Free UnRaveled by K. Bromberg Page A

wait for the questions, the inkling that he knows what happened—guilt screaming loud like my own personal tell-tale heart.
    “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I should have told work to go to Hell. I should be there with you, taking care of you.” I can hear the regret, the evidence that he’s beating himself up over choosing his career over us. My God, I can’t imagine what he’d be like if he really knew what happened.
    “Ander—”
    “Lil …” He blows out a long breath. “We need to … we’ll talk when you get home, okay? Text me your flight info when you change it and … get some rest, okay?”
    “Mmm-hmm.”
    “Love you.”
    “Love you too.”
    The line disconnects but I hold the phone to my ear for I don’t know how long, my decision warring against my rationality. And the only thing that breaks the endless spiral of guilt is when the words float through my mind like a distant memory.
    Ora sei libero.
    I can hear his voice say them, feel his breath heat my lips, but can’t remember anything else he said. I lower the phone from my ear and type the words in. My hands shake and I misspell them a few times but finally Google gives me the answer I am looking for.
    I blink my eyes a couple of times and shake my head in what has to be misunderstanding of the words, their meaning.
    You are now free.

C hapter E ight
    “What’s brought all of this on?” The look of confusion on Anderson’s face worries me. Is he going to tell me no? Again? Reject me and my even-keeled plea?
    You are now free.
    I hiccup back the guilt—a heavy presence wanting to tell the truth—and lower my eyes to stare at my hands fiddling in my lap. Thoughts flash through my mind of earlier. The relief I felt seeing Anderson at the airport. The unfettered love that coursed through me when he wrapped his arms around me. The calm that came over me mixed with the feeling of safety, comfort, acceptance, loyalty with just the smell of his cologne and security of his arms. How I cried like a baby in the middle of the terminal as he held me, whispering reassurances to calm the outpouring of emotions he didn’t understand.
    Driving home. Rapid-fire chat about what the other has been doing. And I tell him everything … everything but what I want to tell him the most. Apologies from him. How he screwed up, should have told work to take a hike, and put me first, put us first. How he’s thought about his priorities and where he’s gone wrong. How being all alone for a week—with nothing but your own thoughts—will do that to you.
    I accept his apologies and then make my own—for the same reasons and for ones he’ll never have a clue about. The tears fall. Hope renews and murmured promises are made for the changes that need to be made.
    And then we come home to a lonely house. My boys won’t be back from my mom’s for another day. Panic becomes hysteria; the thoughts I had those first few minutes after I woke up blindfolded flood back with a vengeance. I start to ramble, tell Anderson we need to get the boys now. Right now. I need to see them, kiss them, inhale their little boy scent as I hold them tight.
    I begin to cry. Think of what I could have lost. Anderson calms me down, tells me travel arrangements are already made for tomorrow and too late to cancel. That we need to enjoy the one night we have together for our anniversary. Make the most of it. Start proving everything we just said to each other in the car.
    I calm myself and stare at him for a moment before taking a deep breath to say what it feels has taken me a lifetime to confess. I ask that he doesn’t speak until I finish. I tell him I love him more than anything. I express to him that in losing the us that we once were, we also lost that spark in the bedroom. The want to please the other, the desire to be spontaneous, try new things, step outside of the box.
    He nods his head at me, granting my request for silence as I gather my last thoughts together. The feelings