Page 174 of Accidental Husband

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My heart rises in my throat.

I press my back against the door. Attempt to find some steadiness.

There's not enough.

My grip slips.

My cell tumbles onto the carpet.

My ass slides down the wood.

I sit, pull my knees into my chest, bury my head between my legs.

This is what people do in the movies when they're going to throw up.

It's not working.

I'm still shaking.

My heartbeat is loud enough to drown out the music.

I know where the song goes. My head can fill in the blanks. But it's not the same.

It's the broad strokes, not the specifics of every single note.

And this—

My cell buzzes.

I jerk backward. Slam against the door. Back. Shoulders. Head.

Fuck. That hurts.

Not enough to center me.

Only enough to hurt.

Dammit. Even in the middle of a teary confession, I crave my bad habit.

Shit.

A tear catches on my lashes.

Then I blink and my vision blurs.

I push off the wall. Reach for the cell. It's slippery against my palms. It takes three tries, but I manage to unlock it.

Griffin: Are you okay?

I'm telling my best friend I'm a disappointment.

No, I'm telling my husband I'm a disappointment.

I'm not okay.

But that isn't what he's asking.

It's the bigger, uglier question. The one people dance around (not that I give them a chance). The other implication of taking a razor to my skin.

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