This is not the first time I catch that nostalgic expression on his face. It makes me jealous of the one he loved. While our chemistry is undeniable and our desire unstoppable, otherinhabitants occupy our hearts. I believed my heart was safe, yet with each passing day, that certainty wanes.
I share him with a dead love, just like he does me.
“Tell me about her,” I blurt out, hating my curiosity.
I know it’s absurd, but I long to be his first and last love. The thought catches me unprepared. I don’t understand this visceral reaction, but a potent rush of emotion subdues me.
“Sure you want to hear it?” he asks, caution clear in his voice.
No, I don’t, but I must. Either to steel the walls around my heart or learn to accept his past. I offer a small nod, and his eyes peer into mine. “She was everything I ever wanted and nothing I could overcome. Loving her has been my destiny.”
His words might as well be a lance spearing straight through my chest, pinning my heart down and leaving a bloody mess. The hurt, just like jealousy, is instant, making me press a palm to my chest as if I can somehow ease the fragile organ.
With my other hand, I urge him to continue, even though it’s clear from his tight posture and clenched jaw that he doesn’t want to reveal more. But I need to hear about this woman who came before me.
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We knew what we were getting into. Our hearts are taboo, but I want to know the man I married better.” Even though the thought of her makes me nauseous. His eyes narrow on me, the hurt clear.
In response, I sigh, feeling him as if he is part of me. What kind of spell did he put on me? This is witchcraft at its finest.
“It was love at first sight.”
I roll my eyes, hating that and not understanding the concept.
A grin stretches across his face. “You don’t believe in it?”
I shake my head. “Instant attraction, possibly, but love? Nah.”
There’s a playful gleam in his eyes, as if he finds me amusing. “I assure you, it exists. I set eyes on her and knew she was it.”
Who the fuck was this woman? I hate her, and then I feel bad for thinking ill of the dead.
“She came right up to me, tilted her head, and said, ‘Do you feel this too?’”
“What did you say?” I whisper, as if afraid I might conjure her ghost and she could steal him from me. He is mine now. Back off.
I am losing it. Right here and now.
At least he remembers his love story. All I have are indistinct images with his face on them now. Cruel. Twisted. Disheartening.
“I said, ‘I do. Want to be crazy with me?’”
I don’t need him to answer. It’s written on his face—entranced, trapped in better times with his dream woman, living his best life. Then what the fuck am I? A consolation prize. A poor replacement.
I clear my throat to swallow the lump stuck there. “You said I resemble her.”
“Physically.”
“What does that even mean?” I mumble.
He pushes himself off the doorframe, his posture turning tense. “She was different. And the talk is over.”
I raise my hands in the air, getting more frustrated by the second. “Why? I’m enjoying it quite a bit.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I thread my fingers through my hair, pretending to style it, but really, it’s to keep busy and hide my frayed emotions behind the strands.
“I’m going to come over there to hug and kiss you.”
