Page 28 of Poetry By Dead Men
Except it’s obviously not. I'm far too aware of the uncharacteristic darkness in Harrison's eyes and the way his fingers are clenching the table so firmly, I fear it will crack.
For the first time in almost two years, I'm afraid of Harrison.
"You're doing this, Beth." He stands, stabbing a finger at me as he throws his napkin on the floor.
"Of course. You're right," I say, my tone as placating as possible. "Forgive me. I was just worried about managing my time. With the wedding planning. I just…" I swallow. “I want the day to be perfect."
Harrison grips the back of his chair, his posture easing enough to let me breathe again, but the sharp rage in his eyes remains. "Of course it's about the wedding," he says, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'll hire you the best planner money can buy. God knows we'll have enough of it after Robert signs his contract."
"Okay, then. A wedding planner will help. I'll start packing after we finish eating," I say, hoping a full belly will slow the effects of the alcohol in his bloodstream.
"You eat," he says, storming toward his study. "I'm not hungry anymore."
He slams the door so hard the pictures on the wall shake, and the relief I feel when he’s gone is overwhelming.
Not only that, it’s wildly unsettling. I shouldn’t feel this way.
Not about my fiancé.
Not when I thought we were past this. Firmly on the other side of his anger.
One moment of weakness, years ago. A fist through the wall. A shattered chair. That's all he's ever shown to make me worry what he's capable of. But he went to therapy. Did the work and swore he was sorry. That he would never lash out in anger again.
Tears burn my eyes as I wipe away the trail of blood running down the back of my arm with my napkin, holding pressure.
Only once I’m certain the bleeding has stopped do I pull out my phone.
I stare at it for what feels like hours. Until my glass is dry and my food has long gone cold.
Nausea works its way up my throat as I sit there, doubt creeping onto my shoulders and pressing down until my body threatens to buckle under its weight. I'm not sure I'm capable of spending two months on the road with Bobby. I’m afraid that having him in my life again will reopen every scar in my heart, turning them into gaping wounds that will bleed me dry.
A shiver flits down my spine, and the back of my arm throbs—the spot where real blood stains my skin.
Even if I don’t want to go, I can’t stay here.
Not after what just happened.
I need some distance. Space from Harrison to figure out what I want and what I can live with. Because it's certainly not this—being afraid of what my husband-to-be might do when I don't play subservient wife. When I question him.
With trembling fingers, I dial the number written on the napkin Bobby handed me, expecting to need to leave a message, but he answers on the first ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi. Um…it's Beth?" I say it like a question, my voice shaking. I haven't spoken since Harrison stormed from the room, but maybe I should have said a few words or recited a poem to even out the nerves his reaction caused. I clear my throat, forcing myself to take even breaths.
"Beth. What's wrong?" Bobby's voice is sharp, and I picture him sitting up straight and putting his guitar down, as if holding it would keep him from listening intently enough.
"Nothing. I think I'm coming down with a cold. Um—" I continue on, not giving him time to question me.
"I'm coming to get you," he says, and I hear the jingle of car keys in the background.
"No, stop it. Listen, I'm fine. Really. I'm just calling to tell you that you wore me down. I'll do it."
There's a long pause. A heavy, loaded silence from the other end of the phone.
"Bobby?"
"Swear you’re okay, Beth. And don’t lie to me." His honey and gravel voice is firm, but gentle.
