Page 24 of The Butcher's Wife
By the time the morning came around, I had a plan.
I dragged myself out of bed just as the sun was beginning to rise. In the en suite bathroom, I showered, and like I have every day this week, set a timer for thirty minutes and cried my heart out—big, ugly sobs with tears and snot running down my face as I let all my grief, my guilt, and my longing for my sister pour out and spiral down the drain.
When the thirty-minute timer went off, and I felt like thehuman equivalent of an open, pulsating wound, I washed myself and stepped out. I braided my hair into two boxer braids, applied the perfect amount of makeup that a man would never notice, and sat down on the rower Dom has in a pocket corner, perfectly placed in front of the guest room’s door.
I can’t tell if he’s up, but I haven’t heard anything from his room yet, so I’m sure he’s still in bed. Thankfully, the rower isn’t electronic, so I grab the handles and start rowing. After a few minutes, my heart’s pounding and my legs are fatigued, but I keep at it. I’m at my lowest weight since high school. I’ve slept like shit over the past few weeks, and I haven’t exercised in as long. These are basically the worst possible conditions to start an intense cardio workout, but I grit my teeth and keep going.
I want to make Dom see me.
After fifteen minutes of heaving over the rowing machine, his shadow finally floats under the door. I tap into an unknown energy reserve. With each stroke, my thoughts get louder and louder.
What does he expect me to do all day?
He can’t just leave me by myself like this.
I am his wife.
Dom swings the door open and steps through. His gaze snaps to mine, and my world freezes for a split second. I track the sight of his muscular thighs filling out his jeans and a black button-up that exposes a shiny gold chain buried in his dark chest hair. The fur-trim coat he wore on our wedding day adds another thick layer of bulk to his already considerable frame. His dark hair, laced with silvery greys, hangs loose and damp around his face. I’m thankful I’m already on the rower, or I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands.
“Dom,” I say breathlessly. I don’t know if it’s because of the sight of him or the exercise.
Instead of answering, he gives me a look of mild disgust that spears an arrow into my heart before he starts toward the stairs next to me.
“I need to ask you something,” I blurt out.
Dom doesn’t turn toward me, doesn’t acknowledge me in any way except to stop in his tracks.
“What do you want for Thanksgiving dinner? It’s next week.” I’m grasping for straws. I already know exactly what he likes—he loads his plate with the same heaping servings of calorie-dense foods every year.
Just his profile is visible, and he looks annoyed.
“I don’t need you to make anything,” he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep.
“Well. Iwantto make something. For us.” I hesitate. “And I’ll need money. To buy groceries.”
He places his left hand on the banister, and if I weren’t paying so close attention to his movements, I would’ve missed it. The flash of a gold wedding ring on his left hand, with a band thicker than Dad’s wedding ring. He bought a new one.
The rower’s handle slips from my sweaty palms, cracking against the machine. Dom snaps his head toward the sound, and his gaze lands on me.
His eyes flickdown. He takes in the sight of me, sweaty, in my black leggings and sports bra, my chest rising and falling with each deep breath.
For a moment, a hopeful balloon swells in my chest. I’m able to fake confidence as I pick up my hand towel off the ground, and with Dom’s eyes glued to my every movement, I run it over my face, to the back of my neck, and down to thespace between my breasts. I leave it over the top of the machine, and his gaze flicks to the folded fabric.
The tendons in his hand flex as he squeezes the banister, his wedding ring winking at me again.
I lift from the machine fluidly, silently thanking Mom for always keeping us in ballet, and take a step toward him.
Without taking his eyes off me, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his leather wallet. He passes me a black credit card.
“Spend whatever you want,” he says.
I take the card and look up at him, my lips parting.
“What do you want?” I ask in a low voice. “Is there anything I can do for you before you leave for work?”
His expression is stoic, but his voice is crushed gravel when he asks, “Like what?”
I swallow. A man like Dom would appreciate the direct approach.
