When Brandon drops me into a chair in the living room and bends to remove the glass from my feet, the chairwoman and several of the servants have rushed down to see what the cause of the noise is. He yells for one of the maids to bring a first aid box, and for another to bring a glass of brandy which he forces down my throat before attending to my cuts.
The chairwoman scoots over to my side to hold my hand while he administers treatment to the cuts. I try to hold back my tears but more fall as he washes the cuts gently with soap and water. By the time he covers the wounds with a band-aid, I am down to hiccups. Ignoring my protests and the chairwoman’s confused look, he lifts me in his hands, and up to his room, leaving everyone wondering what just happened.
Placing me gently in his bed, Brandon gets into bed with me and gathers me into his hands. “I’m so sorry, Natalie.” He says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
I don’t know if he is apologizing for the cuts or for his actions earlier, but I find myself drifting off to sleep in his arms. I close my eyes and reach for the peace that sleep offers.
The sun is shining brightly through the windows when I open my eyes the next morning. My face registers surprise at the sight of it. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always woken up before dawn. I pick up my phone to check what time it is. 10:43. Yep, certainly unlike me.
While I am still wondering what’s happening, the door opens and a maid comes in carrying a breakfast tray. On it is a cup of coffee, some milk, pancakes, syrup, some bacon, and some leftover chocolate cake. Behind her is Brandon. I keep my gaze on the maid as she settles the tray on Brandon’s bedside table and scurries out of the room.
After she leaves, I shift to the edge of the bed and swing my feet down. Forgetting about yesterday’s injuries, I rise to my feet with the intention of heading towards the bathroom. Immediately, a sharp pain shoots up my legs and I let out a small scream. With only a few strides, Brandon is at my side to steady me and help me sit back down. I try to shrug his hands off my arm but he maintains a steady grip.
“Where the hell are you going?” He asks.
I ignore him and try to get up again but he immediately sweeps me off my feet and lifts me in his arms..
“Put me down, Brandon!” I say sharply but he doesn’t budge.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom. Now, put me down!”
Without a word, he carries me into the bathroom, drops me on the toilet seat, and walks back out the door. “Call out to me when you’re done.” He says before stepping out.
Of course, I do not call out to him when I am done. I grit my teeth in pain and walk out to find Brandon waiting at the door.
“What exactly is your problem, Natalie?” He asks in an exasperated tone when he sees me coming out on my own.
I ignore him and straighten my back as I walk towards the bed. I wipe the painful expression off my face because I do not want to give him the impression that I am weak. Truth is, Brandon has no right to be asking what my problem is. He is the one who went unexplainably crazy last night. If anyone should be asking that question here, it is I.
For whatever reason, Brandon doesn’t try to lift me off my feet again. I manage to get to his bed without letting the pain I feel inside show on my face. He sits on the black sofa that was slowly becoming my favorite furniture in this room before I moved out and runs a hand through his hair before speaking.
“I’m sorry for last night.” He says.
I remain quiet and pick up my phone from the bedside table, but he doesn’t leave the matter. “I’m sorry for the way that I acted last night, Natalie.” He says again, and I simply nod before returning my focus to my phone.
“Look, I’m trying, okay? And at some point, you’re going to have to start talking to me.”
“I’m not going to have to do anything,” I say in a clipped tone. I’m going to have to start talking to him? I don’t have to say anything to him if I don’t want to. Brandon is a crazy man. Hard and uncaring this minute, angry for no reason the next, and unnecessarily calm and caring later. I can do without the back and forth, honestly. I don’t even want to be in his face. I just want to go about my business while he goes about his.
“Look, I was drunk last night, and I acted in a way that I shouldn’t have, and that’s why I’m apologizing.” He tries for calmness again.
“I hear you,” I say before reaching for the switch at the side of his bed that he pushed the very first day he brought me in here after that embarrassing fainting episode at Giancarlo. A maid rushes in almost immediately.
“Hello, Sara,” I say with a smile on my face. “Could you please help me to my room? I think the dressing on my feet needs to be changed. I heal better with air.”
“Sure, Mrs Martinez.” She says before coming to my side to help me stand.
“Leave her,” Brandon says to her and she stops in her tracks. “I’ll do it.”
“I don’t need your help. I’m certain that Sarah and I can handle a few cuts just fine, and….”
“I said I’ll do it, Natalie!” His voice booms, and I find myself going suddenly quiet. There it is again: the crazy in the man. Sarah leaves the room quietly. Brandon leaves the room too and returns with a first aid kit in his hands. He crouches at the edge of the bed and with more gentleness than I expected, takes off the band-aids on the cuts- there are about six altogether on both feet but only two are really deep. As Brandon attends to my wounds, I find myself looking at him with mixed feelings.
I wonder what exactly goes on in this man’s mind. What the chairwoman told me on our wedding night filters back into my mind. Brandon is a hard man. He had a rough childhood, and that sort of shaped him into the man that he is now, but what goes on in that mind of his? Why is he unable to stick to a single emotion?
When he finally puts down my leg and rises, I chance a look at his face. He looks tired. Just tired. I’m tired too. I don’t want any more back and forth, so I start to get up so I can go to my room. He is at my side again ready to lift me off my feet. “You don’t have to carry me,” I say. “I can actually walk. It hurts, but putting a little pressure on my feet is my best shot at healing.”
He nods and puts down his hands but remains at my side. When he notices that I’m heading towards the door, he stops and asks, “Where are you going?”
“To my room” I respond. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that a look of disappointment flashed across his face at my response, but it is gone so fast that I tell myself I must have imagined it. His face suddenly takes on a blank expression. He places his hands in his pockets and stands back quietly while I leave.