Page 37 of False Start
“Huh? What?” he asks half unconscious.
“Why are you in my bed?”
He looks around the room. “Ah. You were drunk. I stayed in case you were sick.”
“Remind me why you were at Leslie’s again?”
He moves his arm, rolls over to his back, and sighs. “I’ll just go. I don’t want to fight with you, Z.” And then he’s leaving the bed. Who is he and what has he done with my ex husband? Since when has Bryant ever given up so easily?
“What’s your deal?” I ask.
He sits on the side of the bed and rubs his face. “I don’t have a deal.”
“You totally have a deal,” I argue. “You’re pouting.”
“I’m a grown man. I don’t fucking pout.” He stands up and stretches his tall, muscular body, and I almost orgasm on the spot.
“Did you come over for a booty call?”
“No, Zhanna. I came over to check on you because I haven’t heard a word since you left work at lunch. I was worried. I also wanted to apologize for putting my house’s redesign in your lap.” He throws on his shirt and then sits back down to put on his shoes. And then the man walks out of my room and front door, slamming it shut behind him.
The front door opens again almost immediately. Bryant is standing in the door frame a few seconds later. “I hate the kitchen you designed, not because it’s unappealing, but because it’s not the French Country kitchen you’ve always wanted. As soon as I looked at the house, I knew the kitchen was perfect for what you wanted. A big place for the family to gather over food, wine, and hot cocoa. You designed a beautiful kitchen last night, but it’s not what I had in mind.”
“It’s not my house nor is it my kitchen,” I reply, and the sudden urge to vomit hits me like a train. “Oh, God.” And then I run into the master bath and heave. Bryant comes in behind me and turns on the water in the sink. When I’m done, I sit back on my heels while he presses a cold rag to my face.
“You drank too much last night, babe.”
“I was trying to forget.”
“Forget what?”
I push his hand away and pick myself off the floor. “Falling in love with you.”
I leave him in the bathroom and head for the kitchen. I need food on my stomach if I’m going to stave off nausea.
“You don’t mean it,” he says as he comes to stand behind me at the refrigerator. “I fucked up. I own it. I’ll never regret anything more than cheating on you. No matter how it shakes out between us, I’ll never regret being someone you used to love.”
I’m not immune to him. That’s the problem though. He’s always held the power to hurt me like no other. I’m not unaffected by his words. They pull at my heartstrings and make me want to lean back into his chest so he’ll wrap his arms around me like he used to anytime I was near. They make me want French country kitchens, food, cocoa, wine, and the family it comes with.
He isn’t someone I used to love. I still love him very much. And that’s the thing about love, it doesn’t give a damn how much it hurts when you’re betrayed, the love just doesn’t fade with the presence of pain. Love hurts, but it shouldn’t, and it didn’t always. His love used to be the most comforting warmth I’ve felt since my dad died. Bryant has never just been my lover, he’s always been my best friend, too. So in one fell swoop, I lost both. And I’m angry and bitter about it. How does my husband, my best friend, and my lover commit the ultimate sin when he’s supposed to love me?
“I ask myself everyday what I did to deserve it. For the life of me, I can’t figure it out.”
He wraps his arms around my waist as he leans down and tucks his face into the side of my neck. “Zhanna, baby, it had nothing to do with you. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re the best wife a man can ask for.”
It’s hard to reconcile his past actions with his current words. How can I be such a great wife if he let his guard down enough with another woman to be intimate with her? I know his words are meant to ease my pain, but they sting.
“Let me make you breakfast and my hangover cure,” he says, and my ears perk up. Bryant’s hangover cure actually works, so I’m not turning it down. But I do slip from his grasp and have a seat at the bar while I watch him work. To be such a big guy, he moves like a gazelle.
He throws bacon in a frying pan before he whips up a batch of eggs for us. “Mind throwing toast in?”
“Not at all.”
I busy myself with the toaster and listen to his deep hum. His voice is one of my favorite sounds in the world. An overwhelming sadness settles over me as I realize how much I miss this small thing about him. Really, I miss much more if I’m honest. I sniffle and excuse myself to the bathroom before I become a blubbering fool in front of him. Inside the master bath, I count to twenty several times as I attempt to rein in my emotions.
A knock comes at the door. “Zhanna? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I lie. “Just felt queasy again. I’ll be out in a minute.”
