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“Fuck’s sake. I thought you were different.” He looks at the ring in his hand and then closes his fingers around it, forming a fist.
The soft laughter lines around his eyes that I thought were attractive have been replaced with deep, etched grooves as he scowls.
He towels off his chest and abs roughly, his limp dick flailing around between his legs as he grabs his boxers and forces his feet into them. I never noticed how wrinkly and loose his balls are before. They slap against his inner thigh before he yanks his boxers up over his hips. I look at his face. His eyes have lost their twinkle, and he’s staring at me with a hard, cold detachment.
I stare back.
He exhales with a deep groan, rubbing his hands down over his face. “I’m sorry, baby. I shouldn’t have said it like that. It’s not your fault.” He drops his hands and holds them, palms facing up as he looks at me. His eyes have softened to the way he usually looks at me. The way that made me feel cared for. But I can’t unsee who he is. I feel sick. Sick and used.
I press my fingers to my lips, warding off a rising swell of nausea as he keeps talking.
“I should have told you. We’re separated. We have been for months. But things were going so well between you and me, and I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“You’re married,” I state.
“Separated,” he snaps as he grabs his shirt from the back of a chair and drags it over his head.
“But not yet divorced.”
“Separated,” he repeats.
“Is that the only word you can say?”
“Jesus, Soph. Don’t be a bitch.” He glares at me.
“Me?” My calm exterior snaps, my blood pressure spiking as I point at him. “I’m not the one with a wedding ring in my pocket. I’m not the one waking up in someone else’s bed on my wedding anniversary. How many years?”
“What?”
“How many years would you have been married today? It’s your anniversary, after all.”
“I’m not fucking doing this.” He turns his back on me and strides out of the room.
I follow him into my living area and bark the question at him over and over again while he grabs his shoes and sits on the sofa, yanking them on.
“How long?” I hiss.
“We’re separated. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Right. Because separated men still wear their wedding bands, then take them off and put them in their pockets when they’re seeing their girlfriends.” My eyes drop to the glinting gold band that he’s already slipped back onto his left hand, like a habit he can’t break, and I snort. “I’m not stupid.”
“You’re acting like it.”
“What was all this?” I throw my arms wide, the realization that I might be the mistress sinking in. “Sex on the side? Am I the only one or are there more?” The feeling of being used is quickly overtaken by dread. We stopped using condoms a couple of weeks ago. Things were going well and I’m getting the injection. It seemed like the next step.
I was really trying at this whole relationship thing. Stupid.
Henry finishes tying one shoe and moves to the other. He yanks on the lace too hard and it snaps. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. “Yes, you’re the only fucking one.” He looks up at me, his jaw tightening. “I want to be with you.”
He abandons his shoe, leaving the stubby, broken lace loose and flapping as he stands. I can’t help but liken it to the sight of his flaccid dick flopping about as he tried to pull his underwear on.
I raise my eyes to his, and it’s obvious in the shift in his stance, the slight pause before he swallows, the way his eyesdart to the right before he can meet mine.Guilt.I’ve seen it a million times in the courtroom.
“You’re not separated.” I breathe out slowly, tipping my head back before bringing my eyes back to his face.
“We are.” He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine before lifting them to his lips.
I hold my breath as he kisses my knuckles with his warm lips.
