Cory
IN A million years, I could never tire of looking at him.
I watched, almost studiously, the rise and fall of my husband’s sculpted chest as he slept the late afternoon away, his stomach full of turkey and everything that had accompanied it, his heart filled with love of his newly gained family. He slept peacefully in the knowledge that he was loved, that he belonged. Wherever he and I were together, that very place was Brett’s home.
Today had been picture-perfect, aside from the dark cloud with Steven Percy’s name on it that seemed to follow me everywhere lately. My father, thrilled that I had come home for the holiday, had bonded with me over the baking of potatoes, the steaming of vegetables, the creation of a pumpkin pie. My husband, in charge of the turkey, had escaped downstairs to the pub to visit with his former bosses while the oven did its part. Then we’d eaten together and had spoken with my dad of our love, of our wedding, of our future. There had been time for football, for a few games of cards, for talking about how things had been, how things were going to be. Like a real family would do.
I ran my hand lightly over the muscular ridges and the striking V-shape of his abdomen; Brett certainly was stunningly made. I tangled my little finger into a fuzzy tuft of the blond hair that spattered his powerful chest, and then I raised my eyes to his face. Those perfect features were loose and relaxed in slumber; golden waves draped across my pillow. This fine-looking and deep-feeling man, right now a portrait of tranquility and satisfaction, was mine to keep forever.
As the afternoon progressed, I’d started to feel a sense of inner peace that I had thought lost to me. I’d felt better about my, well, I guess you could call it my predicament. The food, the family, the football… they all blended together to induce within me a feeling of safety. Of normalcy. And so I’d made a decision: there would be no more secrets between Brett and me. I’d tell him about the e-mails, and we’d solve this problem together.
But how exactly do I bring up the topic without rocking the boat hard enough to capsize it?
I’d struggled for so long with my dilemma that when I glanced over at Brett, I saw that he had dozed off on my bed. So I checked my assignments online, and then I made the stupid mistake of checking some more of my newly received, now less-than-mysterious e-mails. I mean, I couldn’t ignore them. Could you? Each e-mail was a threat to my life, to my safety, to my future. And it had become an addiction of sorts: my need to know what tactic Steven Percy would use next in this game of mental torture that he’d designed exclusively for me. But when I read today’s e-mail, all hell broke loose in my mind.
“IF YOU LIKE YOUR PRETTY BUSBOY KEEP HIM OUT OF THIS. I’D HATE TO HAVE TO HURT HIM TOO. ENJOY YOUR TURKEY.”
And that’s how my picture-perfect day came to its speedy conclusion.
This latest message put an end to any consideration I’d given to sharing my fears with Brett. If I talked, Brett would suffer. And Brett was not going to suffer any more because of me. I wouldn’t let that happen.
Steven Percy was coming back to finish what he’d started with me last summer.
With me.
Not with Brett…
With me.
Me.
I snuggled down against my husband’s side where I knew I was safe.
For the moment.