Maybe that was the problem.
Nothing was good enough for her. Words could hold the feelings they’re meant to convey, but it was the truth of them I needed to knock her over with. A man of action, not words.
That’s character. That's who I am.
She was an understanding woman, but sometimes I wanted to see the look on her face, to see her grow speechless, and then only be able to nod when I asked her if she had heard me.
I trailed kisses along the side of her face, not wanting to wake her up, but needing to touch her.
“Brando?”
I should’ve known. “Yeah, baby.” I kissed her some more, and she turned her face, offering me her warm mouth.
“I was having a good dream,” she muttered after I released her, her voice laced with sleep and softness.
“Tell me.”
“You were next to me. We were married. And happy.”
I grinned. “That’s reality.”
“Oh, good.” A lazy smile stretched across her face. “I just wanted to double check.”
“You didn’t mention sex.”
She laughed, raspy and thick. “Better than ever.”
“More than ever.”
“That, too.” She moved closer to me, making a sound of deep contentment, and then sighed.
“Go back to sleep,” I said. “You have a long day tomorrow.”
“What about you?”
“I’m good.”
“Me, too,” she said, kissing me once more before she fell back asleep.
Sleep was lost on me. And I refused to stare up at the ceiling, at her, at the snow, hoping to have a breakthrough before morning.
Slipping out of our bed, I sat on the edge of it for a moment, head hanging low, running my hands through the wild strands of my hair. The cold puckered my skin, but it didn’t touch me enough to make me find a shirt.
So quiet in the thick wool socks she had knitted for me, I didn’t even wake her when I started to move around our room. The original wood floors held the dampness, the chill seeping up and through, but for the most part, my feet keep warm and silent.
After the usual necessities in the bathroom, I searched our room for the book that she usually kept close. Not in her bag, or in the drawer next to the bed, or left in the reading cubby she had fluffed out that looked out over the street.
“Come on, Scarlett,” I whispered to myself, looking under a million pillows.
It was unlike her to leave the book out. “Private” was how she had described it. Always had. And we had a house full of men living with us, a detail I refused to relent on. This time she had hidden it well enough to make me work for it.
Giving up in our bedroom, I took the stairs to the first floor, finding Jet, the cat Marzio had given Scarlett in Italy, resting in the pillow-cushioned window. Her tail flicked as her harlequin-colored eyes watched the snowdrift. Hearing me approach, she gave me a look, almost an eye roll, and then turned back to her comfy perch.
The entire place glowed with lights from all of Scarlett’s decorative things for Christmas, and smelled of fresh-baked cookies and wreaths made from real trees. Coffee added to the medley.
I took mine black, and after pouring a cup, I searched the kitchen, the living room, even the vestibule for the book.
What had she done with the effing thing? I didn’t write in it as much as she did, but it was still a joint collaboration.
