ACKNOWLEDGING you have a problem is the first step to solving it. Pax was right. I do have a crush on my husband. I started this journey because I love him, so it’s not surprising that I’m flattered after everything he’s done for me.
But he’s not ready. He’s still hiding his phone and he still hasn’t apologized for cheating. He hasn’t even brought up why his mistress was at his office yet.
I know Jerrison thought that his help with my pipes would change something. Would soften me. Would make it easier. And that helps to cement my need for caution. If I become too vulnerable, he might slip right back into his old behavior and get away with it.
Rather than let my crush take over, I bludgeon the feeling with a knife. Over the next few days, I push Jerrison away as obviously and as rudely as possible.
The word ‘no’ leaves my lips a lot. Like today, when Jerrison asks me out for breakfast after our obligatory meeting at the boxing ring.
“I’m busy,” I say, dabbing my forehead with a towel.
Disappointment flickers in his gaze as he leans against the ropes. “That’s fine. Maybe some other time then.”
“Maybe,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. “But probably not.” A muscle in his jaw clenches.
“Hey, Harriet.” Brock, one of the trainers, jogs toward me. “Need some help there?”
I accept the hand he offers and duck out of the ring, hopping lightly on my feet. Brock holds my hand for a beat longer than is necessary. I feel
Jerrison’s angry gaze on my back, but I don’t care. He had his fun flaunting his women in front of me. I can hold a man’s hand when he’s being a gentleman. How does that feel?
It feels great to me. And I’ll be the first to admit that has nothing to do with chivalry and everything to do with getting my revenge.
The next day, when Jerrison asks me out again, I turn him down flat. “I’m going out with Brock.”
His eyes nearly bulge out of his head. “What do you mean ‘going out’?”
Is it bad that I delight in his fury? That the taste of his aggravation, his pain, makes me smile inside. Makes the ugly parts of me dance in delight?
“Harriet, is it a business date or a date-date?” “It’s none of your business.”
He steps into my path, a vein protruding in his temple. “You’re not doing this just to make me jealous, are you? Because if you are, it’s working.”
“I don’t care what you think, Jerrison,” I snap. “So don’t assume the world revolves around you.”
He grabs my arm to stop me from leaving. “Do you actually like that guy?”
“What if I do?” I smile when he flinches, but I’m not done feasting on him yet. “You don’t own me nor do you control me. I can do or see or love whoever I want.” My eyebrow arches. “Or does that rule only apply to you?”
I see the moment it lands. Right in the center of his chest. See where it hurts. Where it bleeds.
Still, he scrambles to fight. It bothers him that much. “You can’t just… have lunch with some guy.”
“Why not? It’s a free country. I’m allowed to eat and chat with someone of the opposite sex.”
“That’s a date.”
He had no problem ‘dating’ other women for years. I wonder why it’s so easy to see the damage it can cause now? I step closer to him, my eyes narrowed. “There must be some misunderstanding, Jerrison. I don’t need your permission.”
He scrambles after me when I stalk away. “Harriet. Wait.” Blue eyes shining intently, he blocks my path. “Please… don’t go.”
I resist the urge to give in.
He has to suffer a little more. I’m not full yet.
I’m still hungry for his pain. For his sacrifice. For a sign that he really understands what he’s done to me.
Ripping my hand from his, I smile coldly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Jerrison.”
His shattered look follows me all through the day.
I can barely taste my food when I’m with Brock and I forget all the lines of my pitch. Thankfully, he doesn’t hold it against me and agrees to host a book signing in my bakery. As a boxing legend, he’s sure to bring in a crowd.
Brock walks me out of the restaurant. “Did you know that your husband threatened me today?”
“What?” My eyes bug.
“He told me you were taken and not to get any ideas.” Brock chuckles. “It was quite amusing.”
“I’m so sorry about that.” Horror sets fire to my cheeks.
“Nah, I understand. When you love someone like crazy, you don’t want to share.”
That simple phrase cuts me like a knife. Does Jerrison understand how it feels now? The burning inside. The way the world melts into ashes when you find out what belongs to you really belongs to everyone.
He’s angry.
But is his anger, his discomfort, enough?
I’m still not satisfied. The monster within me rams her fists against my ribs. This revenge is far too bland for her. I never got to slash Jerrison’s tires. Never got to pour gasoline on his clothes. On him. And set them both aflame. Never got to hurt him the way he hurt me.
I started meeting with Doc and chose the high road. I skipped the part where I tore up our wedding pictures and tried to smother him with a pillow at night. I think I deserve to have those moments, at least in a less violent and illegal capacity. For just a little longer, I want to slip into the dark side.
The next day, Jerrison is sulking.
“How was your date with Brock?” He spits out the man’s name like it’s a disease.
“It was amazing,” I force a lovestruck smile and stuff the knife in deeper. “He’s a great guy. You know? The faithful type.”
This time, his eyes shifting away isn’t satisfying. Rather than making me feel triumphant and in control, I just feel stupid. Brock was a business meeting. Nothing more and nothing less. He was absolutely respectful of me-whether that was because of Jerrison’s warning or his own convictions.
I look at myself in the mirror when I get home and I don’t like what I see. Lies and scandal brought me here. To the point of breaking. When someone wants to out a fire, they don’t supply more of what made it burn. I wonder how much deeper into the darkness I can descend before the flames consume me.
The next day, Jerrison doesn’t talk much.
I don’t either. My misery affects everything I do. After so many days of spite, I tire of the games. It’s not good for my soul. It settles nastily on my skin. Acid and bile. Vile things.
I’m tired of churning that bitterness out. It takes energy to be wicked. To think of ways to hurt someone. Hating Jerrison’s behavior is one thing. But becoming what I hate is another.
That night, after I get home, I pass the junk room where my mother’s rocking chair waits in pieces.
Jerrison’s offer rings in my ears.
There are broken things here. And it would be different if he doesn’t want to fix it.
But he does.
He asked for a chance to make it whole again.
I move on the instinct. Grab my phone. Call him up. Jerrison answers on the first ring. “Harriet.”
“I need a favor.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
He’s there in under fifteen, dressed in a simple shirt and jogging pants. There isn’t any perfume on his clothes. No lipstick stains on his chin. No smell of another woman trapped in his skin.
I wonder if he really spent the night alone.
He folds up his sleeves and inspects the chair. “I bought a new toolbox.” “Doc is rubbing off on you.”
“In many ways.” His blue eyes burn with determination. “I want to repair what’s broken, Harriet. I won’t stop until it’s fixed.”
That’s for me.
Those words. That look.
The warning.
I hurry into the kitchen to run from the hope that stirs in me. When I return twenty minutes later, my mother’s chair is in the middle of the room. Jerrison is bent over it, working diligently.
I trace his back muscles as they bend and contract in his T-shirt. Moonlight spills from the tiny window, silver fingers caressing his blonde hair and lean physique. He places the nails in his mouth and inspects the rocker.
I lean my head against the door. Nostalgia steals over me, cradling me as sweetly as my mother did in that rocking chair. It’s hard to remember why I’m angry when he runs his fingers down the wooden spikes. Hard to remember what betrayal feels like when he turns the rocking chair over and gets to work.
“You should have told me about this the day it happened.” Jerrison’s quiet scolding renders me mute.
What can I say to that? We both know why I didn’t call him. We both know, before Doc, he wouldn’t have come.
“You always told me,” Jerrison taps the nail in with a hammer, “how much you loved climbing into your mother’s lap and listening to her sing to you.” His hands go still and his head bows. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could call me to fix it.”
My heart leaps to my throat. Is that the apology I’ve been waiting for? I don’t know. But at least it’s a start.
I wrap my arms around my waist. The silence stretches between us, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s… just different.
For the past few years, whenever my husband and I were in the same room, the windows would shatter from our screaming. Hurtful words flew back and forth like bullets in the middle of a war. There was no reprieve from the bitterness. No refuge we could find. At least, not in each other’s arms.
We were two different people, tethered together by habit and a signature on a legal document. A marriage certificate told us it would be too much hassle to separate his from mine. So, instead of separating, we flung fiery bombs from our mouths. Used our tongues to inflict more pain.
I don’t miss that burn. I don’t miss drowning in my tears at night because I felt worthless and abandoned.
It’s a struggle to reconcile the man who would tenderly fix my mother’s broken rocking chair to the one who made me weep alone.
Can I hold on to this moment? Can I trust that it’s only the beginning in a long line of beautiful moments?
I’m afraid.
The ocean of despair is close enough that I can smell the salt of my tears. Feel the brunt of rejection. I still remember fighting the anger, the pain. The resentment that rose like tentacles to grab my legs no matter how much I fought for freedom.
“Jerrison,” I call his name softly. A whisper on the wind.
He glances up. Eyes as blue as a turquoise sea blaze into me. My heart burns.
I can’t name the feeling. Is it love? Maybe.
I don’t know anymore.
Resting a hand on my chest, I turn away. “I’ll be outside.”
There’s longing in his eyes. I realize that Jerrison’s in a place of limbo too. He doesn’t know. Just like me, he’s not too sure we can make it back. Make it work. Make it stronger than the foundation we set when we knew nothing about marriage.
I pour myself a glass of wine because my head is getting too crowded with thoughts.
He finds me when he’s finished fixing the chair. “It’s getting late. I should hit the road.”
The awkwardness is new. The shuffling hands. The lips that open without sound.
I clear my throat. “Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome.” His gaze falls into me. His hand squeezes my own. “If you need anything, give me a call.”
I know intuitively that he means it. That I can call in the middle of the night or in a business meeting and he’ll be there.
Is this what Doc meant? What those Love Repair ladies have all gone through as their husbands learned to prioritize them?
Jerrison told me that he wants to fix us. He promised he’s committed to the process.
Did he mean it?
I still don’t know.
Jerrison walks to the door. Turns the knob. Pulls it open. My heart follows him. Stumbles behind him like it’s drunk. My feet follow. “Jerrison.”
He stops. Turns around. Looks at me.
I grab onto his shoulder, push on the tips of my toes and plant a kiss on his cheek.
His eyes widen.
Enlarged irises over a blue ocean.
I land flat on my feet and dart into the apartment. “Goodnight.”