Each time, Gavin and one of the other bodyguards have accompanied her.
Dark circles have developed under Charles’ eyes.He’s even more distant than normal when we see him at Lamaze, which is saying something considering he was as friendly as a starving cobra to start with.
When she thinks I’m not looking, Vivienne is more serious lately, too.Tense.Her smiles rarely reach all the way to her eyes anymore.When questioned about it, she blamed it on late pregnancy exhaustion and lack of sleep.Which is fair.But not the full truth, I suspect.
This week was our last Lamaze class.Postpartum, breastfeeding, and newborn parenting.Seeing The Spouse cradling a newborn—even if it was a plastic doll— and diapering it like his life depended on it was more than my heart could take.
The Gauthiers invited us to their house for a game night.Vivienne was as subtly wary as the last time we’d been over.Gavin hovered closer than last time, yet he looked outward for threats more frequently than at us.I haven’t given up my theory about the nature of Charles’ involvement.The Spouse still isn’t convinced without actual evidence to support it.
The new cocktail drug will hit the streets in a week and a half, and we have nothing to incriminate Charles.Nothing.
I CLUTCHED THE haphazardly wrapped box I’d hidden under my bed, nerves buzzing with excitement.Even though it was only our cover identities’ anniversary, I couldn’t resist.The gift was too perfect to pass up when I saw it.
When I reached Colt’s room, I knocked gently on the open door as I lingered in the doorway.Colt sat on his bed, his hair now neatly styled, and his back propped against the headrest as he wrote in his little pocket notebook.He wore his contemplative expression, his brow furrowed and lips pursed.At my knock, he looked up and his face relaxed.Not exactly a smile, but with the way his eyes burned into me, I’d happily take it.
“You got a minute?”I asked, unusually bashful.My cheeks flushed, and I pretended to inspect my wrapping job.Which, to be clear, was an eyesore no one should willingly subject themselves to.
“I always have time for my wife.”
My wife.There it was again.In fact, he’d started using that phrase more frequently lately.Up until now, it was only while out in public.
The thrill that came from those words leaving his lips spurred me forward, and I climbed my aching body onto the bed beside him.I’d scarcely settled against the headrest when Colt took one of my curls, still damp from my shower, in his fingers, intentionally brushing against my cheek as he did.
I shivered.
“Have I ever told you how much I love your hair?”he murmured, the faintest hint of a smile on his face.“Even when it’s shiny and styled, it’s still wild.Never truly tamed or controlled.”He met my eyes and let the curl go so it bounced back into its coil.“And it’sbeautiful.”
Warmth flooded me until I glowed like a firefly.And here I’d thought my hair drove him mad with how wild it was.But maybe it was the good kind of mad.The kind that made someone who craved control find beauty in uncontrollable things.
“Have I ever told you how much I love being the one you let behind your walls?”I countered, placing a feather-light kiss on his cheek.“This more open version of you?It’s my favorite.And a privilege I don’t take lightly.”
He smiled, the freckles around his eyes softening.“I’m glad I let you in.Heaven knows you were breaking your way in already.”
I snorted.“Just not through the window.I’ve learned my lesson.Besides” —I bumped his shoulder with mine— “youchoosingto let me in is a better prize.”
And it was.With enough time, maybe I could’ve worn him down or cracked through the walls he built around himself.The walls that guarded the finished picture to the puzzle that was Colt Dixon.But that victory would’ve been an empty one.I’d much rather Trojan horse my way into his heart than lay siege to it.
I offered him the box in my hands.“I, uh, got you something.Happy anniversary.”
Instead of taking the box, he leaned over and grabbed a thinner, significantly neater wrapped gift from the drawer in the bedside table.He held it out for me, the juxtaposition of the two wrapping jobs jarring, yet an accurate representation of us.
“Happy anniversary,” he echoed.
My jaw dropped as I took his gift and he took mine.He’d gotten me a gift for our fake anniversary, too.My gift for him had been an impulse buy.Spontaneous.I saw it and thought of him.Colt had likely planned every detail about his gift for me.
Intention.That’s how he loved.He may not show his affection the same way as me, but it was every bit as valuable.He loved with intention.
