Page 83 of Ruthless Devotion
I need some space. I can’t do this. I’m sorry. Please don’t follow me.
Thirty-One
Maddie
Seven months later. February 14th, Valentine’s Day.
* * *
We’ve been separated for seven months. I’ve been living in my old house with my mother. I don’t think I’m ever going to heal fully from what happened that night, but every day the sun shines a little brighter and the bird songs are a bit more encouraging. But there’s still this gnawing hole inside me, and I wonder if somehow it’s the separation from Aidan instead of the death of my father. Is this man my fate?
I’ve thought over and over about how fucked up it is that we both lost our fathers violently on the same day of the year, and how possibly neither one of us will ever be able to witness another fireworks display without an accompanying flashback.
Though we haven’t seen each other, letters have been exchanged. And texts. We’ve discussed the details and parameters of our separation, and Aidan has assured me it’s only temporary. That he’ll give me the time I need. But he doesn’t call and he doesn’t visit. And maybe that would render a separation pointless. It’s like he doesn’t trust himself to speak to me or see me. And I don’t trust myself with any of that either.
He refuses to allow a divorce. That’s the Catholic in him. I feel like I should be more angry about it. There just is no divorce in the Church—at least not traditionally. Legally, it doesn’t matter what he thinks about it. I could get an attorney and petition the court and free myself from him at any time. But I know he still watches me, and I feel pretty certain he’d find some way to stop it. It seems unlikely that after two decades he’d walk away now.
He acts as though he’s done this noble thing by “letting me go”, but if I’m still legally bound to him, all he’s done is made my leash longer and just a bit more invisible. Is a cage with invisible bars really all that much better? Do I imagine he’d let me date and just go on with my life? Would I even want to? Could I allow myself to believe that he’d stand in the shadows and let another man touch me when he still believes deep down that I’m his? Nothing seems to penetrate that caveman thinking.
And why do I feel like every man who ever entered my life after this, I’d compare him unfavorably to Aidan? The tattoos, the otherworldly good looks, the intensity, the way he touched me, the way I felt like he’d go scorched earth on anybody who tried to harm me. Do I imagine any other man would look at me the way Aidan did? And even if they did, would it match his endless consistency?
I don’t want to romanticize things I know are wrong, but… he’s been devoted to me for a very long time, and there’s an odd sort of safety in that. Stability. A part of me wants to run back to him. It feels easier, but I don’t know if it’s right.
No I do know. It’s not right. I have to be strong and hold onto that.
The doorbell rings, and I rise from the overstuffed leather chair I was curled up in. I put down the book I can’t seem to get into no matter how hard I try.
“Hello…”, I say as I open the door. I stop short, feeling foolish when I realize there’s no one actually at my door. For a moment I think I hallucinated the doorbell, but then I glance down to find a white box. Gold writing in an elegant script on the top reads Frosted Delights.
Inside is a single cupcake. I know who it’s from. It’s a replica of the cupcakes Aidan brought to our first grade Valentine’s party. I look down at the sugary red heart pressed lightly into the whipped pink frosting, and all the iridescent white sprinkles, like sparkling snowflakes clinging to the top. I’m sure if I bit into it, the cake would be chocolate just like that day.
I notice a red envelope under the box. I pick it up, break the seal, and slip out a handmade valentine, and in spite of everything I have to hold in a laugh. Aidan’s artistic skills haven’t improved much since we were six. Two stick figures holding hands. Lots of gold glitter. There are hearts drawn on the red paper in white crayon. And the message? A little less sweet than when we were children:
* * *
I’ll never give up on us. I’m a very committed stalker. Come home, Maddie.
* * *
And then under that, as though it’s taken every piece of will he possesses, he’s added the word, Please, in a shaky script that looks like he had to wrestle a demon to get that word out of him. It must kill him to have to use the word Please when he’s so used to getting whatever he wants. I imagine running his inherited criminal empire, that word isn’t used a lot by him.
I scan the immediate area until I find him leaning against a black SUV across the street. He’s wearing all black and dark blue mirrored sunglasses. His arms are crossed over his chest, and even though I can’t see his eyes behind the mirrored lenses, I feel the weight of his gaze.
Even though it’s cold out, the sun is bright and at an uncomfortable angle. I cross the street, taking the box with the cupcake and the card with me.
When I reach him, he removes the sunglasses and puts them in is inner jacket pocket. I open the box and pull back the pink and white striped paper cupcake liner.
“Is it drugged?” I ask. That would be one way to get me to come home.
“Of course not. I would never.”
“Prove it.” I break off a piece and offer it to him. There is long, slow searing eye contact between us. I forgot the way his gaze consumed me, and how I was more than happy to be held in such intensity for his languid consumption.
He lets me feed him the cake as though he’s a baby bird, but then he grips my wrist hard and sucks my finger into his mouth to get at the last bits of pink fluffy sweetness. Without breaking eye contact, he breaks off another piece of the cupcake and feeds it to me.
I work hard to keep from moaning as the moist chocolate cake and sugary frosting burst out in full flavor across my tongue.
“Come home.” Aidan says again.
