Leaving Church I have this sudden urge to have eyes on my wife. I need to see her, hold her. Reassure myself that everything is ok. For a second, I think she left already, but then the bathroom door swings open, and steam spills out into the small bedroom.
Bex steps out wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dark against her shoulders, a hair dryer in her hand. I know she knows I am in the room, but she doesn't acknowledge me yet.
She walks to the mirror over the dresser, plugs the dryer in, and starts working through the ends of her hair with slow, practiced movements.
I lean back against our closed bedroom door and watch her.
God, I've missed this. Not the sex or even the quiet moments in bed.
Just... her existing in the same space as me.
The way she moves around this room like she belongs here. Even though I know she's never really felt like she does.
I can still picture her, those first few months after I gave her my cut. It was this feeling of bliss that I had never felt before.Content… I think it is the right word. Settled, happy. I could just lay in bed and watch her get ready for the day. Every little thing she did, every time she opened a drawer that was now hers and not just mine... having her in the only place that had ever felt like home to me. I felt at peace, like she was the last puzzle I needed clicked into place.
The dryer shuts off, and she finally looks at me in the mirror. Her shoulders still, our eyes meet through the reflection.
"You're back sooner than I thought you'd be," she says.
Her voice is neutral, but something behind her eyes shifts. Relief and then something heavier. But there's also this feeling that she doesn't know what to say to me, that she isn't being herself, and I hate that.
"I... fuck, Bex. I... things are so strained right now. I know I haven't been myself, I have said things... things I hope you know I would never actually follow through on."
She drops her eyes to the dresser, losing that eye contact, feeling like I am losing more than just that. I think about the past few weeks, the tension building not just in the club, but between us. I haven't been treating her right and it’s not her fault.
I need to fix this.
I push off the door and step further into the room.
"You know how I feel about you, right?"
She doesn't answer, but her eyes lift again as she looks at me through the mirror. There's a look in her eyes I can't quite place. Sadness? Pain? Exhaustion? Maybe all three.
"You know this is all temporary," I add.
I feel like I am rambling, but I have this feeling low in my gut that I don't like. I need to squash it.
She sighs softly. "I'm so tired."
The words come out quiet and my brain grabs the most obvious meaning.
"You've been working nonstop," I say. "Why?"
She doesn't answer right away. Just turns the dryer back on and finishes the last few passes through her hair. The sound fills the room while I stand there watching her.
The woman I married… The woman who somehow feels farther away now than she did days ago when she was sleeping in a hospital on-call room.
The dryer clicks off again and she sets it down carefully, before turning and walking straight for me. When she reaches me, she drops the towel without ceremony and steps past me toward the bed where her clothes are folded.
I try not to stare.
I failed.
I can't help but trail my eyes over my wife's body. She is lean but soft. Perfect for me. My eyes trail to the scar on her leg that I still don't know how she got.
I think back to the first time I asked about it. She was getting on the back of my bike, her long, lean legs stretched out, and for the first time I had seen her legs uncovered. She had small marks I couldn't make out at a distance, a few smaller scars and a big one that trailed her inner thigh past her knee. I asked what the hell kind of thing happens to end up with a scar like that, and she shrugged, looked away and said:"Some scars need to stay in the past."I let it go, and we spent an amazing day driving through small towns, talking about what we wanted from our future instead of focusing on the past. Her arms wrapped around me.
Over the years, I had hoped she would feel comfortable enough to tell me about her past. I would trail kisses over every mark, every scar, hoping that she would open up. I shared mine, the abuse, how I ran... got in with the wrong crowd, and Angel's father saved me and took me in. It was only after that that she felt comfortable coming here with me, staying at the clubhouse and moving in. I shared what it meant to me, my brothers, my only family. But she... she never talked much about her past.