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It’s painful to watch him hate on me, love on work, and pretend I’m the one solidified by ice. He made us this way. The warmth and light I offered left the first time he called me a mistake. Now, it’s depleted, and like a dying organ, that’ll never change.

  “I’m going out,” he barks, his voice no less cruel, his actions no less depressing. “Don’t stay up.” His bare chest glistens with the shower, trailing down his sculpted body, marking every inch and making my mouth drier than the wine already has.

  Even after all these years, he’s delectable. His body is as chiseled as the ice sculptures from our reception. Each dip is sharp and prominent, and the happy trail that leads lower, to a place I haven’t been deserving enough to touch in ages, makes me clench my jaw. He’s too sexy for his own good. Too much everything.

  “I’m going out, too,” I lie easily. My words convey it, though, when they tremble with the sadness I’ve barely hidden. So much for a full ten minutes to cry and become frozen again. It’s not like a goddamn switch as much as I’d like it to be.

  He smirks cruelly, his lips tilting harshly, promising nothing but asshole remarks that’ll tear me up even more. Hatred is something Toby used well, a crutch, a weapon, the most damning tool in his arsenal.

  “I’m sure you will, Joey. Tell Francis I said hi.” It’s bitter and tasteless, making my wine just as lancinating. Fuck him. Fuck him. “And when he’s fucking you, try not to remind him that his cock will never be mine.”

  “Oh, honey. I will,” I coo, gripping the bottle as if it’ll stop me from falling to the ground in a heap of sobs. Benign pain can be subdued, but this malignant torment can’t. This is what he’s subjected me to. A lesser woman. One who lies, swallowing the pain back as one does water.

  Maybe in spite of him, I’ll go see Francis.

  His eyes narrow at my response, showing very little. What was once jealousy is resignation. He doesn’t have a heated stare; it’s empty, just like his fucking heart. There’s no way for me to beat it alive, but it sure as hell doesn’t hurt any less knowing he’ll be spending his night between the legs of some whore.

  And he calls me Satan.

  “Don’t want to make your side bitch wait too long, Tobias. She might find another dick to fill her,” I grumble, bringing the wine to my lips, drinking in front of the man with an addiction problem. We both have vices. His is alcohol; mine is his torturous love. They’re both hurtful and detrimental for our health, but neither of us have the willpower to win.

  I fell in love with the lies, marrying the pain.

  He’s divorced to the truth, addicted to acrimony.

  We cheated love, lusting after aspiration.

  There’s no savior for our damnation, no hope for our salvation, and no justice for our actions.

  “You’re right,” he huffs, pausing feet in front of me. “My dick definitely needs a companion tonight. Such a shame your pussy doesn’t do it for me anymore.” He turns and strolls out of the kitchen, leaving me with the largest fist inside my chest, beating against my heart, hoping to make it live once more.

  As soon as he enters our bedroom to get dressed, I hiccup, feeling the tears springing free. Crying is so hideous. Especially on me.

  My body shakes as the pent-up turmoil overflows through my eyes. I sob and sob, and he doesn’t come out to check on me. It’s not like he’s unused to my fits. After a heady fight, destructive words that dig deep, and jabs that are meant to destroy, I break down. Usually, I try to wait for him to leave, but this goddamn wine broke the little barrier I gained.

  My walls fall as I admit how fucked-up we are. We stay. Why the hell do we stay? He could leave. I could leave. Or maybe we can’t?

  Dad set our marriage in stone. We could have walked away. Sex doesn’t mean everything. And while we have some of the most passionate fuck fests, even while screwed up, it’s not enough to sustain a marriage. I fell hard and fast for this man, and what did he do? Belittle me, push me away, and make me want to die.

  Great marriage material, sure.

  When he comes out of the room, he takes one look at me, his eyes on mine for an entire five seconds before he turns. He can pretend, but the wrinkle in his brow and grimace on his face show how much he cares, even if he doesn’t realize it. He hides behind his asshole persona because the Toby I hurt is the one who refuses to come out.

  “I love you,” I barely whisper. He stops at the door, halting entirely. His fingers dig into the frame, whitening his knuckles as he restrains himself. Instead of turning and coming to me, kissing me, loving me... he opens the door and practically runs away.

  Where did we go wrong, Tobias?

  Did I fail us?

  There’s no more fixing to be done, is there?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Past

  Joey

  “Why is he like this?” The words tumble out of me. The breath I held in hopes to give me courage finally escapes. It’s loud and exhausted, much like me.

  “He’s been hurt so much,” Frankie mutters. He grips his wine glass. Emotions clouds his normally forgiving eyes; it’s bitterness and degradation at its finest. “He fell in love.”

  “With Loren,” I add. Jealousy gives me nothing but depression, but her name brings it by the ton. “He says her name sometimes when he’s tossing and turning and has had too much to drink.”

  “We were young once.” He tips the liquid back, taking a large gulp. Francis isn’t one to overindulge. Unlike my husband, he drinks for the palette chaser, not for the aphrodisiac qualities. “He met Lo at random, but the change in him was immediate.”

  I nod, unknowing where this is going.

  “He wasn’t my best friend back then,” he explains. “Jase was.” Bitterness seeps from those two words like licking baking soda. “He changed almost overnight, Toby did.”

  He readjusts, forcing me to do the same. This air between us is stiff as it is every time we talk about anything serious. Francis has a way of storytelling that makes you uncomfortable. Unlike people who love telling stories and flourish on parts that aren’t pretty, Frankie gives it to you straight, no sugar, no chaser, just the bitter truth.

  “Even I could see the change in him. Lo brought out a side that was carefree, much like you do.”

  Our eyes meet.

  Storm and amber.

  Two very damaged people.

  In this, we’re one. Twins of a long-lost hope where love exists and doesn’t hurt.

  “What made her special?” The distasteful way my words leave me has us both cringing. While I’m mature in many ways, this is one thing where my inner bitch just can’t shut up.

  “She was his light. His dad, Brant, beat the shit out of him.”

  My eyes widen at this information, at a loss for words. “What?”

  Francis’s eyes widen as if he’s given too much that wasn’t his to offer. “He didn’t tell you?” I shake my head, sadness creeping in.

  That’s what I am now. Sad. A fucking mess of desolation and the need to not be alive.

  “Brant wasn’t a good man, though Millie wasn’t much better. Brant would beat on her, then she’d dope up on Xanny and booze. After Toby would get home, it would happen all over.”

  Disgust fills me. It silences all responses while bile rises. How could a parent hurt their child? Their wife? How could they willingly cause pain?

  “Millie wouldn’t leave him. In turn, Jase got beat too.”

  “They both did? Is that why they weren’t close?” I ask, needing to know how two brothers could hate each other so much.

  “No.” He rubs a palm down his face, the wine nearly emptied. At this moment, staring at the remnants of liquid in his glass, I’m suddenly feeling the urge to consume some of my own medicine.

  This dose of reality isn’t welcome. It’s heavy and drowning. Pain does that to people.

  “While I discovered they were both being abused, neither knew the other was. It actually caused a rift later on when Jase fell in love with Lo.”

/>   “Fuck,” I let out.

  “It was bad. Toby loved her. Endlessly. Obsessively, even.” Cringing at that, he rubs a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “He didn’t love her like he loves you,” he explains. “With you, it’s real. It’s something tangible and revolutionary. It’s nothing I’ve witnessed from him before. With her, she saved a broken kid inside him and brought him strength. In turn, he held onto that and ended up destroying her marriage and his family.”

  I go to say something, and he stops me. “He wasn’t the only one at fault, no, but he could have walked away and didn’t.”

  At this moment, understanding dawns on me. Even without knowing it all right now, it’s apparent why my husband is the way he is. Abandonment.

  His mom did that.

  His father did that.

  His brother did that.

  Lo did that.

  How the fuck does one expect a man to be strong and resilient if he can’t trust himself to love and let go? And with him not believing me and Francis, it makes sense.

  “He had an affair with Lo,” Frankie says a moment later. “Emotional at first—hugs, kisses, love in a profound and comforting kind of way. Then, when Jase admitted to his affair with my ex, she full-blown used Toby.”

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  What the fuck?

  “Why?”

  He shrugs. “I thought it was revenge, but then, after they slept together, she begged him to leave and give her a chance to be happy and reconcile with Jase. So I don’t think that was it. I think her comfort in Toby clouded her idealisms of right and wrong. In the end, that never mattered. She broke Toby, and as a result, he and Jase haven’t spoken since.”

  Warm anguish runs down my cheeks, pain as primitive as dying flowers consumes me. Toby’s reaction to Francis hugging me, holding me at that moment, must have triggered his regression.

  My body aches as reality sinks in.

  I have to love him enough to fix this. Whether painful or not, no matter what he does, I won’t fucking abandon him. No matter how bad it gets.

  “I’m surprised you’ve stayed,” Francis sounds out as I’m lost in my own head. When our gazes clash, his are full of confusion. “He hurts you so much. Fucks around, terrorizes you.”

  “I choose to sleep with him even after he’s with others,” I argue, seeing exactly what he means. I’m degrading myself, allowing his behavior to carry on. But if I were in his shoes, would I be any less unforgivable? “He doesn’t want me to want him, but I can’t stop.”

  “Why? What does this do for either of you?”

  “Love isn’t always pretty, Francis.”

  “Isn’t always ugly, either.”

  “I’m not giving up on him,” I promise. “He didn’t give up on me at my lowest. When I cut and he came home to find me covered in blood and tears and sorrow, he stayed. He fixed me. He loved me.” My body trembles with the tears and sobs wracking my frame. “I love him,” I whisper through my sorrow.

  “Love isn’t always enough, Ladybug.”

  “It is for me.”

  “He’ll continue to hurt you,” he tries, running a hand through his hair. Gloss covers his eyes, the storms wage in them, they’re turbulent and fierce. “I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “Then don’t watch,” I argue. “I’m staying, I’m fighting, and when he’s finally ready, he can earn me back.”

  He nods, but the unhappiness is there. Toby is his friend, but so am I, and I can already see which side he’s choosing. Knowing someone else is giving up on the man I love most burdens me with sadness.

  “It’s my choice, Frankie.”

  Our eyes collide once more, and this time, when he explains the entire story of Loren, Jason, and Toby, I’m a mess of sobs.

  I come to grips with a lot of new information.

  Lo has a baby.

  That baby could be my husband’s.

  And Toby has no fucking clue.

  Ideas filter through my fog, warring with right and wrong, consuming me.

  By the time I’m driving home, I know what I need to do, even if I have to ask the devil himself.

  “Daddy,” I say when he answers. “I need a favor and I’m willing to renegotiate the terms of our arrangement if you follow through.”

  “Consider it handled, Josey.”

  Let’s hope my husband can avoid me now. I’m bringing his family back together.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Present

  Toby

  Her tears gut me.

  Limb from limb, as if my chest was filleted open and each important organ tore from my body, she slaughters my existence with those whiskey eyes.

  Fuck.

  I hate seeing her like that.

  Yes, I hate her.

  Yes, she fucked me over.

  Yes, our marriage is a disaster.

  But seeing those tears? It obliterates my soul and then some. She’s not who she was. I’m not who I was. Our marriage is as fake as the strength I pretend to have.

  I’m jaded. She can’t expect anything less, but fuck, if her breaking down doesn’t tear me up inside. My heart was never a good decision maker. If I had the strength and passion a husband should possess, I’d rush back in there and fuck our love back into her and myself.

  I’d fix this gap between us.

  I’d forgive her and her mistakes.

  But Francis.

  That’s who she’ll run to. It’s who she always runs to.

  Just as Lo did with me.

  How can I be in the same place now that I was five years ago with Lo? She chose him. Just as Lo chose Jase. How did I fuck up the same way all over again?

  It’s not right, but I’m human.

  At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  I hit the elevator button five times before it beeps. We’re in the tower of Hollow Hills. We’ve been here for nearly two years. We should have a home, not an entire floor we’ve taken residence of.

  That’s the thing. Two years ago, everything stopped.

  Now, we’re in a rerun of Supernatural, the Groundhog Day episode where Dean dies in every goddamn way until Sam loses his mind.

  I’ve lost my mind.

  As the elevator opens and I’m standing in there, my heart aches. It hurts worse than when Lo didn’t choose me. It terrorizes me with promise, reminding me that I don’t deserve happiness.

  And fuck if that doesn’t hurt more.

  “Toby?” Bry’s voice sounds out after she answers my call. Not realizing I dialed her, I attempt to shake the fog. Desperation claws its way up my throat, voicing the words my heart doesn’t feel.

  “Are you available?” I mutter, hating myself more and more.

  “For you, sugar? Any time. Give me a half hour to clean up. Then we’ll meet at our usual place.”

  “See you then,” I reply, hoping the hatred inside me doesn’t seep out and taint her too.

  I shouldn’t have called her.

  Hell, I shouldn’t be walking toward our meetup.

  Yes, walking.

  Our meetup is twenty floors below, room four-fourteen. It’s the room I have booked forever. Or at least since we started hanging out. Is it cheating when your entire wedding is a sham? When she agrees to letting me go? When separation is a single world between two entities who don’t know the meaning?

  It’s not like any of it was real. Not for me, and certainly not for her.

  But fuck if it doesn’t hurt when I leave her behind, and she’s a wreck.

  How did we go so wrong?

  I know how, but it doesn’t make the brutality of it any less painful. We did so well; I thought I finally found a slice of happiness without Lo. A place of peace between heaven and hell. Unlike purgatory, it was welcome. It was serene. It was mine. As the elevator lowers to the fortieth floor, my stomach knots.

  She started this. She fucked Francis and ruined us. She chose him; she didn’t pick me.

  After everything I went through with Lo, I k
new I couldn’t stomach going through it all over again. I refused. But that’s the problem with marriages. You can’t just walk the fuck away. I mean, you can. My brother did it to Lo, so why couldn’t I?

  The metal box stops, the light on the front of it letting me know I’ve arrived. Seeing it illuminated has me regretting this before it starts. The doors open, sliding to my doom. That’s what Bry, Serena, and Tamara are. My end.

  They bring me momentary peace. It’s not even pleasurable. Not love. Not lust. It just... is. They distract me. Now, as I’m walking toward our room with my head down, I can’t stomach the thought of touching her like I miss touching my wife. I’m not drunk enough for this shit. I’m fully sober, riding on the high of hatred, but it doesn’t feel the same. Alcohol soothes the pain, bringing a buzz and promises momentary bereavement.

  It’s a lie.

  My life is a lie.

  Joey is a goddamn lie.

  Pulling out my wallet, I smack it against the door’s scanner. You’d think I’d have a secret badge for this entire hotel. It’s not like my brother doesn’t own it. But no, I have a regular generated fucking key that only solidifies how fucking twisted I’ve become.

  I chose this.

  To defy her.

  To ruin me.

  To hate myself.

  Think she hates me more than I hate myself? Fat chance. Pretty sure the bottom of the cesspool of disgust has nothing on the absolute abhorrence I have for myself. But that’s life, right? You reap what you sow, and goddamn, I sowed an entire fucking village of clothing. Fucking my brother’s wife, loving her, wanting her comfort even now... I’ve really screwed up everything and all I have to blame is myslef.

  The light blinks after I tap it again, the lock sliding out of place. Opening the heavy door, I shuffle inside. Before even caring for waiting on Bry, I stop at the mini fridge. They know to stock it with the good stuff. The good stuff being whiskey. There’s nothing quite like the burn of despoliation by booze. As I raise the bottle of Jameson, a little ease slips into me. The glass is cold and heavy in my palm. Its promises are false, but I open it anyway. Its warmth is faulty, but I swallow it back. Its aphrodisiac qualities are temporary, but I keep going.