Page 69 of Sin of Love
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After that fucked-up night,we have a stretch of decent days. Better days. Deirdre eats. Showers. Puts on the warm clothes I bought in the village for my “unprepared wife,” and ventures every morning into the living room like a doe toeing her way into a new forest.
She never apologizes for the messed-up things she said to me, about everything being my fault, but I don’t expect her to. I don’t need her to. Because I know she didn’t mean it. I know what it’s like to carry guilt so deep and jagged that you bleed with every thought. So I forgive her.
And really, her lashing out was a gift. She felt safe enough to release some of the pain inside her onto me. That’s no small thing. I can take her abuse if it lessens her anguish, even for a minute. I’d take it all in a heartbeat if I could.
Outside of sleep, we act like an old married couple who’ve had just about every conversation two people can have. In other words, we speak primarily in looks and gestures. More tea? Are you done with your soup? Hand me another log, will you?
We eat meals—oatmeal, sandwiches, lots of soup—in front of the fireplace, as the kitchen table is covered with a giant, 6000-piece puzzle of Giant’s Causeway. The colors are faded and there might be pieces missing, but we get sucked into it for hours at a time. Deirdre especially. She’s ferocious about the task, tossing me dirty looks every time I touch a piece too close to the area she’s working on. I finally tell her I don’t see her name on the pieces. She flips me off, and I hide a smile.
It hurts—an actual, physical pain in my chest—when I think about how this woman who thinks she’s fractured, possibly lost forever, doesn’t know that being broken to your foundation doesn’t change the composition of the cement.
And her cement is the same. Stubborn. Competitive. Curious. Sensitive. Possessive. Clever.
To me, she’s always been her, no matter what mask she thinks she’s wearing. Every day, she gets a little stronger, both physically and mentally. She doesn’t see it happening, but I do. I’ve always seen her.
When she wakes from nightmares, or I hear her sobbing and thrashing in bed or muttering to herself, I remind myself of those small, everyday moments. A roll of her eyes at something I’ve said. An accidental touch that doesn’t make her flinch. A smile bitten back, forced to reveal itself in her eyes.
I will not lose faith.
I will not lose her.
* * *
Weather permitting,in the mornings we bundle up and walk the nearby beach. Despite it being August, my thin California blood needs extra insulation against the fifty-degree air. I’ve grown attached to a wool hat with padded earflaps and matching scarf I bought in the village gift shop. I don’t care if it makes me look like a tourist—I like being warm.
Deirdre looks more ridiculous than I do, swimming in copious layers, but she’s still frail and sometimes, when the wind gusts hard, I have to grab her so she doesn’t fall over.
“God. Dammit. Gideon. Stop. Helping!”
Releasing her sleeve, I lift both hands and take a step back. Even too thin, with dark circles beneath her eyes, she’s stunning in her rage.
“Fine. I’ll let you fall next time. See you at the cottage.”
I walk past her, my boots crunching in the sand, my smile tucked behind my teeth. We’re not that far from the cottage. She’ll make it. And if she doesn’t, I’ll let her stew a bit before coming back for her.
“Why did you come after me!” she yells, the wind whipping the words into my ear.
I don’t stop. We’ve been here before, and I have to piss. Plus, my nose is cold.
“That’s right, asshole! Keep walking and don’t come back!”
The yelling is good for her, like a pressure valve releasing. She’ll eat more tonight. Sleep better.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I slow to pull it out and something slams into my back. Caught completely off guard, I can’t catch myself, and face-plant into the sand.
“Answer the question,” she hisses in my ear.
Spitting out sand, I glare at her from the corner of my eye. “You answer it. Do you think I took out a second mortgage on my house for fun? That I auctioned off every painting in my house for quick cash?”
The last bit isn’t entirely true, though it might as well be. Yes, I sold off every spare painting I had in the house with seven notable exceptions. Although with the turn my life has taken, I’m not sure I’ll see the Seven Sins series again. A bearable prospect as long as Deirdre is here. Those canvases were a poor substitute for the real thing.
“You did what?” she asks, surprise momentarily outweighing anger.
As best as I can with her elbow holding my face to the sand, I narrow my eyes at her. “You do realize I can throw you off me at any time, right?”
Her head cocks, eyes bright and clear, the same color as the icy sky behind her. “Why haven’t you?”
