Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 595(@200wpm)___ 476(@250wpm)___ 397(@300wpm)
Despite slowly but surely carving out a new life for myself on this beautiful island, I’m lonely. I miss Sophie. I worry about the boys. And yes, despite everything, I even miss Angelo. I’m less isolated when he’s present. Sometimes, I swear I smell citrus and cedar in the house when I’m alone. I’m less scared when his large frame fills a seat in the kitchen. I’m less cold when he holds me in his arms on the rare nights he stays over, but I feel a little more lost every time he leaves. The hole that’s opened inside me isn’t getting smaller. As the days move on, it only grows bigger.
I battle to get to the bottom of this feeling that something is amiss when I’m trying so hard to remain positive and joyful. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to admit what I’ve been suspecting for a while now. When I’m busy to the point of collapsing during the day, I don’t have to think about it. But when I lie alone in my bed at night, I can’t deny the terrible truth any longer.
I have feelings for my husband. I fell for a monster who doesn’t deserve those feelings. It happened a long time ago, and my stupid heart refuses to let go. Every time I see a glimpse of the kindness hiding under the dark layers of his soul, I long for that man I first met, the one who gave me a kitten.
But it’s also time to be honest with myself. Angelo isn’t going to change. If I let him, he’ll hurt me again and again. He’s proven that on countless occasions. It’s time to let go, to cut him out of my heart. I spilled enough tears for him. There’s only one snag. If our love is like poison, our hate is like honey. I’m addicted to him in every way. The bond that ties us isn’t love. It’s hate, and hate forges the strongest bonds. I can no longer imagine a life without him. Not even the suffering of hatred is enough to cure me of my dependency on this man who’s half dark angel and half demon.
On Saturday morning, I’m surprised when the SUV turns up at the house. I watch through the window as Angelo and Heidi get out. Then he opens the back door, and my heart skips a beat when the kids jump to the ground.
I go outside to greet them, overcome with excitement. I didn’t expect Angelo to make an effort for me, but when I take in Sophie’s sullen face, I realize the effort isn’t for me but for her.
Angelo and Heidi carry the groceries they brought to the kitchen while the boys kick a new ball around outside. Sophie barely says hello before going to her room. I linger in the lounge, suppressing the urge to go after her in lieu of giving her space.
Angelo exits the kitchen with a dozen red roses arranged in a waterless vase that he puts on the coffee table. “For you.”
I take in the perfect blooms with their burgundy petals. “Me? Why?”
“Don’t you like roses?”
“I love them.” I search his face. “What did I do to deserve such a pretty bouquet?”
“You don’t need to do anything. You always deserve beautiful flowers.”
The statement catches me off guard. The compliment is so out of place that it makes me uncomfortable. Lowering my gaze, I say, “I’ll go put them in water before they wilt.”
“No,” he says quickly, his tone stopping me. “They don’t need water. They’re forever roses. They’re treated with chemicals that prevent them from dying.”
The notion is both miraculous and sad. The idea of transforming them to last forever seems to go against the cycle of nature. There’s profound beauty in impermanence. The short-lived peak of a flower’s blossoming makes it all the more precious. Knowing it doesn’t last makes us appreciate it more. We’re all like flowers, following an inescapable cycle of birth and death.
“I thought it’s a novel idea,” he says. “The petals won’t turn brown and eventually drop off.”
I think about the graveyard and the faded, disintegrating roses on the graves. My heart softens with compassion. “Thank you.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and replies in a quiet voice, “You’re welcome.” A deep line cuts between his eyebrows when he looks toward the stairs.
My chest tightens with concern. “What’s going on?”
He crosses the floor, opens the door, and tilts his head toward the veranda. I go outside and stop in a sunny spot from where I can see the boys playing in the yard. He closes the door and walks to my side.
Tension flows between us, but neither of us mentions the elephant in the room, namely how he walked out with no excuses or regrets after stomping on my dream and denying me the most important opportunity of my life. I stopped trying to fix things that can’t be mended. More importantly, this isn’t about us. This is about Sophie.