Chapter 13

Thirteen

Haden

Isit in bed, unable to sleep, staring at the blank wall as each minute drags on.

Beside me, my phone lays with unanswered texts and missed calls.

Where the hell is she?

She texted me hours ago, telling me that Cassandra was taking her out for a few drinks. That was at five. It’s now past one in the morning.

My resentment toward Cassandra grows deeper than I had ever anticipated. Professionally, she challenges every decision I make which becomes increasingly annoying. Decisions I make from a business perspective are always heavily thought out before anything becomes final. If, at any time, I am unsure, I have a highly-paid management team to guide me.

Yet, she undermines me every fucking time. In some ways, I push Presley to work with her because they have a past friendship, and she can act as the buffer.

I just didn’t expect that friendship to extend after hours when Presley should be home with me.

There’s a loud bang, followed by slamming of the front door. Thank fuck Masen isn’t home. The heavy footsteps click against the floorboards until our bedroom door swings wide open.

“You’re awake.” She rests her body against the door frame, unsteady as she fumbles in her purse. When she finds her phone, she attempts to unlock it, twice, before stumbling to the bed and sitting beside me. Unthinkingly, she falls back onto the pillow with an exhausted sigh.

“Oh look, you called me,” she slurs, the smell of alcohol lingering on her breath. “Ten times. Wow, that’s a lot of calls. What was the emergency?”

Clenching my jaw, I try to rein in my frustration knowing it will go unnoticed. “Presley, at least take off your jacket and shoes.”

Sitting beside her, I remove the white linen blazer she is wearing, then begin unbuckling the strap of her wedges, tossing them onto the floor.

“If you want to see me naked, all you have to do is ask.”

“Trust me, I don’t,” I half-lie.

There is fun-drunk Presley, and then there Presley of late. Presley who flinches every time I try to touch her. The same Presley who has distanced herself, much like I have, in an effort to deal with the unexpected loss.

Presley flashes a flirtatious smile and shifts closer to me. “You smell good.”

I’m trying not to get sidetracked at our close proximity, still angry about her disregard for my feelings, but I can’t help it. I miss her so much. Things between us are always so tense, we can never agree on anything, and all we seem to do is argue. Nothing I do for her is ever good enough.

“You’re drunk.”

She giggles. “And you know what else I am? I’m fine. I’m so fine that Charlie and Lex are having another baby. I mean, some people are lucky. Life just falls perfectly at their perfect feet with their perfect house and perfect kids. Everything is just so goddamn perfect for them.”

Letting out a sigh, I somehow know this out-of-character drunken night out has something to do with this. During my panic of not hearing a peep from Presley, I called Lex. He mentioned Charlie had seen her this afternoon, told me about their news, and how Charlie was concerned about Presley. I’ll admit, it hurt, knowing they are expanding their family given it was a so-called ‘accident.’ They didn’t want any more children, but nonetheless, I congratulated them because it’s still a blessing in disguise.

I should know better.

Presley is quick to tell me she’s fine, has moved on, but she’s my wife. I know she is putting up a front. I just don’t know how to deal with it. So much like her, I bury my head into work to forget this ever happened.

“You need sleep.”

Presley’s eyes begin to droop as she drifts to sleep, her gentle snores follow soon after.

I toss and turn, barely getting any sleep. At four in the morning, I give up, placing on my workout gear and runners, off for an early morning run, then a session at the gym.

When I get home, I shower, tidy the house making it as presentable as I can for the open house. I know it isn’t to Presley’s standards, but it has to do. With a freshly brewed coffee, I take a cup into the room along with two Advils and sit at the edge of the bed.

“Presley, wake up.”

She stirs, groaning as she turns to lay on her back. Her curly hair is a wild mess, splayed out all over the pillow.

“Presley, the realtor will be here in an hour. You need to get out of bed.”

The corner of her eye half opens, the other following with much difficulty. As she begins to sit up, clutching onto her forehead while cringing, I hand her the coffee.

“The house,” she strains. “I have to get up and clean…”

“All done.”

Her shoulders slump while she stares silently at the coffee.

“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?” I ask, unable to control myself. Surely, she has to believe her behavior is not fucking okay despite the circumstances.

“There’s nothing to talk about. We went to Melrose, had a few drinks, and chatted about college.”

“A few drinks?” I exhale, surprised by her delusion. “You were beyond wasted. So badly, you couldn’t even answer my calls or texts. Unless, of course, you were ignoring me.”

“I didn’t hear my phone, okay? And so… I had a few drinks. Big deal. It’s not like you don’t go drinking with Noah when you’re away from work and God knows what else you get up to.”

I drag my hands through my hair repeatedly, trying to control my mounting frustration toward her. “So, this is all my fault now? You know I’d never do anything to jeopardize our marriage. I fucking love you. So why is this all of a sudden an issue that I go out with Noah?”

“Because it’s a double standard. I want to go out, too. I don’t want to be cooped up here every night being your slave.”

I hop off the bed, standing with my arms folded. I’ve just spent two hours tidying the house, so she could sleep in after her wild night now only for her to repay me by criticizing my every move. Fuck this.

“You know what? If I have a choice between you and my friends, I always choose you. Those work trips shouldn’t matter since you’re at home.”

“Exactly. I’m at home being the good little housewife, being the mother while you go do your thing.”

I throw my hands in the air, pacing the small area in our room with a scrunched-up face only to release to regain some calm. “What is this, Presley. What do you want?”

“I want…” she pauses. “I want to shower.”

She climbs out of bed, and before she walks away, I grab her arm, stopping her movement. “I’m sorry, okay? For whatever it is I’m doing wrong. You can talk to me.”

With her stare planted on the floor, I sense her body stiffen at my touch. Her cold stance begins to eat away at me, exposing the vulnerable side only she can ever see. Our relationship begins to feel compromised, though alone, I try to ignore the sinking feeling that this is just the beginning.

That the woman, I love, is slowly pulling away from me.