His shoulders shrug. “Well, do you?”
My heart rate picks up a notch at his accusation. “Of course not.”
“Then what was that back there?”
I straighten my back, readying myself for this argument. “That was a wife sticking up for her husband in front of his deadbeat father. It was disgusting the way he spoke to you in there.”
“And yet this is the first time you have ever had my back. You always side with my father. Why now? Why the sudden change? I don’t get it.”
His eyes search mine, awaiting the answers he seeks, but my tongue is stuck in my mouth. What could I possibly say? How do I explain this sudden and complete change in me these past few days? How does one even conjure up a reasoning behind said one-eighty change?
As Craig pulls up to our house, I’m still speechless. Eli swiftly lets himself out and scurries up the stairs towards our house.
Ourhouse.
My eyes scan the tall, modern home with its huge windows, and I’m trying my hardest to feel some sort of recognition that goes back further than the morning I woke up in that hotel room, vomiting my guts out.
Still nothing.
Water forms in my eyes, but I will it down as I step out of the car and timidly thank Craig. He offers a sympathetic smile, but I do not wish for his sympathy. I wish to have my husband back.
My husband, who has the most confident outward appearance seems broken. He was brought up by the most vile-mouthed father, who treats his son like crap, only to get married to a female version of him. Did he realize this when he married me? Was I as disgusting of a girlfriend to him as I am as a wife? Did he marry me anyway with the ungodly thought that I was the best he could ever get?
Sadness consumes me as I make my way into the hallway, trying my hardest to catch up to Eli. I shout his name when I see him about to run up the stairs. He halts, his posture rigid again. I may not have the answers he seeks, but I certainly have questions of my own.
“Why do you let him talk to you like that?”
His hand grips tightly onto the handrail before he turns around to peer down at me from the steps. “You want me to answer your question, but you can’t answer mine.”
My eyes flit around the room, my hands clenching the cardigan in my hand. “I don’t know how to answer,” I reply honestly. “Maybe, I just woke up one morning and realized I’m a terrible wife and want to somehow make it up to you before it’s too late.”
Eli remains quiet for a moment. “This is coming from the woman who only two weeks ago, in her drug-fueled haze, admitted that her status and career were at the top of her priority list. That being married to me only aided her quest for super stardom.”
My stomach twists in knots. I really said that?
Before I can even form possible words to answer him, he says, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day and I have to get up very early in the morning.”
My mouth opens to say something, but what can I say to make this better? How does one explain that the woman he speaks of isn’t really like that? How do I explain that I want him, that my heart beats for him, just like any wife’s should? I’ve poisoned his mind so much that it’s no wonder he doesn’t trust me.
I watch as his frame disappears up the stairs and then an excitable nose nibbles and licks at my ankles, demanding attention. Tears in my eyes, I bend down to pet the furry little scamp, smiling to know that at least I have one male in this household who seems to love me—whether that’s deserved or not.
“You’re such a good boy.” I stroke his silky fur as he licks my face.
I wonder into the living room, furball following closely beside me. My eyes scan the vast, empty room, eventually landing on the steps that lead up to the door. My feet move, taking each step one by one until I’m at the door and push it open. The room is dark, but the city lights of LA illuminate it through the huge bay window, the same city lights which ricochet off painting after painting inside what I realize is a studio. Most of the paintings are of me, but some are of beautiful landscapes, forest, mountains, trees, lakeside spots which make me want to jump into the paintings. All of them are quite beautiful, but the ones of me are soulless. My eyes seem void of anything human.
Tears threaten again. I assume these paintings were all done by me, the selfish, despicable supermodel who her fans adore—apart from her husband. The husband who doesn’t feature at all in any of her paintings.
I turn a light on and pick up a pencil, walking up to an easel with a blank page. I close my eyes, willing my mind to blank before Eli appears. If I can paint as well as this, then I need to paint Eli. I have to show him the importance he has in my life.
I open my eyes and let the pencil do its thing, but instead of an outline of a face, I draw what I can only describe as a watermelon.
I laugh out loud at the distorted shape in front of me. “I can’t draw for toffee.” I know in my heart of hearts I can’t draw, and yet, the proof otherwise is filling up this room.
My eyes scan all the paintings, but again recognition is completely vacant. This is supposed to scream me, but what is it that screams Eli? Who is the man underneath the hard shell he wears? And how is it I don’t even know?