Page 41 of Perdition
“Oh, not so happy about being unstuck from your fat, ugly wife?” she snarled.
“What the fuck, Em? You heard part of a conversation and decided to blow up twenty years of marriage?”
Twenty years…dedicated, devoted to the man of her dreams, a man who’d grown up from the boy she’d adored.
He wasn’t that man anymore, was he?
“Did you fuck her?” she demanded, her voice sharp.
Again, there was moment of stunned silence. This time, however, when he replied, his tone was one she’d never heard before.
“Are you fucking kidding me with this bullshit?” he spat. “So, because you overheard a conversation between me and Sarah, one you took completely out of context, you’re thinking that I must be fucking her?” He growled. “Fucking unbelievable, Em, that you would think that?—”
“What the hell else am I supposed to think, huh?” she cried. “You were cuddled up on the couch, talking about how you’d been married too long, that you were stuck, that you had options! You diminished twenty years of our life, of our love, into something you can toss away when someone younger, prettier, tighter, and carefree comes along.”
“That is not what I said!” he bellowed, but she wasn’t listening anymore.
She was done listening.
“You took her to our spot, Mads….” She choked on the words. “Our spot.”
He cursed. “Fuck, Em, I know I did wrong, but?—”
“There should not be a ‘but’ in that sentence because you never should have taken another woman to the place where we began our lives together.”
“I know, Em?—”
“Did you fuck her under our tree, Frost?” she asked, her voice so heavy with tears she sounded underwater.
“Goddammit, Em! I didn’t fuck her anywhere!” Mads roared.
“Then how does she know about the tattoo on your hip, or the mole or your ass, or the piercing scars on your dick!”
There was a curse then what sounded like a crashing sound. “I have no fucking idea, Em, but there’s no fucking way she learned any of that from fucking me—because I never touched her. Yes, we chatted at the club a few times, she’s come on to me, and I admit I share more with her than I should—but none of it is really personal shit, Em. That conversation you overheard, that’s about as personal as we got.”
Em snorted. “And taking her to our spot—not once but twice?”
He sighed, and she could feel it in her bones. “I fucked up, Em, baby. I know that. And I’ll do whatever you need me to do to make up for it.”
“Can you turn back time and not become an asshole who ignores his wife, neglects his marriage, and treats a club slut like his old lady?” she replied, cold as ice, her tone flat, chilling.
“Are you serious right now? I didn’t fuck her, Emily—goddammit!”
“You don’t have to fuck someone to treat them like your old lady, Frost,” she declared, trembling from the emotions rioting through her.
It took everything in her to keep her voice steady as she spoke, “How many times did you call her, text her? And then how many times in the same period did you call me, text me? How many times did you tell her how you were feeling—tired, upset, frustrated, that you were hungry, thirsty, had a headache, hated something, loved something, needed something? And how many times did younotthink aboutme? Every single time you opened you mouth to tell her something about how you were feeling or what you were thinking…you were giving her something that belongs exclusively to me. How many times did you smile down at your phone screen when you saw her name there? How many times did you laugh at her jokes or worry about her or ask what she wanted to eat or drink, or if she was tired or if she was sad or if she was scared, or worried, or even if she had a goddamn aspirin? Every single time you even considered her for a moment, a moment you were still neglecting me and our marriage, you were betraying me.”
“Em…” he rasped, sounding like a man who’d been driven into the ground. “I…I….”
She shook her head, deflating, the fire of her anger slowly burning down to embers, flickering in her guts.
“I could have forgiven you making friends with a club girl, you’re the president, it’s part of your duty to the club to make sure everyone—brothers and the women—feel part of the family. I could have forgiven you getting so busy with the patch over that you forgot a few meals or forgot to text or call back, or got so caught up in your work that you stayed overnight at the clubhouse a few times a week. I’m an Army wife; I’m used to long periods of time without you, Mads, I can understand your pressing responsibilities, your dedication to the club andthe men who follow you. I can even understand that there is a growing distance between us that neither of us has done a damn thing about. I get it. I’m not innocent in that, either. I got busy, got angry, got even by not calling or texting when I know you might need me. I’m human. I fail. I have flaws. I can be selfish and impulsive and petty—who isn’t? But what I cannot forgive is you sharing parts of our personal lives, our marriage, our relationship with someone else. And to share it with a woman who thinks nothing of confronting me in my shop, of humiliating me, of tearing me down to make herself feel better…. That is who you want? That is who you’re willing to give up our marriage for?”
“Em, Sarah…I’m not cheating on you with her. If she came to your shop and talked shit, it wasn’t because we’re anything more than friends.”
“How does she know about things only I should know about, Mads?”
“I don’t know.” He sighed, the sound sharp and acidic.
