Page 110 of Hate You More

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I’m not. It’s the truth, even if it is a careless one. I’m just grateful the can didn’t spurt, because that would’ve been a little too telling. Too close to how I feel right now.

“No problem.” It takes some effort to unfurl my fingers. But I’m no creep, copping a cheap feel. And Clara’s not my girl.

She’s my wife, but only on paper.

She steps away, one hand to her hair like she needs to do something with it. Dropping to her heels as she scoops up the can. Two more steps and my bedroom door clicks closed behind her.

I release a breath like it came from a pair of bellows.

In the office, I scan the shelves for that something I said I needed to grab. Might as well make it be small, I think, as I scan the spines on the bookshelf. Steinbeck. Hemingway. Brontë. I almost reach for Joyce’s Dubliners before spotting Plutarch. Essays. Nothing says unsexy like an ancient philosopher.

I flick through the pages as I keep one eye on my bedroom door when a line seems to jump out at me.

Prosperity is no just scale; adversity is the only balance to weigh friends.

To weigh people, I think.

Thoughts begin to slide through my head—the ways in which Clara is both the same as she was back then, but also how she’s changed. She’s in a transitional space right now. Maybe she’ll be different again once she’s through this. Once she has her trust fund.

She appears at the office door, pajamas in hand. Her eyes fall to the book as I snap it shut. She doesn’t pass comment on my choice of reading material. Thank fuck.

“I’ll let you . . .” My words fall awkwardly as I begin to move. This is her space now, I guess.

“I must’ve left my toothbrush in here.”

I nod as we pass, and I find myself wondering if she’s keeping it in here. Does she think I might use it to clean the toilet?

In my bedroom, I give her a minute to come back, but when she doesn’t, I begin to unbutton my shirt. I toe off my shoes, pull at my socks, and because being draped across the bed like some lame lothario isn’t a good look, I hit the bathroom.

“Oh, sorry!” Clara rears back as though she’s caught me butt naked instead of shirtless and brushing my teeth. “I’ll come back in a minute,” she says, tugging at the T-shirt that almost brushes her knees.

I spit and run my tongue over my teeth. “Have at it.” I point at the other sink.

She hesitates, though steps in, and we stand side by side, each doing the dental hygiene thing. The sound of our brushes isn’t the only hum in the air as the space between us seems to crackle. A stolen glance. Then a bolder look. Hers. Mine. Small movements magnified; a shift of weight, a change of angle. I catalog it all. She misses nothing.

I finish first. Bad form, I know. But I don’t move away, instead turning to face her as I lean against the vanity. Her complexion is pink and scrubbed shiny clean, the feline flick of makeup long gone. The gentle wave of her hair brushes her jawline. Despite the size of her T-shirt, in profile, it clings, the pebbles of her hardened nipples tauntingly obvious.

I can’t adequately express what the sight of her does to me. Not physically, because that’s a given. It’s the simplicity that just undoes me. We never got this back then, these small domestic moments. Watching her brew coffee. Eat toast. Brush her teeth. In the dark, feel her. See her stir from sleep under me.

This is wrong, standing here, watching her. Torturing myself at what can’t be. What shouldn’t be for the sake of my sanity. Yet I’m still watching as she finishes up and sets her toothbrush down with deliberate care.

She turns toward me, though still says nothing, her eyes so wide and trusting. This is never going to work, I think as my hand rises anyway. I reach for her slowly, allowing her the time and space to step away. But she doesn’t move as I cup her face, her dark hair falling in wisps over my knuckles. I trace a path across her jaw, lost to the softness and warmth of her. Down the side of her throat, my fingers brush. Down farther still, I scissor the backs of my fingers over her nipple. Lust shoots through me at her sharp inhale.

This is a mistake and it won’t end well.

I banish all reason as I take the weight of her breast in my hand, so full, soft, and luscious. Her eyes swim with lust as I step closer, intent on tasting for myself.

“This is wrong,” she whispers, though she makes no move to stop me. “Reckless.”

“Probably.” Definitely, as I brush my lips across hers. Maybe in apology. Maybe not.

Her head falls back as my hands take stock of her hips. I press a sucking kiss to her jaw, then draw my open mouth down the length of her throat. Everything in me tightens at her stuttering sigh. But I lock that shit down, keep a tight grip on myself. This might be the one chance I have before sanity returns. I’m gonna enjoy it. Draw it out. I’m not rushing the moment that feels like it’s been years in the making.

This ache is different in tenor. Different in taste. And the truth I can’t speak aloud is that I’m done with the past. I want to live in the now. Even if it risks breaking all over again.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” she whispers, half accusation, half plea.