be your grandfather’s pet again. And I married you because I wanted to own the woman who no one else could afford to buy.”
I flinch at his characterization. “But I’m not a fool, I know when a woman is wet and when she’s inserted lube before coming to bed. I didn’t complain. I just found a way to take care of my needs without making it your problem. Why can’t you do the same thing?” he hisses.
Guilt pricks my conscience and blood rushes to my cheeks, but I don’t apologize. I’m not sorry, but I didn’t realize he knew.
“I want free of this gilded prison. I want to travel and work and not spend my summers in Monaco. I don’t want to be your spouse, in any sense of the word.”
He pulls the papers out of the inside pocket of his jacket.
He pulls a slim gold lighter out of his pocket and sets the papers on fire.
“Marcel, burning them won’t make this go away. This is a no-fault state. You can’t stop this. It’s over.”
His face mottles red with anger. “Not even when I’m dead. We’re Catholic. We married in a Catholic church. You are my wife for eternity,” he snarls, and throws the burning papers onto my bed, before he storms out.
I grab them and rush to the bathroom, throw them in the sink, and turn the water on to douse the flames.
The smoke makes my smoke detector go off, and I grab a towel to wave the small plume away. The sound stops, but I hear the patter of little feet, as soon as I turn the water off.
“ Y’a quelque chose qui brûle ici ?” (“What’s burning?”) Martinez peeks around the frame of my bathroom door. For the last two years, he’s only spoken French. He goes to the French school here and is fully immersed in it. I don’t mind, because it makes them very easy to tell apart. Unlike Remi and me, they are identical.
“C’était un accident, chéri,” (It was an accident) I tell him, guiding him out of the smoke stink of the bathroom. I shut the door and then stoop to put myself face to face with him. He looks so much like my brothers, but he has his father’s sky-blue eyes. Right now, they’re heavy and groggy with sleep.
I run a hand over his mop of curls and smile indulgently at him. My heart is still racing from Marcel’s fire and brimstone routine, but just having my hands on my son helps me calm down. “Tu es toujours fatigué?” (Are you still tired?)
“Non, mama,” he says, and then gives a huge yawn.
I laugh and scoop him up. “Allez viens. Retournons dormir.” (Come on let’s go back to sleep). I plop him onto the bed and pull the comforter off, when I see the spot when he’d thrown the paper. I grab a blanket from the leather bench at the foot of my bed and cover him with it, command the lights off and lay down with my soft, sweet smelling reason for everything tucked by my side. When his breathing evens out and I’m sure he’s asleep, I get out of bed and grab my phone and go back to the bathroom to call Stone.
Unlike the wild, consuming love affair we had on that island, our daily phone calls, while treasured, are distinctly dissatisfying.
By tacit agreement, we talk about everything but us or how we feel. Instead, we talk about work, our families, life, politics, anything, but the huge elephant in the room. With so much left unsaid, there’s an undercurrent of frustrated tension in every conversation.
But still, there’s no one else I’d rather talk to. And I know he feels the same way. As if to prove me right, my phone buzzes with a text before I can dial his number.
Are you awake?
Yes. I
My heart skips a beat, and a smile breaks across my face when my phone starts to ring almost immediately.
“You okay? How’d it go?” He sounds like he’s holding his breath.
“Yes, I’m fine. It’s fine. He was mad, but it’s done,” I say, with a small burst of excitement.
He lets out a harsh breath. “I wish I could get away.” Half of the doctors on his team are out sick with some norovirus, and Stone is working double shifts.
“Stone, don't worry. The hard part is done. And I’m fine.”
“You know the more you say that, the less I believe you, right?”