Marriage is hard work.

Through the good times and the bad.

It takes compromise.

And forgiveness.

 

BECK

I have to regroup after that. Have to find my bearing. He pulls me out of the shower and drags my sopping tank and bra off before he wraps a towel around me. He peels off his socks and shirt and drops them into the hamper with mine. I watch his hands work the button on his jeans. The hard bulge trapped inside is painfully obvious. My mouth waters as I catch a glimpse of paler skin and fine hair that leads deeper into the thick material as he walks past me and out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of water in his wake.

Here I am trying to disgust him, trying to change his stubborn ass mind, and he’s blowing mine. With his fingers and his mouth, oh God, did he. More than that. It’s the other stuff. Not just the sexy stuff. It’s the patience he’s managed to have though he’s been grinding his teeth in his sleep because he’s so on edge. It’s how considerate he was while he tactfully manhandled me into realizing being a slob isn’t going to win me this war. It’s the fact that he refuses to walk away.

I don’t know a lot of men like that. I’ve known cheaters, like Liv’s fiancé who we found in bed with his secretary that weekend we ran off to Vegas. Chauvinists who think women are secondary humans, like my mother’s third husband. Assholes who assume the whole world revolves around them. Players. Control freaks. Momma’s boys. Psychopaths. It’s enough to put a woman off even trying to find a good man. Or it should be. Not that I have that problem. I know better. Finding a happy ever after is like winning the national lottery. Better to save my time and money and dignity.

Which is why Nox washing my hair and taking care of me in the shower shouldn’t have felt so nice. It shouldn’t have made me relax. It shouldn’t have made me warm everywhere he touched me and turned me on in a way straight up flirting never has.

He leaves me alone in the bathroom for a couple of minutes. When he comes back he’s changed into dry clothes. He holds out an armful of my things. “Didn’t know what you’d want.”

“Thank you.” I take them all from him. Watch him close the door while my pulse takes intermission, and my stomach throws up on itself like an Aerosmith groupie. Why can’t I ignore the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, these stupid tremors I feel inside when he gets close?

It doesn’t matter. It’s not the real problem here. The real issue is Nox didn’t seem at all affected by plan A to get him to sign divorce papers. He was supposed to be repelled. I pull on my panties and bra, latch the clasp before I pluck a dress from the bundle of clothing. I’m not the neatest person, living my nomadic lifestyle. Packing and unpacking suitcases and never doing my own dishes, but I went to a lot of effort in the hopes of achieving that result.

I pull the dress over my head, tug up the side zip. Even I have a limit, and I crossed that on day two of not showering. I curl a strand of hair up under my nose and sniff the clean scent of it. At least I don’t smell like a mosh pit anymore. He should have been irritated. Why wasn’t he? What will it take to make him crack?

Leaving the bathroom, I wander into the bedroom with the rest of the clothes in my arms. He’s stripped the bed. In the background the washing machine is whirring gently. Dumping my pile on top of the chest of drawers, I walk out to the kitchen. Hollander is crouched over his bowl, chewing loudly. He glances at me for a second before going back to his food. Is it possible for a cat to look at you with disappointment? Because that’s exactly what it feels like.

There’s a bottle of bubbly white wine sitting on the counter. The kind that’s pretending to be champagne but can never hope to live up to the reputation. Kind of like me right now. I thought I was immune to romantic gestures. I’m the girl who gags when her friends gush about boys. The one who always sees the fault lines in relationships before anyone else notices. I know the goddamn science. I’m known as that girl; the one who thinks all romantic connection is a crock of shit. But it’s like my ability to recall facts and statistics goes out the window around Nox. I’m running on emotion when I should be using my head.

Leaning over the kitchen island, I pick up the bottle of faux champagne, tear off the foil wrapping, and wriggle the cork out of the neck. I pour wine into a glass, while outside, aggressive rock music starts. Real headbanging stuff. Maybe I did get to him after all. A little. Somehow I don’t think it’s enough. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been so nice to me. He would have reacted differently, wouldn’t he?

I drop onto the couch, wine slapping the side of the glass and dribbling over my hand. I lick it off my fingers and set the glass down while I reach for my laptop. Hollander jumps up on the back of the couch by my shoulder, and then leaps onto the cushion beside me, where he twists around a few times before settling. I sink a hand into his tabby coat, and he starts to purr. But I’ve already broken two of my ‘never ever will I’s’ when it comes to Nox. I can’t add a third. I drag my hand from his fur and focus on pulling up that Anti-Cupid list of ways to push a man away. Time for a refresher before this situation gets out of control.

I have to work out how to push him to his breaking point. Even if it’s wrong. Even if I have the same buzz on my skin that I get when I hear a sad song. There’s too much on the line and not enough time. I have six weeks to get his signature. Twelve weeks to finalize the end of this marriage. If my luck can hold that long. I can’t give up. How far am I willing to go?

Putting down my screwdriver on the new coffee table I assembled, I rub my clammy palms over my shorts. I’ve spent the whole afternoon putting together flat pack furniture with a screwdriver, terrible instructions, and some ingenuity. I take a deep breath and chew on my lip, and then kick the leg of the coffee table and wait for it to clatter into a pile of broken pieces. It doesn’t. And I only had to call Dash twice. The last time I tried to put together furniture my brother had to come to the rescue. I can disassemble a song down to its parts and build a thriving blog, but when it comes to real life building projects I’m hopeless. Yet, nothing I’ve put together so far has come crashing down. It’s kind of cool. I might even be a little chuffed if I was building furniture because I wanted to and not in the hopes of making Nox lose his cool.

It took me a couple days to come up with this plan. One that is going to work. The cabin now looks like the armoire from Beauty and the Beast yacked its ruffles and frills everywhere. So ugly. It’s a hodgepodge of shiny white surfaces, Nox’s old furniture, and bright, almost neon lace and linen. A two-year-old with a box of crayons could have done a better job at decorating. At least it’s not permanent.

It’s not. As soon as Nox sees this he’s going to agree that there’s no way we could make this marriage work. We’re too different. He’s small town, all work no play, home is where the heart is. And I’m a nomad with no heart. I have to be. Besides, I’m only trying to do us both a favor.

The door to the cabin opens, and I jump. Oh God, here we go. I turn around slowly as his footsteps move closer. At first he doesn’t notice anything, his focus on the phone in his hand. He scowls at the device, his brows pulled heavily together.

“I thought we might...” His gaze meets mine and then darts around the room behind me. His eyes widen, his nostrils flare. He drops his hands to his side, forgetting about whatever he was doing with his phone. The muscles at the base of his jaw turn to stone. “What the hell have you done?”

I tremble under his stare, my pulse racing. This is going to work. It has to. I slide a smile onto my face, force it as I take a step in his direction. “Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” he echoes, his tone incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

I push the corners of my mouth up higher. My cheek muscles hurt from this stupid faux grin. “Is that a yes? I wanted to turn your bachelor pad into something that suits both of us. Now that we’re living together as husband and wife I thought it was only fair that I had a say in how our home was decorated.”

“You did this for us? Babe, it’s...” He looks like he’s about to choke or have a heart attack. “Where’s my furniture?”

“In storage,” I say as sweetly as I can muster.

“Holy shit.” Spinning around he marches to the fridge, pulls out a beer and twists the lid off. It’s not a screw cap, but he makes it work. He tips the bottle up and drains most of it in one hit, slamming it down on the kitchen island. “You took my furniture without asking me?”

“Yes. I assumed it would be okay.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I squeeze my hands together in front of me. “I made a few changes. But you still have your couches. And your bed.”

“Wait.” He glances at the bedroom, his hand coming up, palm out. He strides toward the open door, stops on the threshold and mutters, “Fuck.”

“What do you think?”

“You should have damn well said something, Beck. Instead of springing this on me. You could have asked. You can’t take everything a guy has and do whatever you want with it.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well, you fucking nailed it,” he growls, stalking back to the kitchen to finish his beer. “Where’s my furniture? The stuff in storage?”

“Somewhere safe,” I tell him.

He stares at me long and hard. The bottle in his hand clinks against the countertop as he puts it down. His throat tenses and releases, a vein under his jaw popping to the surface. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Not until you sign the papers. If you want your bachelor pad back the way you like it, your life back the way you like it, then all you have to do...” I face him across the island and slide the envelope in his direction, “...is give me my freedom. Otherwise, it’s not too much for you to let me have a say in how we live.” 

Something dangerous glints in his gaze. It makes me shiver. He’s furious. Absolutely livid. Beyond what I expected him to be. He picks up his keys and his phone and marches to the door. “I have to go.”

“Where?” I ask.

“Don’t know.” He yanks the door open and walks through it. “Need some time alone.”

I jump as the door slams shut behind him. The cabin grows quiet. I’d almost prefer it if he’d stayed and voiced his displeasure, if he’d yelled at me or called me a drama queen again. But this is better, right? Leaving has to mean he’s considering signing the papers. And that’s a good thing because I need him to give up. Bad things happen when I get close to people. Worse things than a little furniture rearranging. I can’t be that foolish again.

A loud cracking noise fills the quiet, and then a thud and a bang. Something rolls across the floor. Turning around, I find a pile of broken Ikea where my coffee table was ten minutes ago.

Relationships. Furniture. I’m not good with either of them.

Nox left several hours ago, and I’ve been sitting on his couch staring at my broken coffee table. And not because Hollander decided to make himself at home on my lap. He’s a huge cat. The size of a medium dog or a dwarf lion if such a thing exists. Massive. So heavy. He pinned me down and forced me to stroke his plush fur by headbutting my hand. But I’m also trying to work out what I’m supposed to do now. Pack my bags for when he comes back? Go searching for him?

I dig a spoon into the peanut butter and pop it into my mouth while I cradle the phone to my ear. “Nox only has crunchy peanut butter.”

“Tell me you aren’t eating it off the spoon,” Liv says.

“Um.” I stare at the spoon still half covered in peanut butter. “Okay. I am not eating crunchy peanut butter off the spoon.”

“You so are.” Liv’s probably wrinkling her nose like something smells bad right about now.

I drop the spoon back in the jar. “Well there’s no chocolate anywhere in this cabin.”

“What happened?” She sighs.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me nothing. I know you too well. The only time you say nothing is when there’s definitely something on your mind.”

“Fine.” I roll my gaze to the ceiling and let out a huff. “We got into a heated discussion about my redecorating his cabin. He was livid because I didn’t talk to him about it beforehand. And now he’s gone, and I have no idea where, or whether to worry about him or not. Or if I should pack my bag for when he comes back. I have no experience with this. What does it mean when they walk out like that?”

“He probably needed a breather. Are you worried he’s going to tell you he’s done?”

“No. Of course not.” That’s exactly what I want. It’s why I spent the afternoon moving and putting together furniture. Only I’m not as happy about the idea of breaking up with him as I should be.

“You like him, don’t you?” Liv asks.

“N-no,” I tell her. “I don’t. He’s a nice guy, but I’m not going to... you know.”

“You really do like him then.”

“Hormones, Liv.” I snap my fingers. “Chemicals. Pheromones. Reproduction. All markers of attraction.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.” She chuckles. “Go find the guy. Kiss and make up. I promise it will be worth it. Makeup sex is some of the best sex you can have.”

“I don’t want to kiss and make up, Liv. And I don’t want to have makeup sex. I want a divorce.” She keeps saying match-makey things, pushing the idea of me and Nox like it’s part of her agenda. “This thing you imagine is between me and him, isn’t. There’s nothing here but frustration and a waste of time.”

“Right. Which is why it’s neck and neck with the longest relationship you’ve ever had. Do you realize it’s the third longest relationship anyone in your family has had since your great grandma?”

“Only one of those three made it to two years,” I remind her.

“Because of the curse?”

“No.” Yes. Maybe. Curses aren’t any more real than karma, but that’s not completely comforting. There are plenty of examples of karma biting people in the butt. Even if they’re purely anecdotal. I touch the top of my head gingerly. I have the scars to prove it.

“I don’t blame you for believing in it, Beck. Not after what happened with Dash’s wife. What happened to you. It’s not every day people get hit by a truck like that. But it’s circumstantial. It’s not real.”

“I know that,” I whisper, rubbing my hand over my heart. I have to clear my throat to force the words past the heaviness in my chest. “I do know that.” Only it feels so real. All my life I’ve listened to my grandmother and my mother talk about the McClain curse like it’s a living breathing entity. The logical part of my brain knows it’s not real, like it knows that scientifically love is an amalgamation of chemicals that could be replicated without ever having to go down the path of boy meets girl, girl loses boy. Loses herself.

“You have to stop using it as an excuse to keep from getting close to people.”

“That’s not why...”

“You have to let it go at some point. You gotta get back up and carry on. I hate to tell you, Beck, but I don’t think you made a mistake with this guy. I think you married him and didn’t do anything about it for so long for a reason. Maybe that’s because you felt something for him, or maybe that’s because deep down you could tell he was a fighter. And you need that. You need someone who will fight for you and with you.”

“He’s not fighting with me,” I tell her. “He walked out. Hours ago.”

“You turned his world upside down without even warning him,” she says. “You’re pushing him as hard as you can, Beck. Maybe cut him some slack for walking out and giving you both time to regroup.”

I glance around the living space, which definitely was homier before I vandalized it. Part of me wants her to be right. Nox makes me want things that I didn’t believe I’d ever want. Like a permanent address, and someone to share my evenings with. Things I’ve been too scared to imagine having. But with Nox they’re almost normal. I could get used to them. But what happens when it ends? “I need to go find him.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“I don’t.” If it was me I’d probably be at a bar somewhere with Liv. That’s what we were doing in Vegas. Drowning our shitty week with booze. “I might have an idea where to start. I need to call an Uber.”

Twenty minutes later, I lean over the bar at Mayhem and yell to Lou over the noise of the band, “Have you seen Nox?”

She doesn’t smile as she narrows her gaze on me and points at the far corner of the room. I twist around, catching sight of him. He’s at a table with two other men. One is the guy he was with the day we ran into each other again. The other I don’t know, but when he looks up and catches me staring, he has the same blue eyes as Nox. Brothers. That makes three brothers. And Lou? I glance at her and bet my last days of freedom that she’s his sister. And evidently, she knows how badly I’ve behaved, which is why she’s not as friendly as she was the first time we met.

The one who caught my eye bumps Nox with his elbow and leans in to say something. My pulse kicks up and my mouth dries out. Nox slouches back in his chair, one arm resting on the back as he focuses on me. All three sets of blue eyes stare at me, but his are more piercing, forceful in the way they hold my gaze. My hands are clammy and shaking as though I’m under a spotlight. He might still want to strangle me. “I need a drink.”

“Sure thing,” Lou says while the two men get up and move to the other end of the bar.

“Something strong.”

“I’ve got the perfect thing.” She selects a glass and shovels ice cubes into it while my attention drifts back to Nox. He’s waiting for me.