I shrug, lowering myself onto the chair. “Eat or don’t. I won’t ask a second time.”
It does something to me when I hear the chair screeching on the floor, and he sits across from me.
Physically, we’re close. Emotionally, a rift divides us; we might as well be on two continents. Is this reality the prequel to our future? I barely manage to be civil with all my feelings bubbling inside of me.
Knives grazing on plates and chewing produce the only sounds.
I’m accustomed to self-reliance, preparing meals myself when required, though this is at a high level of culinary excellence. Of course, it is. He doesn’t just have expensive tastes. His tastes are in the tenth percentile.
I’ll receive the finest things in life.
But not his truth.
No children.
Not the things that truly matter.
Appetite gone, I stand up when he snaps his gaze from my plate to me. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it? We can order something else.”
He would do that. No questions asked, because he cares and loves me in the only way he can.
I offer him a small smile, needing a ceasefire for today.
“No, I’m good,” I say, and carry my heavy heart with me inside the bathroom.
In the tub, I watch the droplets of water hit the surface, creating small circles, but their hypnotic allure fades quickly.
Not finding the desired relaxation, I dip my head under the water to clear my thoughts, switching from holding my breathfor as long as I can and emerging to breathe in a lungful of fresh air.
I reach forty-seven seconds when he pulls me out, his eyes blown wide with frantic panic.
Sheer terror stretches over his face as he shakes me to be sure I am alive, stealing any coherent thought.
“Tristan, I’m fine. Breathe,” I whisper, not wanting to scare him even more, but it’s like my words don’t register with him.
His fingers tremble as he checks my pulse. Shaking his head as if to break out of the panic, he stumbles back, holding his face between his hands. “Fuck.”
“I’m all right. I do that occasionally. Stay underwater,” I say, my voice soft.
He gulps, his eyes blinking, slowly returning to me and back from whatever terror holds him prisoner.
“How badly did he hurt you?” For God’s sake, this over-the-top reaction is not normal.
He takes off, and I snatch a bathrobe from the door hanger, hot on his trail.
Chest panting, he paces the bedroom. “Not now, Viviana.”
“I think now is the perfect moment,” I say, voice firm.
He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You were inside for over a damn hour. I thought you…”
He can’t even bring himself to say it. It’s so clear what losing me would mean to him.
It takes everything in me not to wrap myself around him, promising things I have no business promising. Promises are made to be broken, by yourself, by circumstances, by life and fate itself. But it gives us humans a sense of power, a contract that ensures some security, as fickle as it is.
“You bound me to you. But death is something you can’t stop.”
“Watch me try.”
