As I stepped out of the shower, I heard Jackson’s truck pull into the driveway. I slid into a pair of pajama shorts and a tank top before opening the bathroom door. I knew I had to face him regardless of how mad he made me. And I wasn’t even in the mood to argue anymore. I just wanted to relax and read a book.
I grabbed the latest paperback I had picked up at the half-price bookstore and headed into the kitchen to check on the soup I started earlier just as Jackson strolled into the kitchen. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye but wasn’t ready to make eye contact. I felt him draw closer to me, and my body tensed as I continued to stir the chicken and vegetables.
“Hey.” His deep voice rumbled against my shoulder as he wrapped his arms around my waist. The scent of mint filled my senses, and I was more than a little surprised by the absence of whiskey on his breath.
“Hey,” I repeated, trying to keep my heart rate even, irritated with myself for being nervous at his closeness. He was my husband. This should be the most natural and comfortable thing in the world to me. But it wasn’t. And it hadn’t been for a long time.
“Are you still mad at me?” he asked, his voice low.
“I don’t want to talk about it, not right now,” I admitted.
I wasn’t in the mood to fight. I didn’t have the energy for it. Besides, if he didn’t believe Duane was coming after us, I couldn’t force it. And I wouldn’t allow him to call me stupid or even make me feel that way for thinking it. Not again. So I would just worry about protecting myself. I wouldn’t depend on him to do it, not anymore.
“Okay good.” He let out a loud sigh and squeezed my sides before pulling away.
I released my own exhale as he drifted farther away from me.
“Do you want some soup?” I wanted to keep things as normal as possible without bringing up the elephant in the room. Besides, I was thankful he was sober at the moment. Shocked, but thankful.
“Yeah, thanks.” He sat down at the kitchen table while I scooped us each a bowl.
Sadness washed over me when I sat down across from him. Things had changed so much. I was sitting at dinner with my husband for the first time in ages, and he was actually sober. But I couldn’t think of anything to say. Part of me felt like I was having dinner with a stranger and not the man I’d been with since I was a kid.
I tried not to stare at his face, his appearance such a contrast from the boy I fell for all those years ago. Alcohol had taken a toll on him in a short amount of time. He looked closer to forty than he did his late twenties. And he was so thin. He’d always been tall and lanky, but this was just skinny. He used to have lean but muscular arms and a strong jawline. That had been replaced by a bony frame and sunken cheeks. He was almost unrecognizable.
“What?” He glared at me over his glass of tea.
“Nothing,” I lied and attempted to focus my attention on the bowl of soup in front of me, but I’d suddenly lost my appetite.
I stood, grabbed my bowl, and carried it to the sink. I was sure that my facial expressions would tell him exactly what I was thinking, and I didn’t want the argument right now.
“Something,” he spat, his voice changing in an instant.
“Nothing, Jackson. I’m just tired,” I lied again, rinsing my bowl before placing it in the dishwasher.
“Whatever, Rach. You suck at lying.” He chuckled before walking out of the room, leaving his food on the table.
I ignored his comment and cleaned the kitchen in silence before grabbing my book from the counter and debating on where to read. I decided to lounge on the sofa, hoping we could coexist in comfortable silence for the rest of the night.
“What the fuck is that on your leg?” His eyebrows were crinkled together, and his lips pursed tight.
“Um…it’s a tattoo.” My attempt to hide my sarcasm went completely out the window as it spewed from my lips.
“I can fucking see that.”
I bit my lip to keep from opening my mouth.
“When did you get it?” He stood from his chair and stalked closer to me. I crossed my arms defensively, feeling the overwhelming urge to protect myself. From my husband.
“A few days ago.” My voice was low, and I hated that I felt nervous about this stupid conversation.
“So you’re just going out and getting tattoos now? Must have been your fucking sister’s idea.” The way he spoke of her caused anger to run through my veins.
“It was, actually. She got one, too. And I like it.” I cut my eyes at him as I sat on the sofa, holding my paperback close to me.
“She’s probably the one who convinced you not to come home too, I bet.” Snarling at me, his eyes studied the ink on my flesh.
“Actually, you do a pretty good job of that.” I shook my head and opened my book to the page the bookmark held in place.
“Don’t fucking get smart with me, Rachel.” He leaned down, his hot breath in my face.
I stared at the man in front of me. “Who are you?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he growled, his lips awkwardly close to mine.
“It means you’re not the same person anymore. And I don’t like who you’ve become. This guy’s an asshole.” My nerves were shot as I leaped to my feet and brushed past him, completely done with our conversation.
The old Jackson would have fought for me, fought for us. But this Jackson let his true colors shine through as I glanced over my shoulder. He pulled a flask from the side of his chair and stared at me while he twisted the cap loose.
Our eyes locked as he put it to his lips and began to chug whatever liquor he kept it filled with.
Disgusted.
I was absolutely disgusted, and I didn’t care that it was written all over my face. I smirked and shook my head at him before retreating to the bedroom we shared…hoping like hell he didn’t follow me. But the truth was, I knew he wouldn’t. He had everything he wanted in the palm of his hand. That’s all that mattered to him.
Fucking asshole.