It was not a good sleep.
It was fraught with nightmares. It was a continual barrage of them, broken by fractures of light that seemed to take me to the next one, somehow all different but linked. The last one scared me more than it should. My husband with another woman. Or women. He was leaving me, that I was sure of. I felt the betrayal and anger—anger fueled by the fear of living a life without him. By him choosing someone else over me.
The body’s face continually changed—women I knew and women I did not.
My eyes opened, the residual feelings inside storming. I could not help feeling angry still, as if the great betrayal had not occurred yet, but somehow it had.
Perhaps this dream was from pent-up feelings about his past, the book he had shown me with all the numbers…
My hand shot out to hit him, and it did, right over his heart. However, in my haste to lash out, I did not realize his hand was holding mine. He set a warm kiss over my pulse, then gave me back my hand and sat up.
My husband scrubbed a hand down his face, and then his fingers slid though his hair. It usually gave a hint to his mood. If it was mussed, he was on the fence between wild and calm. If it was wild…so was he.
However, there were times when his hair was proper, and I knew he was holding back. All that untamed wildness wasswirling inside of him, creating an eddy that would suck anyone who dared to get close to him under.
In that moment, his hair was as impeccable as it was when he had first rested next to me—he was controlling whatever emotions swirled inside of him. He had not slept, which I could tell as well. Mariano needed little sleep to function. At times he would only close his eyes, and seconds later, it seemed that his body ruled him to move.
I felt tired watching him, at times, and I was no sloth.
He stared out the window. The rain had slowed to constant patters tapping against the panes. The storm might have broken outside, but it had begun to rage inside of me the moment the dream began.
He sighed, stood, and went to the bathroom. I could hear him using the toilet, a constant stream, and when he walked out, he was dressed in a white t-shirt andgrigio, grey, sweatpants. He stood over me for a few breaths, before he turned and walked out the door shutting it quietly behind him.
“Wha—” I barely got out.
Hewasleaving me,il traditore!
I did not care if I was in a thin cotton pajama dress or not. Barefoot or not. My hair a wild halo around my head or not. I shot up, ignoring the needs of my bladder, and went after him.
A deep gasp that stuck in my throat almost had me choking when a strong arm shot out of the darkness and wrapped around my stomach, hauling me toward a hard chest. His heart beat against my back as if the heart was the stick and my back the drum. My fingers clawed against the iron bar, attempting to dislodge it, but it was no use.
“Release me at once!” I whispered.
“These steps are steep, Annie,” my husband said, his voice as dark and quiet as the massive house. “Still yourself until we get outside.” He carried me down the steps easily. As smoothly as if he was walking across a flat surface.
I huffed at him.
He was so…good at everything! It was almost unnatural.
His looks.
His strength.
His ability to love.
His ability to be as cold as steel, yet still be able to care for me.
His…ability to stay on his feet while the world felt as if it was turning upside down, going off the rails.
I turned my face some and growled at him.
He set me on my feet at the end of the steps, and I rocked for a second before I realized he was walking out the door. He shut it quietly, and my eyes caught on a pair of redstivali da pioggia, ah,rain boots. I stuffed my feet into them as fast as I could. I took a step forward and stopped. The boots were clunky and loud. I felt clownish as I ran behind him, my footfalls loud and squeaking against the soaked ground.
He was right up ahead. He had stopped before I even called his name.
“Mariano!” I whispered.
He turned toward me.
