my lips, drinking in front of the man with an addiction problem. We both have vices. His is alcohol; mine is his torturous love. They’re both hurtful and detrimental for our health, but neither of us have the willpower to win.
I fell in love with the lies, marrying the pain.
He’s divorced to the truth, addicted to acrimony.
We cheated love, lusting after aspiration.
There’s no savior for our damnation, no hope for our salvation, and no justice for our actions.
“You’re right,” he huffs, pausing feet in front of me. “My dick definitely needs a companion tonight. Such a shame your pussy doesn’t do it for me anymore.” He turns and strolls out of the kitchen, leaving me with the largest fist inside my chest, beating against my heart, hoping to make it live once more.
As soon as he enters our bedroom to get dressed, I hiccup, feeling the tears springing free. Crying is so hideous. Especially on me.
My body shakes as the pent-up turmoil overflows through my eyes. I sob and sob, and he doesn’t come out to check on me. It’s not like he’s unused to my fits. After a heady fight, destructive words that dig deep, and jabs that are meant to destroy, I break down. Usually, I try to wait for him to leave, but this goddamn wine broke the little barrier I gained.
My walls fall as I admit how fucked-up we are. We stay. Why the hell do we stay? He could leave. I could leave. Or maybe we can’t?
Dad set our marriage in stone. We could have walked away. Sex doesn’t mean everything. And while we have some of the most passionate fuck fests, even while screwed up, it’s not enough to sustain a marriage. I fell hard and fast for this man, and what did he do? Belittle me, push me away, and make me want to die.
Great marriage material, sure.
When he comes out of the room, he takes one look at me, his eyes on mine for an entire five seconds before he turns. He can pretend, but the wrinkle in his brow and grimace on his face show how much he cares, even if he doesn’t realize it. He hides behind his asshole persona because the Toby I hurt is the one who refuses to come out.
“I love you,” I barely whisper. He stops at the door, halting entirely. His fingers dig into the frame, whitening his knuckles as he restrains himself. Instead of turning and coming to me, kissing me, loving me... he opens the door and practically runs away.
Where did we go wrong, Tobias?
Did I fail us?
There’s no more fixing to be done, is there?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Past
Joey
“Why is he like this?” The words tumble out of me. The breath I held in hopes to give me courage finally escapes. It’s loud and exhausted, much like me.
“He’s been hurt so much,” Frankie mutters. He grips his wine glass. Emotions clouds his normally forgiving eyes; it’s bitterness and degradation at its finest. “He fell in love.”
“With Loren,” I add. Jealousy gives me nothing but depression, but her name brings it by the ton. “He says her name sometimes when he’s tossing and turning and has had too much to drink.”
“We were young once.” He tips the liquid back, taking a large gulp. Francis isn’t one to overindulge. Unlike my husband, he drinks for the palette chaser, not for the aphrodisiac qualities. “He met Lo at random, but the change in him was immediate.”
I nod, unknowing where this is going.
“He wasn’t my best friend back then,” he explains. “Jase was.” Bitterness seeps from those two words like licking baking soda. “He changed almost overnight, Toby did.”
He readjusts, forcing me to do the same. This air between us is stiff as it is every time we talk about anything serious. Francis has a way of storytelling that makes you uncomfortable. Unlike people who love telling stories and flourish on parts that aren’t pretty, Frankie gives it to you straight, no sugar, no chaser, just the bitter truth.
“Even I could see the change in him. Lo brought out a side that was carefree, much like you do.”
Our eyes meet.
Storm and amber.
Two very damaged people.
In this, we’re one. Twins of a long-lost hope where love exists and doesn’t hurt.
“What made her special?” The distasteful way my words leave me has us both cringing. While I’m mature in many ways, this is one thing where my inner bitch just can’t shut up.