My Husband Lost My Jealousy novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Say You Mind

Desmond comes to her desk at night and kisses her to provoke a reaction, gets nothing, and learns she once threw plates and now only says he used to be sorry.

That night I was at the desk in the spare room, inking a cover for a children's book about a fox who loses his scarf.

Desmond knocked once and came in without waiting.

He had taken off his jacket and his tie, and his sleeves were pushed to his elbows.

"You're still up," he said.

"I have a deadline."

"It's eleven."

"The fox needs his scarf by Friday."

He didn't laugh.

He crossed the room and stood behind my chair, close enough that I could smell the cedar soap he used.

I kept the brush moving.

"My mother says you're being very sensible," he said.

"She told me the same."

"Do you like it?"

"Like what?"

"Being sensible."

I dipped the brush and wiped it on the edge of the jar.

"It's better than the alternative."

"Is it?"

His voice had gone low and rough.

I turned my head and looked up at him.

There was a smear of black ink on my knuckle, and he looked at it and then at my face.

"You have it on your jaw too," he said.

He reached down and rubbed the mark with his thumb.

It was a small, ordinary thing, a man cleaning ink off a woman's chin.

His thumb stayed on my skin after the ink was gone.

I did not move away.

Neither did he.

I noticed that his hand was not steady, that there was a faint tremor in it, and that his breathing had changed.

I decided he was tired.

"Say you mind," he said.

"Mind what?"

"Friday night. Her in the car. Me. Any of it."

"Desmond, I don't mind."

"You do."

"I don't."

"Then why won't you look at me when you say it?"

I was looking right at him.

I put the brush down and said it clearly.

"I'm not angry. I've decided to be fine, and I am."

He took his thumb off my jaw and wrapped his fingers around my wrist.

It was not hard.

But my whole arm went cold and stiff all the way to the shoulder, and I could not make it stop.

I had held Selene's wrist like that on a staircase three years ago.

Desmond felt it and let go at once.

He stood there looking at his own hand.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No."

"You flinched."

"I was startled."

"You never flinch."

"Desmond," I said, "what do you want?"

He didn't answer.

He took hold of the arm of my chair and turned me to face him, and then he bent and kissed me.

It was hard and angry and it tasted of whiskey.

I let him.

I thought about the fox.

I thought about whether I had enough black ink to finish the cover, and about the three steps from my chair to the door, and I felt nothing at all.

My hands stayed in my lap.

My mouth stayed still under his.

I was waiting, as I had waited for everything for three years, for it to be over.

He felt it.

I could tell the exact moment he felt it, because his mouth stopped.

He pulled back.

His eyes searched my face for something, and whatever he was looking for wasn't there.

"Katja."

"Yes?"

"Say something."

"It's a good cover," I said. "I think he finds the scarf."

He gave a short breath that was almost a laugh.

Then he straightened and took a step back, and then another.

He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

"You used to throw things," he said.

"I did."

"Plates. A lamp. You threw a whole bowl of soup at me once, and I stood there and let you."

"I remember."

"I hated it." He said it quietly. "I thought if you'd just stop, I'd be fine."

I picked up the brush.

"And now I've stopped."

"Yes."

"Congratulations," I said.

He looked at the floor.

When he looked up again, his face was raw.

"What did I do to you?" he asked.

I thought about the hospital bed and the blue handwriting on the page, and about his mother's soft voice in the kitchen.

I thought about what he did not know.

I could have told him all of it right then.

But a man who had been told what to think for three years would believe his mother before he believed me.

So I said the other true thing.

"You used to be sorry."

That landed, and he didn't hide it.

He stood in the doorway for one more moment, and then he went down the hall, and I heard the guest room door close.

I sat there until the ink dried on the brush.

My jaw was warm where his thumb had been.

That, I decided, was the cedar soap.

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