“That’s not what I meant.”
“First I’m a headline, then a broodmare on a schedule. One who’s not performing right!” she snarls. “And now that I’m making a scene, now you pretend you care? Fan-freaking-tastic. Tell me again how this isn’t just optics, James.”
I swallow.
She shoves the nearest canvas, and it crashes to the floor. A bowl of dirty rinse water and a can of paint spill, a paintbrush rolling across the drop cloth. Maura whips around, flinging herself at a different canvas on the other wall.
Fuck, she’s going to try and destroy the place. Destroy her paintings, destroy the first nice thing I ever gave her. I’ve got to stop her before she damages something she cares about.
I reach for her, but she ducks out from under my arm. She grabs another painting, a larger one. She picks it up as best she can and swings it against the wall like a sledgehammer. The awkward size means she drops it, and the wooden edge of the stretcher bar breaks off in her hand.
A sudden crack, and her quiet gasp of pain.
A violent streak of red across the palm of her left hand.
My blood turns icy cold.
Maura stares at the blood on her hands like she's not sure how it got there. She sinks to her knees, staring at it as it seeps from the cut, mixing with the black paint staining her hand. She turns it over, and for a second I think she's examining the severity of the wound. Then she tilts her head, like she's getting a piece of art.
Like it's not her fucking hand, slashed open and bleeding all over the goddamn floor.
I'm moving before I even realize it. I stride over, yanking her against me and taking her wrists in my hands so I can pin them against her chest.
“Let go of me!” she demands, trying to yank her hands away.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Get the hell off me!” Maura thrashes against my hold, spitting and cursing. I ignore her demand to let her go. She's not in her right mind, and she's going to seriously hurt herself if she doesn't stop moving.
“Stop, Maura,” I say, as calmly as I can with my wife’s blood dripping all over my suit.
“Fuck you!” Her thrashing gets weaker, but she keeps fighting me. I just tighten my grip.
“You're allowed to be angry, at your father and at me. But I won't watch you bleed for it.” My voice is low, and rougher than it should be.
A sob tears out of her. After a few more vain attempts to struggle, the fight slowly drains out of her. She collapses against me, and I let go of her wrists when I feel her turning to face me. Her fists curl in my jacket, and she buries her face in my shirt. She sobs against me. It’s messy, unconstrained, and absolutely fucking warranted.
After what feels like half an hour, her sobs start coming more slowly. She sniffs and lets go of my shirt.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, sounding a little like herself again. “Oh, James, your clothes?—”
I glance down at my bloodied suit and shirt. Dark red blood blots the pale gray wool and crisp white cotton. “It’s nothing.”
Maura shakes her head. “We should run them under some cold water, try and get the blood out before it stains.”
“Forget it. This is my dry cleaner’s problem.”
“But —”
If she weren’t still so fragile, I’d groan with frustration. “Maura.You’re bleeding. That’s all that matters, not the goddamn suit. Now let me see your hand.” I turn over her palm and examine the wound. It’s still bleeding, but it’s clotted at the edges. It’ll heal if it’s treated right.
“I'll call my doctor,” I say. “He’ll come clean this and bandage it.”
She shakes her head. “I don't want a doctor.”
My jaw tenses. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t need stitches.”
“I don’t. Seriously, the last thing I want right now is some guy in a white coat hovering over me, lecturing me about wound treatment.”
