Faithless

Mark

She has her appointment today. My heart has been racing all morning.

I have a plan. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.

When I walk into the kitchen, she’s standing near the stove staring down at a pan of pancakes, a spatula in her other hand.

Ah, she’s making Maddy her favorite breakfast to entice her to wake up earlier. Maddy has been having trouble waking up and going to school. It’s a battle I hear between her and Whitney. Whitney practically begs her to get up and get dressed.

About a week ago, she started bribing her with pancakes topped with strawberries and whipped cream. Maddy is far too old to have her mother making her an elaborate breakfast on a school day, but this is what Whitney does.

She takes care of us all, even when it borders on coddling, because this is the type of person she is.

She’s everything I was taught a woman should be—all of my antiquated fantasies embodied in one person—kind, sweet, self-sacrificing, and as warm and loving as an angel.

To everyone in the family except me, that is.

When I walk to where she stands at the counter, she turns to me, looking startled. I haven’t approached her since the day she made her little announcement.

I’ve been biding my time. Planning my attack.

Her eyes are wary, maybe even a little fearful, and I can’t blame her. She’s seen my vindictive side. It’s a sign of how truly fed up she must be with me if she’s willing to face it now.

“Can we talk?” I ask, and I’m pleasantly surprised at the lightness in my voice. I don’t sound like a maniac who’s spent the last week wondering if I could lock my wife up somewhere—where she’s safe and cared for, of course—without my children finding out about it.

That wary look fades a little, and she nods. “I just need five more minutes while I finish making these.” She gestures over to the pancakes.

I nod. “I’ll be in my office.”

Just as I turn and start walking away, I’m halted by the sound of her voice. “No.”

My brow furrows as I turn to her.

She crosses her arms over her chest. “In my office.” She swallows, her eyes lowering to the tile floor. “Knitting room, I mean.”

Ah, she wants to have home field advantage.

Her wariness tells me she thinks I’m going to give her shit, because that’s the level of bastard I’ve been to her over the years. Even changing the location of our talk seems like something I would hassle her about.

Under different circumstances, I probably would, but I might as well start now—however small—in showing her I will do absolutely anything to keep her.

She belongs to me, and even though I can’t forgive her, a deep primal part of me can never let her go.

She’s mine.

My love for her has always been dark and twisted like this—even before it became hate-love—but it’s never waned.

I only nod before turning around and walking to her knitting room. As soon as I open the door, my chest squeezes. That scent. It’s her.

Will that change if she’s gone? I don’t think I can bear it.

I won’t have to, because she’s not going anywhere.

I don’t have to wait long before her pattering footsteps sound on the wood floor of the hallway. She moves with grace, my wife, and you can even hear it. I noticed it the night I met her. It was yet another sign that she was an angel from heaven.

She looks like one when she enters the room. The morning sunlight turning her golden brown eyes molten. Am I getting maudlin? Is the thought of losing her making me crazy? How does she look as beautiful as she did when I met her over twenty-three years ago?

Belatedly, I realize that the slightly wary look on her face means she’s waiting for me to get to the point.

I take a deep breath. “I want you to tell me what you want.”

Her brow knits. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, tell me what you want. Anything. Do you want me to stop seeing other women? Done. Do you want the right to search through my phone and emails just to make sure that I’m not bullshitting you? Done.”

The knit in her brow stays in place—two twin creases that weren’t there twenty-three years ago. When did they get there? Probably sometime in her thirties, though she’s gotten Botox over the years, and it’s made it hard to track her age on her skin. She’s changed her hair too, more times than I can count. She’s always changing—shape-shifting—especially after I grew detached from her. I’ve never been able to pin her down.

“Mark, I don’t want any of that.”

Her answer startles me, and I take a moment to recall what she’s talking about. As soon as I do, that familiar rage flares—the one that always makes me feel so good. I have to take a deep breath to keep from lashing out.

“What about if, on top of all that, I also throw in a remodel on our Tahoe house? Better yet, what if I bought you another house? We could get something in Hawaii, maybe.”

She stares at me for a full five seconds—her eyes widening in what looks like horror—but then she bursts into laughter.

I grit my teeth as she chuckles, trying yet again to get my temper under control. It never takes much with her, and I need to change that if I have a prayer of making her change her mind.

“Throw in,” she says, her voice strained from laughter. “Is this a bribe?”

My jaw clenches. “I guess so. I’ll give you whatever you want. Just name it.”

Her smile fades, her eyes growing hard. “I want a divorce.”

That determined set of her jaw and the way she stares at me without blinking. It’s so unlike her. And suddenly, it feels like sharp fingernails are clawing all over my skin. My throat squeezes like a vise.

This is different. She’s changed.

“Anything,” I choke out. “I can answer to you from now on. You’re in charge. And you can do absolutely anything you want with our money.”

The only reason I kept monetary decisions away from her was because I wanted her to depend on me. Because I didn’t want her to leave.

Oh God, I’m a bastard.

Now I’m paying for it.

An expression washes over her face that looks like compassion. “Mark, I know it’s scary. I’m scared too—”

“Then don’t do it.”

She sighs. “I have to.”

It’s the finality in her tone that gets me. Moisture gathers in my eyes, and it makes me frantic. I want to walk out of here, but that will end this conversation, and I can’t do that. I need to convince her.

But she ends it for me. “Is that all?” she asks, one foot already outside of the door and on the wooden floor of the hallway.

My throat is so tight, I can’t speak without showing her how close I am to tears.

She walks out and shuts the door softly, and those gentle, angelic steps sound on the wood floor, slowly fading away.