Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,491

it comes to work. He messaged me. He reached out to me. I can’t explain why it makes my cracked heart splinter even deeper. Maybe I wish he’d just be cruel and not try or not care. It hurts so much more to think that he’s trying.

I’ve learned over the years not to expect him to message me or call, not to worry. To trust him and to look for a message in the morning. He always messaged in the morning. I’ve always thought it was cute how he’d text me to tell me good morning, even if he was only just then getting into bed.

But it’s 2 a.m. in London, and my phone’s lit on the desk with a message from him.

I was finally getting some work done. Focusing and managing to write up some feedback and create a marketing tactic for a client. Half of me doesn’t want to answer him. I don’t want to look and go back into the black hole of self-pity. But I can’t resist.

My hands inch toward it, the need to see what he has to say overriding the anger and the sadness. The need to be wanted by him and to feel loved winning out over my dignity.

I hate it when you’re mad at me.

I stare at his message, feeling my heart squeeze tight. My fingers hesitate over the keys as I read it again and again. Before I can respond, another message comes through.

Forgive me.

And that’s the crux of the situation.

Forgive you for what exactly? I message him back without even thinking. Whatever he’s hiding is bad, I know it is. I can feel it deep down in my core. Whatever he’s done is enough to ruin us.

But we were already ruined. In my gut, I can feel it. We’ve grown apart. We’re different people now. We don’t belong together. We never did really.

I have to get up and move. Even if it’s just to walk through the house. I’m only in a baggy shirt and a pair of socks. I wore the shirt to sleep last night and I should really shower and get dressed. It’s a rule I’ve had since I started working from home.

I dress as if I’m going into the office. Well, I used to. Right now I just don’t have the energy.

Evan sends two texts, one right after the other as I walk to the kitchen.

We can work through this.

I love you.

I only glance at them before putting the phone down on the counter and heading straight to the fridge for the wine.

There’s only half a glass left in the dark red bottle, but it’ll have to do.

I glance at the clock as I sip it. It’s after 9 p.m. I’ve barely slept, barely worked and I’m still in my pajamas from last night. But at least I’m drinking from a clean glass.

It only takes one sip before I just ask him what’s on my mind.

I just don’t understand why you won’t tell me what you did.

Won’t tell you what? he texts back and it pisses me off.

“Does he think I’m stupid?” I mutter beneath my breath as my blood boils. The anger is only an ounce stronger than the pain.

Don’t treat me like this. I text him back, feeling weak. I’m practically begging him. I deserve better.

I down the wine after sending the last line. I don’t know exactly what it is I deserve. Him telling me the truth. Him confiding in me. Or a better husband altogether.

As I grip the neck of the last bottle of red wine on the rack and bring it back to the kitchen, I realize this is how women feel when they stay in these marriages.

They’d rather be told a sweet little lie and believe it, than face the truth.

Right now, it’s exactly what I want. Just lie to me. Tell me there’s nothing that happened. That it’s blown out of proportion. That it was just a kiss. Yes, that one. That last one. I could forgive it, but better yet, I could believe it.

The barstool legs scratch on the floor as I scoot it under my butt and sit down to uncork the new bottle.

I just want him to come home. Tell me everything is fine and make up something that’s easy to forgive.

A bottle of wine and a refilled glass in front of me, I go back to the beginning. Back to when I was stronger and I actually had self-respect.

Back when I knew better.

The memory and