She wore the most casual clothing I could find in her closet—designer activewear leggings with a cashmere sweater that cost more than any sweater had a right to.
The bandage would remain on her head for another two days. The injury, her pale and still bruised skin, coupled with her near-constant wide-eyed observations, lent her a waifish, vulnerable air.
Not at all the woman I'd married.
"Have we lived here long?" she finally asked, running her fingers absently along the entry wall.
"Two years."
She started at my words, her head twisting to give me that wide-eyed look once more "But…" she trailed off, biting her lip.
“But?" I promoted.
"It's so… sterile." She frowned, continuing into the house, glancing into rooms as we walked. "Where's the colour?”
"You paid an interior decorator a shit-ton of money to design this theme," I reminded her.
"What theme? White on white?" she asked as we reached the curved grand staircase.
"Actually, it's multiple shades of white – as you took great pains to tell me."
She blew out a breath, stepping aside so I could lead her up the stair.
"Where are our photos? Our pictures? Paintings?"
I felt that bittersweet pull of regretful hope. A feeling I'd fast become acquainted with.
Our starter house had been an old cottage on the edge of town. Mouldy and borderline decrepit, the cottage had been freezing in winter and a fucking sweatbox in summer. But we'd loved it.
Em had spent hours painting murals on every wall, sewing colourful curtains to hang across our windows, and building quirky things to display. Photos of every event imaginable had lined our walls, blending seamlessly into the murals. Pictures taken at family events, during travel, or at the dinner table on a Thursday night. Each perfect because they'd captured joyful memories.
During our first year in the cottage, I'd cracked, deciding it wasn't good enough and willing to dip into my trust fund to find us a better situation. Emily had refused to move, arguing that she liked the cold because it meant we needed to snuggle.That she loved the heat because it forced us outside and into the beautiful nights. It had been our first real fight, but we'd stayed.
The time we'd spent in that house were some of my favourite memories. We'd climb onto the roof, lying on a blanket she'd brought with her to watch the sun sink over the horizon as it painted the sea and sky multiple shades of pink, orange, and purple. All the while, I’d be praying the roof would hold our weight while living for those nights.
Emily had been colour and life, whimsy and grace, light and laughter, my beautiful wife. She'd been my definition of love.
Right up until my parents had moved us onto the Estate following our wedding. Then my lover of colour and joy had faded to a woman as brittle, sterile and cold as this house.
And I was the dirtbag who'd let it happen.
"The photos might be in the attic," I finally told her. "I can see if I can dig them out."
"But—" she stopped herself again.
The selfish part of me was glad she'd begun self-censoring. I had no answers for her questions. No reason or moment in time that I could point to which saidthis. This is when we lost our way. This is when it changed.
And I'm so fucking sorry it did.
"Our room is last on the right."
She followed me as I manoeuvred her bags through the door. I heard her sharp intake of breath and knew exactly when she realised that this was a different reality to the one we'd once lived.
The designer had described it as ruthlessly modern. I'd described it as a showroom. Our bedroom had zero personality. Clean lines, white tiled floors, white furniture, and bedding. The only colour came from strategically placed items that held no memories or personal value. They'd been selected for theirappearance from designer boutiques in the city, not for the joy of the memories they'd invoke.
"Where's our stuff?"
I dropped the bags, turning to find Em staring in bewilderment at the room, her colour high, her body shaking.
