Chapter 5
After Crono and Marle leave, I sit at the table with my head down for a long time before it occurs to me that just because my life is falling apart at the seams doesn't mean I have to neglect my work.
After several disastrous attempts to use a welding torch with a very distracted mind, I curl up on the couch with a book I've been meaning to read for weeks now. Just because I'm not neglecting my work doesn't mean I have to burn down the house.
After staring at the fifteenth page for several minutes, just as I am about to cast it aside in disgust, I hear the door open and a familiar voice calls out,
"I'm home, love!"
For a moment, I sit motionless. The greeting, called out in exactly the same easy, cheery voice as every other day, the comfort of something so familiar, set my eyes immediately brimming with tears. At least, that's what I think must be responsible for the sudden blurring of my vision. Not until I notice that my cheeks are dry do I realise that utter fury at the man's gall for pretending nothing is wrong, is responsible for this effect.
Oh, well.
If you want to make a game of this, Isaac, I'm up for it. Just remember, Lucca the Great never loses.
"Hiya, babe," I call back with the same impish, suggestive twist that my reply always contains. This has been our tradition for the last three years. I just hope he's too distracted by his own thoughts to notice that the greeting came from the living room instead of my workshop, as is more normal.
I hear footsteps approaching, so I slide off the couch and turn to pick up my book. As I'm straightening up again, I feel a lean, muscled arm wrap around me from behind, and a warm mouth raining a trail of kisses down the side of my neck.
"I've missed you," he murmurs, presumably as an explanation when, after several seconds, I have made no effort to reciprocate, but just stood numbly still, half of me basking in his caresses and half of me seething bitterly and itching to put a vicious end to his desire by ripping off his bits and stewing them, then feeding the result to Ariana Harland.
"I'm sure you hardly even noticed I was gone," I toss at him over my shoulder, pulling away half-heartedly.
"I always notice when you're gone."
He sounds nearly hurt.
I am unmoved, knowing as I do that the only thing he likely noticed was that the woman warming his bed was a different one than usual. Still, although I'm unmoved by his empty words of complete and utter bullshit, I am not so indifferent to the arm wrapping more tightly around my waist, the hand sliding slowly up under my shirt, and the warm breath against the back of my hair.
Damn you, hormones. I was looking forward to making life miserable for him for a while.
Still, it's hard to even hold onto annoyance when he sucks my earlobe into his mouth and flicks it with his tongue.
Almost against my will, my hands slide up into his thick, dark hair, and I lean back against his chest, letting my head fall back against his shoulder.
Okay, you bastard, you win for now.
"After all," he murmurs fatally, "a man gets lonely."
I freeze, and pause in the intended act of kissing his neck. Yeah, that was about what I needed to restore my resolve to make you suffer, my dear, loving husband.
I pull away more insistently this time, but Isaac is not deterred so easily.
"What's wrong?" he pouts, tightening his grip on my waist and nimbly pushing my white cotton bra (I'm proud to say that I have the good taste that seems to be getting rarer and rarer these days) out of his way.
Furious now, I wrack my brains for a way to deter him long enough to give me a little time to think. Finally, just as he's tugging my sweater up over my head, it hits me, and I wheel about and hurl myself at him so suddenly that we both fall to the floor.
"Let's have a baby," I breathe in his ear, working at the button on his pants.
As predicted, he goes still for a second, then sits up and pushes me off of him less gently than one might think is appropriate during a romantic tryst.
Hah! Nothing can kill my husband's sex drive quite like being reminded that sex leads to children!
"Lucca," he says gently – patronizingly, if you want the truth, "what brought this on?"
I ponder this for a moment. After all, I can't exactly tell him the truth. I wanted you to get your grubby hands off me before I catch something from one of your mistresses, you asshole, and since you don't seem to recognize anyone's needs but yours, I had to go to an extreme. Heh. No.
"I don't know," I finally reply, looking carefully away.
"Well, then, why don't we just...think about it for a while?"
Such an accommodating husband. He won't flat-out refuse his wife anything; he'll just ask me to 'take a while to think about it' and hope that I'm weak-minded enough to forget what I was thinking about.
"I guess it can wait," I sigh, so entirely reluctantly that you'd never guess that I'd sooner drive a nail through my eye than give birth right now. Not that I've never thought of adopting, but children bore me until they're old enough to talk and run around. I'd be a better auntie, or big sister, or something. Still, I'm seeing an excellent opportunity to both deter Isaac from his sudden need to remember how his wife compares with his little blonde play toy, and provide a little light torment as a warm-up. "But you know, Isaac, we're not getting any younger."
"You're hardly over-the-hill yet," he laughs. "You're only twenty-four, Lucca. There's plenty of time to think about that later."
"Yeah, well, what about you, old man?" I ask, giving him a playful poke in the ribs.
He catches my hand and moves it away.
"I'm only twenty-nine," he reminds me acidly, and I hide my smirk of satisfaction at having annoyed him under a mask of contriteness. "Anyway," he continues, "the point is that we have plenty of time down the road to think about throwing away our freedom on eighteen years of thankless slave labour to a bundle of noise, commotion, and selfish urges."
Well, we've already got one in the house; you just wouldn't be the only one anymore.
I'm very proud that I manage to bite that rather telling sentence off before I can utter it.
"I guess you're right," I sigh, stretching out on the rug next to him.
He lays back, relief that I have dropped the issue clear in his expression. He closes his eyes, and I take the opportunity to examine his face.
He looks good.
Very relaxed. Clean-shaven, dark eyebrows neatly plucked – Isaac is about the only man I know who would ever consider doing something like that; I've always thought it was kind of cute – a hint of a spicy cologne aftershave hanging about him.
Then he opens his eyes and looks up at me curiously. I continue to stare down at him, searching his eyes for any hint of guilt. Before I can decide whether what I see is guilt or merely evasion, he laughs.
"You look like you're trying to read my mind."
"Oh, yeah. Didn't I tell you?" I ask pertly. "I'm psychic."
"Really. So, what am I thinking about right now?"
I feel something slam harshly into my stomach – metaphorically, anyway. This is the realization that I could have Isaac trapped right where I want him, if I were so inclined. I could wall him in so neatly and sweetly that he would have no idea he was being trapped until he'd admitted to not only his own crimes, but to those of everyone in the surrounding neighbourhood. All it would take is a simple 'a young woman is on your mind…I see long, fair hair and big blue eyes…initials are A.H….she's goddamned rich…from what I can see, she's perfect in every way…hell, I'D have slept with her!'
On second though, maybe the subtle approach would be better. A little jab without giving him reason to suspect that I know anything.
"There is something weighing heavily on your mind…some dark secret," I tell him, still gazing deeply into his eyes and trying to make my voice sound spooky and mysterious.
He blinks once or twice, then laughs again. Is it my imagination, or does it sound a little forced.
"Don't be silly, Lucca. There's nothing on my mind."
We're both silent for a moment, and then, as the completely unintentional implications of his words hit me I explode into laughter.
Now, I'm willing to admit that I am as likely to suffer a nervous breakdown as anyone else. Under enough strain, I'm sure that I'm as prone to hysterics as any other woman. And I'd say that the last two days count abundantly as strain.
Certainly, my laughter right now must be more than a little wild, because before I know it, I've rolled over onto my back, tears streaming down my cheeks, from mirth for the first time, and Isaac has me by the shoulders, shaking me.
"Lucca!" he calls sharply.
Taking in a shaky breath, I try to sit up, wobble a little, and fall back against his arm, which he has considerately placed behind my back.
"What?" I ask nonchalantly, as though breaking down into hysterical laughter to the point of tears is something that I do several times a day, and he's a fool not to know this.
"Are you okay?" he asks slowly, running one hand soothingly through my hair and continuing to peer at me in deepest concern.
"Yeah, yeah, fine," I assure him hastily, now regretting my outburst.
"I think that trip from Porre might have been too much for you. And you've been working way too hard lately."
I shake my head, batting his arm away impatiently.
"Of course I haven't! And Porre's only a half-day's trip away."
"You have to know your limits, love," he says gently, preparing to stand. "I'll tell you what: I'm going to take you upstairs and run you a nice, warm bubble bath. Then you're going to go to bed, and I'm going to make sure you stay there."
"Hey, wait a second-"
He gives me no further chance to protest, and the next moment, the world is knocked off balance as he sweeps me into his arms and carries me unceremoniously up the stairs, despite my protests.
And protest I do.
I am proud to announce that I do not make this sort of macho behaviour easy for my husband. With all the squirming and twisting, I'm lucky I didn't set him off balance and send us both down the stairs toward impending injury.
Still, the recollection that I've forgotten to eat since yesterday at about nine-thirty in the morning, beyond a ridiculous quantity of alcohol and the few bites of Marle's gift of chocolate cake that I didn't splatter all over the floor, finally hits me along with a wave of exhaustion, and suddenly it seems like far more effort than it's worth to fight off this man with his infuriating tendency to think he knows what's best for me.
Before I know it, and almost with no idea how it came about, I'm in our decent-sized bathtub, up to my eyebrows in soapy, bubble-filled water that smells faintly of peaches and faintly of cinnamon. And faintly of raspberry. And faintly of citrus. And faintly of rose. And faintly of lilac.
I see.
It's the use-up-the-last-half-inch-of-twelve-different-bubble-baths-so-you-can-throw-out-the-bottles trick. Very clever.
Unfortunately, I've never been crazy about heavy perfumes, and before I know it, the blend of scents is making my head pound horribly. Combined with the soothing effect of warm water, it seems like a better and better idea to let my muscles take a break, slide into the water, and never be seen again.
Well, until Isaac broke down the door (which I made a point to lock the second he left) and found me scuba diving without any gear, in the worst possible place.
I'm sure Ariana would be there to help him over the grief of losing his wife to her own stupidity.
This thought makes me so furious that I resolutely drag myself out of the water and wrap myself in a thick, soft, navy blue towel. Once reasonably dry, I open the door.
I'm still not quite sure what makes me take extra care to do it in complete silence.
In the hallway overlooking the front entry, I hear something odd. My husband is at the front door, talking to someone in hushed, agitated tones.
"I know what I said, but now really isn't a good time for me! My wife's pretending she isn't feeling well, and she's expecting me to take care of her," he hisses to the mysterious visitor.
I grit my teeth, but remain silent.
From my vantage point, where I can watch the scene, as yet unnoticed, I hear a feminine voice say something. Is it just my imagination, or does it sound faintly wobbly with tears?
Resolutely hardening my heart toward this mysterious visitor (it doesn't take a genius to know who it is), I silently cross the hallway and enter our bedroom. Then, comb in hand, I proceed to seethe bitterly about what I've just witnessed: that Isaac would actually stoop to telling such lies to paint me as a selfish, demanding shrew, and that the little whore would have the nerve to show up here right now.
Does she think she's got him that firmly by the balls already?
Does she have him that firmly by the balls already?
Damn it…how long has this been going on?
I am distracted both from my ponderings and from the act of tugging the comb through my hair, by the bedroom door opening.
"Hi," Isaac says warmly, crossing the room to the dressing table (allegedly mine, but of infinitely more use to him) and hugs me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Feel better?"
"Much," I reply cheerfully. After all, it is true. When you're where I was, there's really not far left to fall.
He pulls the comb from my hand.
"Here, let me do that."
With a shrug that tries its hardest not to be resentful, I acquiesce. I must admit, it feels awfully nice.
In addition to his many other, dare I say, useless talents, my husband seems to be a skilled hair stylist.
Wisely, I keep this observation to myself.
I doubt he'd thank me for it, and I don't want to give him another reason to feel hurt and abused and justified in running to his other woman.
It seems, though, that I don't have to worry about it.
A moment later, he sets the comb down on the dresser, pulls me to my feet, and removes my towel. Then, just as I'm reflecting that things seem to be getting good, he goes over to the dresser, pulls out a nightgown, and takes the liberty of pulling it on over my head.
Of course, he chooses the most hideous one I own. This old flannel thing that I don't even wear unless I'm sick with the flu.
Then he pushes me gently toward the bed and takes even further liberties in – get this – actually tucking me in.
"I'm sorry, love," he murmurs mid-tuck. "I've got to run out and see someone."
Indeed! And who might this be? Suddenly his psychology in putting me in this flannel thing makes sense. The less appealing he makes me, the less guilty he feels about buggering off to spend time with the other girl. After all, he is an artist, with a keen sense of beauty. What a load of garbage. It's a shame he can't see the pile of shit that is his own soul.
Nevertheless, I manage to keep my burning resentment internalized rather well, considering. I merely smile sleepily at him and, after yanking off the nightgown and dropping it beside the bed (I think I'm allowed that much), give my pillow a sleepy snuggle just for effect.
He gives a fond laugh, lightly brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, and exits the room.
The second the sound of his footsteps grows faint and the door clicks shut behind him, I leap out of bed and dress hurriedly.
I know it's not going to help anything, but I have to know if he really is going to see her again.
I think a part of me already knows the answer.
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A/N: Thanks again to anyone who's still reading!