Page 61 of Saving Ren
“Croquembouche, it’s like a pointy cake made from lots of little profiteroles stuck together.”
“Sounds good, now tell me what youreallydid?”
“I did the washing, put the hoover round, worked on my website, and Jo washed and dried my hair for me.”
“You mean you did laundry and vacuumed?”
“That’s exactly what I said,” she says with a grin.
“Put her down.” I’m still leaning into Lauren, my hand cupping her jaw, as my thumb gently brushes across her cheek when Jo appears from the direction of my bathroom.
“I don’t think she wants me to,” I reply. “It’s been what, all of eleven hours since she had her fix.”
Lauren pushes against me and attempts to escape as Jo shifts my laptop off the table and unpacks the takeaway containers.
“You think very highly of yourself, Mr Wild.”
“Just working every angle, Mrs. . .” I stop the words leaving my mouth but know that I’ve already fucked up when Lauren winces.
“Fuck.” I press my lips against her forehead.
“Day,” she whispers. Her hands slide from my neck and wrap around my waist. “It’s Ms, not Mrs, and it’s Day, Lauren Day,” she says with a squeeze, making me feel just a little better.
“Foods up,” Jo calls.
Taking a step back, I ask, “We good?”
She nods and gives me a small smile. “It was close there for a minute, but we’re good.”
Chapter 18
Lauren
It’s beenover two weeks.
Over two weeks since I left my house in the middle of the night after my husband beat me.
Tonight, will be the eighteenth night I’ve slept in the bed of a man I barely know—Gabe’s bed.
Although I’ve gone to bed alone each night that I’ve been here, there’ve been a couple of mornings I’ve woken with Gabe pressed in tight behind me. His explanation for his presence in my/his bed is that I’m having nightmares, and the only way to calm me down, is for him to hold me.
Sometimes I remember having the nightmare. Sometimes I don’t. What I’m sure of is, it’s the same scene that plays out every time, and it involves Jason dragging me from my bed and away from Gabe. I’ve even had the same dream during the day when I’ve fallen asleep on the sofa.
Each morning, after Gabe leaves for work, I’ve cried. I’ve cried great, heaving, body-wracking sobs of hurt, and silent tears of anger. It’s been cathartic. I’m not sure what stage of the process I’m at, but after spending the past weeks mourning for my marriage and the loss of the life I once had, I think I’m finally coming to terms with things, or I could be delusional and it hasn’t even really hit me yet I’m not an expert on these things so I can’t really say with any authority, I just know that I’ve felt similar to the way I felt in the first few weeks after losing my dad.
His death was sudden and unexpected. At first I was in shock, then denial, then I lost track of the order. I think it was anger for a while.
I don’t even know if the same rules apply to death as they do for the end of a relationship, but mourning is the only word to describe how it’s left me feeling.
I’m still not okay with it. I’m not over it. I don’t know that I ever will be either, especially while I’m still so confused as to why it ended the way it did. Despite all that’s happened, I still have a tight knot of guilt lodged firmly in my chest at being here with Gabe and how easy it is being with him. How comfortable I’ve become in his company, living in his home, in such a short space of time.
There’s been no sex, but there has been kissing. The kissing started out sweet and gentle. I think Gabe is being mindful of my injuriesandmy mental state, but as each day passes, the more time I spend with him, the longer, hotter, wetter, and more passionate our kisses have become. They’re now also backed up by the grinding of hips and thumbs brushing nipples. All of which is making it hard! Hard for me to control myself, to pull away and put the brakes on things, and hard for Gabe in the dick department. I know this because it’s absolutely impossible not to know this when I’m lying on top or straddling him.
I don’t know what all of this means; whether we actually have any kind of a future together, or if it’s my husband’s rejection, my need to feel wanted, or our forced confinement that’s making me feel so attracted to him.
It’s a mess, a complete and utter shit show. My situation, us being here together, the timing of everything. Almost every night since I’ve been here, I’ve laid spread out on top of him on his sofa, and we’ve talked and talked and talked, and it feels right. It feels good. It feels like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, but in the morning, the guilt, self-doubt, and humiliation creep in, and I wallow in the misery they cause me.
Jo keeps telling me I’m overthinking everything and that my guilt is unwarranted but understandable.
