Page 58 of The Sound in Silence

I’m confused because I was wrong,I think.

Erico tilts his head and gestures for me to come around the desk, but I remain firm where I am. “You’re confused because you assumed something else, correct? Something that had you storming in here, dripping water everywhere and soaking my carpet. What was it?”

Fuck. I hadn’t considered how to handle this part. Hadn’t figured out how to handle being wrong.

I wander closer. Not sure why. I tell myself it’s so I can soak a larger area of his carpet.

With his phone in hand, I type another message:

I wasn’t sure. You came home in the middle of the night for the past few days. You shower right away. I assumed.

“You were awake?” Then he shakes his head and reaches for me. His large hand binds my wrists, and with a quick jerk, I’m standing in front of him, my hips against the edge of his desk. Water drips from me onto his pants, which he ignores. “When I come home, I shower right away because of the environment and people I’m around. A lot of exhaust from the engines, people smoking all sorts of shit, and not exactly the cleanest areas of the city. I wash it all off before I get into bed.”

That makes sense and now, I’m a greater idiot.

“The late timing is because it’s a few hours to the city, but I return because I want to.” His hand tightens around my wrist. “What was it you were assuming, wife? What, in that lovely head of yours, did you think I was doing?”

I don’t want to say. He could get mad.

When I don’t respond, Erico drops my wrist and with both hands, cups my waist, dragging me over his lap instead. A small squeak comes from me, as my legs naturally hug his hips until I’m in a crouching position over him. My bikini wets his clothing, and droplets from my hair slide down my back and onto his hands. Our chests are inches apart, the tense air we’re each breathing, the same.

Holy shit.

Erico takes the phone between two fingers and reangles my hand until it’s between us as he repeats, “What were you assuming?”

He’s going to hate this, but I type:

I thought you were cheating. That you had a mistress.

Erico flinches the second he reads my message, but his expression remains impassive and without anger. His eyes shut, and he inhales deeply, before focusing on me again. He speaks in a low, measured tone. “I understand why you’d think that, but that’s not me. I won’t do that to you, I promise.”

Empty words? I guess time will tell. I’d like to believe him this instance, but time changes shit. Personalities shift. Promises break. Villains emerge.

He strokes a hand down my back, fiddling with the ends of my soaked hair. “I’ll admit, I’m now disappointed in myself.”

With my nail, I find the place right over his heart and draw a question mark, hoping he catches my action and understands the question. It shouldn’t be so easy to touch him, but I suppose, when one imagines this man beneath them late at night, dreams and hopes become vivid.

“Because I don’t know how tobea husband, Ariella. I vowed not to create the kind of marriage my parents have, but as I spent more and more time with my father…well,” he shrugs, his crooked grin making him seem years younger, “I understood the appeal. But then you fucking ran head-first into my life and shit changed.Ichanged. What I desired changed.”

With his phone, I type:

But you didn’t want a wife. You don’t want me.

“Yes to the first, no to the second. I didn’t want a wife, you’re right. What I told you in Nico’s office was supposed to be the truth, but every day with you is making it impossible to stick to that plan because Iwant you. You intrigue me and you have since the moment we met. I’m sorry I didn’t give you that impression. Like I said, my own ideals shattered with our marriage and I’ve been determined to fight against that change. But then there’s times, I can’t help myself. Watching you preform the piano every day for the hour I permit myself when I have other tasks I should be doing doesn’t matter. Or sharing every meal with you. Working from home rather than the clubs. Living here rather than my condo. I’mtrying, Ariella, but I need you to teach me how to be who you need.”

Oh.What happens when an airplane crashes into a brick wall?

The wall doesn’t make it.

Yeah.

Chip, chip, chip goes some of the bricks that make up my wall.

Am I good enough then? Has the little voice been wrong this entire time?

Impossible. That voice has always kept me safe.

I write to him:

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