Page 79 of Mangled Memory
“I thought you were in your happy place. And she had time.”
“I don’t want to sell this place,” I whisper.“It’s… everything.”
He gives a single nod. “Let me finish.”
I drop my eyes to mere slits, before looking away. I’m pinned to the wall like a butterfly on a foam board, and he wants to finish…
“Look at me.”
When my eyes meet his, he continues. “I’m patient with a lot of shit, Ayla. But I won’t tolerate two things—the accusation of another woman or the assumption of us not being together. Am I clear?”
Is he clear? He doesn’t get to lay down the law and ask if I understand, even if the threats feel gift-wrapped in devotion.
“You’re patient with a lot of shit?” I unhook my legs and let gravity win the battle on my behalf. My feet hit the floor, and I shove at his chest. “And you won’t ‘tolerate’”—I use air quotes—“certain behaviors of mine. Did I understand that correctly?” I shove again.
My pushes barely move him as he stands rooted in the pale blue and white living room.
“Ayla.” His voice comes out as a warning.
“Don’tAylame. How the hell could I have known she was our realtor, if she actually is.” I add the last part under my breath. “And if I can’t remember my gallery, what makes you think I’d remember discussing selling this house? You blew me off when I said I don’t want to sell it, and I haven’t even seen it yet. At thispoint, I would consider it to never have to feel what I felt when I saw you walk in the door with her.”
“Baby.” He extends a hand.
I look between it and him, desperate for it to pull me from my swirling thoughts, but terrified that giving up on my anger will leave only room for hurt.
I reach out, just as he drops his hand to his side. I lift it to my mouth and kiss. “I’m sorry. And I’m not.” I pause and look in his eyes. “I’m not sorry I was angry when I thought there was another woman. And I hate the word “tolerate” in reference to me. I can’t apologize for not knowing.” I use one hand to point at my head. “But I am sorry we fought and for the insinuation you were cheating.”
His other hand reaches up to cup my jaw and he dips his face to mine, stopping just as he hovers above my lips. “Baby, I have you. No other woman compares. And I don’t hate the jealousy. I wouldn’t be okay if another man were near you, much less coming into our home with you. I love that you feel the same.”
His lips crash down on mine and his arms slide around me, pulling me deep into his body.
“Now, we could have that angry wall sex we were so close to or we could tour the house. Which would you prefer?”
“I’m not exactly angry anymore.”
His eyes lift above my head like he’s praying for patience. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Show me the house?”
After a long exhale, he asks, “What do you want to see first?”
Our evening is far more relaxing than the morning and the tense afternoon. And by the next morning, I feel the tendrils of my connection with Christian getting deeper. Learning to rely on him, trusting him.
It’s as terrifying as it is liberating.
We’re going out tonight, and I have a sneaking suspicion my husband is recreating our first date. I don’t know why I feel this way, except for the location, which I’m sure we’ve been to more than once. Regardless, I found a gunmetal gray cocktail dress in the closet that fits my mood. It’s short and tight from the waist to where it stops at mid-thigh. The rest is soft and flowy with a plunging neckline and a barely there back that lets everyone know there’s nothing underneath. Jessi managed to get me in for a stunning twisted ’do that, when paired with my bold, smokey eye makeup and pale pink lip color, gives off a vibe.
The look is chic and I feel great in it. After yesterday’s emotional blowout, I’m more mellow and grounded in who we are as a couple, even if I don’t remember laying the foundation.
I walk out of the closet, red heels in one hand, a clutch in the other, and nearly into the man himself.
His eyes round and his lips part in obvious appraisal and… approval. “Wow.” The one word is quiet but weighty and lodges straight in my throat. He leans down and kisses me under my ear. His whispered lips mirror whispered words. “Princess, you are stunning.”
One hand slides down my arm, grasping my own. He lifts it to brush a gentle kiss above my knuckles. “Half of me doesn’t want to share you. Half wants to show you off.”
“It would be a shame to go through all this effort and not at least get a glass of wine.” I reach up to smooth his charcoal tie.
“Who am I to argue with wine?” He gives my ass a squeeze as he moves out of the bedroom and down the hall, leaving me to get my shoes on.
