Free Mind F*ck by Kimber S. Dawn Page B

time, I’ll launder your sheets this afternoon.” She’s already started plucking the ends of the fitted sheets off the mattress corners and started pulling pillows out of their cases by the time I drag myself from my bed.
    “Dammit, Mary,” I whine on my way to the bathroom. “And leave the damn sheets, I’ll put them in the washing machine. Just let me shower.”
    I know I’m as weak as her, but she has a reason, I don’t. She’s pregnant, and I’m not.
    And until I have reason, I won’t allow Liam to see how tired I am. How exhausted I am. And how much worse he’s making it.
    He’s never home. If it was bad before I lost my daughter, it’s a hundred times worse, now. I don’t know why I folded so quick and said yes when he asked for the Manhattan apartment. It seemed logical. Necessary. At least, at the time it did.
    All it’s done is widen the gap between us.
    All it’s done is taken our fractured marriage and completely, wholly, decimated it.
    And now, it’s not just my marriage at risk, but me, if that makes any sense. I’m at risk of losing myself, somehow.
    I tether myself to Mary when she’s here, and Liam when he is, but when I’m alone, it’s not good. The depression. The feeling of nothingness, bleakness. It’s dark.
    And it’s so damn foreboding, like the end is near. Which is absurd, because there is no end. Not in this shitty story.
    When I come out of the shower, the cold air hitting my hot skin sends chill bumps scattering across it, and I inhale a deep cool breath.
    “Baby girl, you’re still so beautiful. You know it?” My eyes shoot up and see his in the bathroom mirror’s reflection. “After all that you’ve been through, you’re still just as beautiful. If not more.” His husky voice makes my breath catch in my throat. I didn’t think he would be home today, he usually doesn’t come home until Sunday.
    “Shit, Liam. I didn’t hear you come in.” I duck my head to keep from having to look him in the eyes and make my way to my closet. I need clothes. I need something to do with my hands. Get dressed. I’ll get dressed.
    “I took the day off.” His voice follows me as he does to my closet. “Actually, I took off the rest of the week. So, today, tomorrow, and the next day. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. I’m fucking rambling. Pardon.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender and smirks.
    He smirks, and he looks just like he did when we were kids and everything was simple and easy. When everything was perfect.
    “Sorry, baby girl. Please—” he nods towards me, “—finish dressing. I’ll be downstairs.”
    He chuckles when he turns and leaves, and it’s almost endearing enough to distract me. Almost.
    I’m flustered by the time I’ve pulled on some leggings and thrown an oversized sweatshirt on. I quickly braid my damp hair into a bun on top of my head and pull on some fuzzy socks, then make my way downstairs. All the while, trying to piece together all the different possible scenarios leading to my husband being home on a Wednesday afternoon and off for the rest of the week.
    I have come to learn that people don’t change. And if anything seems too good to be true, nine times out of ten…it is.
    When I make it into the main sitting room, I pause when I see him pouring a tumbler of Scotch and glance at the clock.
    But my glance isn’t quick enough, when I look back to where he’s standing his attention is on me, instead of his glass.
    “I called and spoke to your doctor today. We had a nice little chat.” His dark blue eyes soften their glacial glare, and his boyish smile shows off the laugh lines around his eyes. I feel my foolish heart flutter.
    Stupid, stupid heart.
    “Did you know you could travel? I discussed it with your doctor, and you’re cleared to travel. You have been since one week after…” His words carry off and a frown furrows his brows.
    And my silly heart warms towards him even more. I keep forgetting that I used to love him before