Page 76 of Mangled Memory
“Are you excited?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” My wiggling and bouncing haven’t gone unnoticed.
His words come through a smile, “It’s good to see you this jazzed. My meeting will only take an hour or two. Are you willing to wait for me to go out?”
“And miss this gorgeous morning? That’s a no.”
“I didn’t think so. Will you check in with me please? Just drop a pin where you land and text occasionally.” His face is so earnest, so openly concerned that it’s easy to acquiesce.
Placing my hand over his, I give him what he needs. It’s easy. “Okay, Christian.”
“I’ll find you when I’m done, and we’ll grab some lunch. Anything else you want to do while we’re here?”
I shake my head, not truly saying no to anything, but because I have no clue. “I don’t know. Let’s play it by ear.”
He leans down and kisses that spot under my ear that turns me into a puddle of goo. It’s weird to think he knows my body better than I do, though he’s proven it time and time again. One day, I’ll be able to argue that, though I have a feeling I won’t want to when that happens. I can’t help but hope I’ll always have a husband who plays my body in ways that are more titillating than I can.
The car rolls to a stop in front of a two-story red brick building in the center of town. Christian alights, but leans back into the open door, his palm to my neck as he holds my eyes. “Be safe, baby. I’m trusting you to take care of yourself. This worrying all the time is killing me.”
He takes my lips in a brutal, almost bruising, kiss. When he pulls back, I resist the urge to touch my mouth. Instead, I focus on his tie, adjusting the already-perfect knot and smoothing it at his throat. “Go be formidable. I’ll be safe—I promise.”
He looks to the driver and back to me. “Okay, Princess. I’ll find you when I’m done.” He withdraws from the car and taps the roof just as he closes the door. I’m left in the luxury sedan as we slide away from the curb.
“Miss?” The driver calls. “Where to?”
Pausing to consider my options, I realize I’m woefully unprepared to hike what’s required for Cathedral Lake or American Lake. I want to avoid the gondola. Hmm. “Can we drive around town for a while? I’ll let you know if we need to stop.”
“Sure thing, miss.”
Wandering the town from the cushy, warm back seat has its perks. We’ve cruised the main touristy areas and the shops where people meander. We’re at the corner of town when something catches my eye. And that something is my husband walking with a polished blond woman into a house. Quickly grabbing my phone, I snap a picture before the evidence is gone.
“Give me a minute. I’ll be right back.”
I have no clue why I say a thing to the driver. Courtesy must be ingrained or something because who sees what I just did and has that on the forefront of their minds? I double-time it down the street, standing in front of the home. It’s quaint and charming with a gorgeous, wide front porch with a double swing and two other wide wooden chairs. Mature landscaping makes it look homey and cozy. It’s everything our home is not.
I give it one last glance, memorizing the address, and stride back to the town car. I need my camera, some fresh air, and to avoid the urge to beat the door down, call the woman a name that should truly be directed at my husband, and throw things in a tantrum.
How could he? Everything he’s said. No. Everything I’ve been through, and he flies here for a woman. And has the audacity to bring me along?
“Let’s head to Maroon Bells,” I mention once I’m nestled in the back seat. I know it’s the wrong time, and I’m in the wrong gear, but my brain has reverted to the only thing it can. The need to be outside, the comfort of not being confined, finding a scene, and getting out of my head.
My fucked-up, not-safe-to-live-in head.
Two hours later, I’ve lost the edge of my anger, but settled more firmly into it. There is no resigned or defeated. The trees and snow caps have calmed me enough that I’m thinking clearly, but that clearly isn’t something anyone should cross.
I’ve shot macro and a couple of long landscapes that I’m sure will be crap. Thank God I don’t have to develop film for them.
When twigs crack on the path behind me, fear rises up. There’s a moment when I’m back on the ridge and I whirl, only to remember I’m on solid footing and not at risk of falling.
Christian emerges from the brush into the clearing where Iam. His face softens as he makes it to my side, but the intensity is still there.
What parallel universe do I live in? He’s no longer in a suit, but in hiking clothes and a puffy jacket.
“You changed?” It’s asinine and accusatory but far more innocuous than what I wanted to start with.
“And you didn’t text. Or drop a pin.” He kisses my forehead, but his grip on my shoulders tells the real story. So does the edge in his voice. He’s pissed.
Well, that makes two of us.
