Till death do us part
chapter 29
(c) 2024 by ihatemilk
_#
She locked the door behind them and, gripping the doorknob, she froze for a moment, breathing in the sudden silence of the hall. In the background, the record crackled softly, in between the songs.
He left.
And said nothing, didn't even look at her.
"Take care, honey," his sister said to her when they exchanged their goodbyes – like it was just a casual thing, having friends over for dinner – not like the last thirty minutes had fucked her up to the point where her chest hurt and she couldn't breathe; when only fantasizing about slitting her wrists soothed her.
"…if I can't have you…" Etta James kept singing; the last song on the record, she knew; she knew this album by heart. And now, he spoiled it for her, contaminated, with his fucking arrogant, mind-shatteringly maddening presence. Who the fuck did he think he was, to barge in here like that, unannounced.
She looked in the hall mirror, and then, with a frown, at the little shelf underneath – usually empty, now holding a red-and-white pack of smokes and a familiar-looking, copper zippo lighter.
Looking back in the mirror, she took out a cigarette and lit it up, blowing the smoke into her reflection to blur it, the lighter cool and heavy in her right hand. It had an engraving on it, a round symbol; like yin-yang but without the dots inside.
She looked back up in the mirror. She didn't want to look, but couldn't look away, either. Pathetic. She rubbed her finger against her lower lip, smearing the remaining bits of red lipstick down to her chin; there wasn't much of it left. She licked her fingertip and brushed her upper lip, closing her eyes as she took a shaky breath in; his taste still lingered, on her tongue, her palate. In her blood.
"…If I can't have you…" the last seconds of the record filled her ears as she wiped off the fresh, black smudges of mascara from her cheeks. At least she made it not to cry in front of him; would've been more than pathetic. Though, the drunk bits and pieces of what she'd said to him during their little talk were now making their way into her mind and making her cringe.
She took another hit, inhaling deep, too deep; it made her cough. No, she couldn't close her eyes, it made her head spin. Fucking hell, what was she thinking? She must've downed half a bottle – no, she couldn't think about it – and it was a big mistake to smoke now. When a sudden wave of nausea hit her, she hardly made it to the bathroom in time.
Having rinsed her mouth afterwards, she lifted her head and ended up looking at what she couldn't bear to see anymore. Yelling out a curse, she smashed the flawless, crystal surface with her fist, making it shatter into a shower of little sparkly pieces, now scattered all around the pale pink, marble sink and on the black floor tiles under her heels. Oh, there it was, her burned out cigarette, at her feet. She wondered where she left it.
Wincing, she inspected her right hand. How come this amount of blood only hurt like a little cut? The first-aid kit, where the hell was it – no – Bill – she was going to call Bill.
"Come over, now," she muttered and hung up.
Music. She needed music.
She walked to the vinyl player and set the record to play from the beginning. There it was, Etta James again; how she loved that song.
At last… my love has come along…
My lonely days are over… and life is like a song…
The doorbell rang.
Bill.
Bill had used to be a booty call. It was only recently that he became more. Bill was her safety net; safe, familiar, cozy; always there when no one else was; there to pick up the pieces after her encounters with Mr Unavailable.
She didn't have anyone else, really; she neither liked nor trusted people, not since her second marriage. Was it sad? She didn't have close friends. She didn't need them. Bill was enough. And now – she needed him, to come here and pick up the pieces, to make this nightmare end somehow.
What did she do wrong?
Nothing, this time. This time, she gave up, stepped away, backed off – even moved to another continent – and for what? She even started seeing her shrink again, to pull herself together and leave all of this behind.
No, this time – she did nothing wrong, and everything right; she was fucking proud of herself, that she managed to get herself functional again so fast after the whole pregnancy shit – she still couldn't believe she did that. But she was on meds now, and everything was fine.
Up until an hour ago.
The doorbell rang again.
She unlocked the door and took in the familiar silhouette, the face that now stared at her agape. "Bloody hell, you look—"
"I know what I fucking look like, Bill, I do have mirrors," she said annoyed, tightening the tie of her robe as she headed to the bathroom, Bill's footsteps behind her.
"Oh, I can see that," he said, and only the sarcasm in his voice drew her attention to the sink and the remnants of the mirror scattered all around the marble. "Julia, your hand, what the…"
She looked down; hell, she completely forgot about it. Funny that she couldn't even feel it. It was going to leave scars. Oh, screw it, she'll get it lasered.
"Bloody hell, you're completely hammered…"
"Jus' a bit." She closed her eyes, her head suddenly weighing a ton when he scooped her in his arms.
"Where're you going?" she asked, sobering up when he put her on the sofa and headed out of the room.
"To get the bloody first-aid kit – and please tell me you have one."
"Good luck with that," she muttered, letting her head sink into the cushion.
"You've got to be joking," Bill's agitated voice resounded somewhere far away, mixing with Etta James, until it faded out entirely. She cast a tired glance towards the vinyl player, the thought that the record would eventually stop spinning suddenly weirdly depressing.
Then again, what wasn't.
Bill wasn't.
Bill was good. He was good to her. It was him she should love. Why couldn't she? Maybe she could.
She scoffed, bitterness overcoming her. Sure she could – as long as she stopped closing her eyes and replacing him with the face of the man who only just left her here to die, who didn't deserve a second of her time, not even a particle of her heart, not a glimpse of her thoughts; the man who – if he came here now and said he was hers, she could as much as not even see or hear from Bill anymore, or anyone else for that matter, for all she cared.
Bill came back, dressed her wound, held her when watching him do it made her burst into tears.
And then, pushed her away. When she closed her eyes and reached to pull him close, to kiss him, he pulled away.
"I can't do it anymore, Julia."
Her eyes snapped open, some strange panic flooding her. "What do you mean?"
"This. Kiss you after you just sucked him off."
She took a breath in, slightly caught off guard by his tone. This wasn't Bill. "Never bothered you before," she smirked in disbelief.
"Well, I'm sorry, I'm not your bloody band-aid for whatever wounds he inflicted."
"That's all very poetic of you, Bill, but I just want you to fuck me."
"No, you want that worthless prick to fuck you – you want to close your eyes, ask me to be rough, while you imagine it's him—"
"Bill, it's not—"
"You're full of shite."
"I'm done with him," she said with effort.
"Is that why your lipstick's all over your face? That's how he said goodbye?"
She cast her eyes down, her throat closing up, the events from an hour ago coming alive in her mind.
"Hey…" his voice resounded close to her, his arms going around her, cradling her when she started sobbing and couldn't stop, until it turned into a damn waterfall. "I'm a knob, I'm sorry," he sighed somewhere around her ear, the warmth of his voice making her cry more, the strength of his embrace making her feel so utterly helpless that the thought he'd now let go of her made her stomach clench with panic.
She must have drifted off, because when she opened her eyes, the room was quiet, and Bill wasn't there.
Fervently, she pawed around the sofa in search of her phone, pressed number 1 on speed-dial, and waited.
Bill always picked up when she rang.
She didn't try the second time.
Not thinking what she was doing, she tapped on another entry instead.
#
The phone kept buzzing.
She didn't mean to spy, but her head turned towards the coffee table automatically, and the screen brightness was set so high that even on the terrace lit with the midday, Dubai sun, the caller ID was too prominent not to catch the eye.
Closing her eyes, she clutched the outer edges of her laptop. She couldn't think about it now. She couldn't. She should take a deep breath, then another, and focus on the screen in her lap, the work email she was in the middle of writing. Which was pretty hard when what she wanted most was answer the damn phone, then walk back inside, drag him from under the shower and stuff it down his damn throat.
She would've ignored it, would've managed, maybe – before Greece, she might have. But not now, not after they were on vacation together and he disappeared on her, to go to fucking New York of all places, and got back shitfaced as she'd never seen him – not after it had taken all of her strong will to sweep it under the rug and keep it there for now, when she couldn't afford to let it affect her – but gods, she would've grabbed a fistful of those red locks and smashed that bitch's pretty little face into a pulp right now—
She grabbed the phone, tapped on the green button and brought it to her ear. And froze, grimace on her face, as the wave of sniffling, sobbing sounds filled her ear. Caught off guard, she pressed the red receiver and put the phone down. A moment later, his steps resounded in the living room.
Trying to ignore the distracting view of him dripping wet with just a skimpy, black towel around his hips, she forced herself to focus her gaze on the laptop screen.
"Missed me?" he asked playfully, joining her on the sofa.
"I'm not the only one, apparently." She couldn't help herself. With eyes narrowing, she watched out of the corner of her eye, as he instantly reached for the phone in front of him; son of a bitch.
He was browsing through the phone, frowning. "You answered it?" he neither asked nor stated, his frown deepening.
"Why, do you have the monopoly on talking to her? She's my acquaintance, too, from what I remember," she said, and watched his jaw twitch, his chest rising in a deep breath. In another situation, in another lifetime, two thousand years ago, she would've enjoyed it, seeing him cornered like that, quivery almost. Right now, her fury mixing with sadness, she just wanted to grab him and cut his tongue out; and she wouldn't have enjoyed that, either; even if it was the only way not to hear him lie again.
The worst part was – she wanted to hear him rush with excuses, something, anything – anything but seeing that little shade of fear in his eyes, like she caught him red-handed.
Drawing a slow, deep breath, she shut the laptop close and headed back inside.
"Xena, wait…"
She scoffed, passing him by. "Ain't you gonna ask what she told me?" Then, after a silent while, she added, "Oh, so you know, then. Well, better call her back, she sounded like it was pretty urgent."
From the corner of her eye, she saw his fists clenching in the air before he grabbed his head.
She was surprised, actually; that he didn't snap as he normally would have; that she didn't, either. In fact, oddly, her anger subsided entirely. Well, it was a good thing; the child shouldn't suffer because of him.
Wiping her face with the back of her hand, she headed to her place upstairs. Gods, those stairs were never-ending; she broke into a sweat when she finally reached her bedroom. Cursing herself for leaving the laptop on the terrace, she collapsed on the bed and didn't fight it when her lids got heavy.
"It's gonna be okay," she whispered, her hand going to her stomach when she felt a slight stir inside. "It's gonna be fine. We'll figure it out, you and I."
#
It was the most blissful feeling; she didn't want to lift her eyelids in fear it'll stop.
Then, it all crumbled as she opened her eyes; like a bucket of cold water. She snatched her foot from his hands, his touch suddenly off-putting.
"Don't touch me," she said, blinking several times to disperse the tears forming.
"Xena, I…"
"Don't say it."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't."
"I was drunk, I didn't know what I was doing—"
"What?" she asked weakly, then huffed at the irony of it. "I don't know what you were doing, either – she didn't tell me anything, she just cried over the phone."
"What?"
"But now that you mention it, I'm all ears," she said flatly, bewildered by how calm and poised she managed to remain. Then, all air left her lungs as she connected the dots. "By the gods, what the fuck did you do to her…"
"I haven't done anything to her, she's insane… Xena, we can't do this, it's dangerous in your condition—"
"Well, maybe you should've thought about it before you stuck your dick in her."
"I didn't—"
"Spare me the details." She closed her eyes, feeling her control slipping. Cheating was one thing, but the fact that he would jeopardize their child's life like that was a blow that hit so hard she felt she was a hair-width away from losing it. "Leave," she said, closing her eyes on the exhale, forcing herself to breathe evenly, wiping her chin, ticklish from the tears she didn't try to stop anymore.
"I'm not leaving you like this."
"You already did," she uttered, squeezing her eyes shut, new pair of tears tickling her face, her pride cracking under the wave of sudden misery flooding her chest and stomach.
Then, it crumbled entirely, when she felt herself being locked in his arms; his embrace, his touch on her head so desperate that it made her break down completely; and, in spite of herself, she melted into him, his touch both burning and soothing, frustrating.
After a while, she pulled away.
To think she tried to trust him, to believe he could change; gods, what an idiot she was. But she couldn't do it now, now she needed to focus on what was the most important matter at hand.
"Leave," she said; it came out quieter than she meant to.
He said nothing.
She sniffled, seeing his eyes well up, and felt her own tears forming anew. "If you care about this child at all, just leave." She pushed back against the pillows, her lids pressing together.
"I'll be downstairs," he said, the softness of his voice feeling like a stab to the chest.
"I won't," she said bitterly, once the door closed behind him.