Smoothing the flimsy strap of my camisole down, I whisper, “You mean like this?” As I lean in to give him a kiss, he swiftly moves his head to the side, blocking me, so I catch his cheek instead.
In a gruff voice, he chastises me. “I was serious about what I said earlier.”
“Doesn’t mean we can’t fool around.” I wink.
“You’re the only person who isn’t taking this seriously.” Holden helps me to bed before he stomps angrily away. Pausing at the door before he exits, he says, “We can’t solve all of our problems with sex, Sib. Not anymore. Good night.”
For once, we’re in agreement on something.
CHAPTER 11
Sibley
In the morning, Holden rushes around like a madman, dashing up and down the staircase, his heavy thuds adding to my impending headache. I’ve started to experience withdrawal symptoms, and my lack of sleep grates on my frayed nerves, along with his inability to stay still. Much to my annoyance, Holden paces in the bedroom, asking me a million questions while he’s trying to get me packed, triple-checking the items on the “necessities list.”
I finally threaten to kick him out of the room, so he finishes in stony silence. He lugs my suitcase down the stairs, and a final crescendo strikes the landing when the bag hits the floor.
It’s too much, and I snap at him in annoyance.
His eyes flash at me in anger, then hurt. “I want today to be a nice day for us.”
“Preparing me for rehab isn’t a ‘nice’ kind of a day,” I say through gritted teeth. All I want right now is a drink in my hand and my husband to stop his incessant chatter.
“I don’t want to think of it like that. I want to think of it like you’re going to a spa and coming back rested and well.” He adds with false excitement, “Did you see all the activities they have? I looked at the facility list: you’ll have a yoga studio and a full gym and even a steam room.”
“I have to earn those privileges first,” I say sharply. “And maybe if you had sent me to a relaxing spa in the first place, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
He recoils like I slapped him, and I ashamedly stare down at my chewed nails.
“Maybe the next one will treat you better,” he mutters under his breath.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’m just agitated. It doesn’t make me feel comfortable to live with strangers in an unknown place.”
“It will be like college.” Then he thinks about it. “Without the . . .”
“Fun,” I finish.
Exasperated, he throws himself down on the bed. “I know this isn’t what we wanted.” He finally stammers, “It’s not meant to feel like a prison. The website said the property is over seven thousand square feet, built into the mountain.”
“I just don’t want to be gone for too long. And forced to sit and talk about my feelings with random people.” Before he can respond, I murmur, “I know it depends on the person.”
He tries to talk to me about it, but half-asleep, I’m not sure if I answer the last question he asked me.
When I wake up, it’s early evening, and a sense of dread gnaws at my stomach. There’s an edge I need to take off, and it can only be alleviated by one thing.
The house is eerily silent when I tiptoe down the stairs. Maybe because of our tenuous relationship as of late, I feel like a guest in my own home.
When I call out Holden’s name, there’s no response, but I find a barely legible note on the marble kitchen island. His scribbled handwriting says he went to grab takeout from my favorite restaurant on our last night together. It’s a nice gesture, and I hate the fact I’m more excited to be alone, out from beneath his watchful and judgmental gaze, then to have food and his company.
With him gone, I can go on a mission.
In anticipation, I lick my lips, already tasting the smoothness. My hands are shaking, my heart having palpitations at the thrill, sending shivers down my spine.
It’s just one last time, I tell myself. No big deal.
I’m in the comfort of my own home, and no one will know.
“It’s not like you’re hurting anyone,” I whisper to the mirror. My mouth salivates, not for food but for the sweet friendship of wine tonight.
Except Holden one-upped me. He did a stellar job of finding every last one of my hiding places—starting with the linen closet.
I wander from our dresser in the guest room to the wicker basket filled with toilet paper in the bathroom. He even removed my stash from the shelving unit in the garage.
Slamming shut the heavy-duty lid of his indestructible toolbox, I’m about to self-destruct.
Hell, he even dumped out the vodka I poured into a gallon jug meant to look like distilled water. I’m rummaging in our shared office for the miniature wine bottles I hid behind a row of lawbooks.
Dropping to my knees, I’m surprised to find something else I’m missing. My purse was returned to me, but my phone wasn’t in its usual pocket inside the front zipper. Stranger yet, Holden refused to take me or go look through my vehicle at the junkyard to find it. His excuse was that I’m not going to be able to bring it with me to the clinic, so I might as well get used to not having one for the time being.
My supposedly misplaced cell phone is in one of his desk drawers. When I power it on, the red battery light flashes, indicating it’s about dead.
After typing in my pass code, I wait for the phone to unlock.
It doesn’t.
Fuck.
Holden changed my pass
