Page 22 of Beautiful Life

Chapter 6 – It’s a New Year

Leigh

I pull into his drive. I’ve only been here once with Gabby over a year ago. Tony lives about ten minutes from Gabby in a newer subdivision. His home is a story and a half with cream stone and neutral trim. The front door is arched, distressed and stained dark with a tiny little window at the top crisscrossed with heavy decorative iron bars. I press the fancy lever and knock as I open it while calling, “Tony?”

“In here,” he yells from somewhere deep in the house.

Clearly having been here before, Mia shoots inside to find someone new to love and pet her. I move in slower, taking in his relatively largish house. It looks different at night. All the woodwork is off white, but the staircase is stained the same rich color as the floors with iron spindles and curves as it ascends up to the second floor. I move over the distressed wood floors through the foyer past an empty room with a great oblong chandelier. The room is empty but will evidently be a dining room someday.

Opposite the dining room is his home office with French doors that houses a desk with a sleek chair behind it, a laptop and is a mess with papers. Tony obviously works from home. But what catches my eye is the very cool, very oversized piece of art on the wall in back of his desk. It’s a blueprint of a motorcycle in dark grey with blue tints. I try not to think about how this room represents him. A young, up and coming attorney, yet still embracing what he loves in life. I don’t know how I could forget Tony had a motorcycle, but then again, it hasn’t been motorcycle weather. I can’t let myself think about Tony on a bike. Or even worse, me on Tony’s bike pressed up against Tony. I don’t need anything else to add to my list of things I’m missing out on. The past two weeks have been miserable enough.

Tony has a great house, he must be doing well at the firm. He’s only twenty-nine, not quite a year older than me. I make my way into the great room where lamps are turned on here and there, the light low glowing off the walls. I can’t tell what color the walls are but they aren’t cream, white, grey or beige. Whatever they are, they’re light and work perfectly with the dark browns, blues, and greys he has everywhere.

I hesitantly walk further into his house, dreading seeing him because I know it’s going to hurt like hell. I move toward the great room with a clean lined leather sofa, two club chairs on one side in smoky blue facing a white love seat. This is all focused around one of the thinnest and oversized televisions I’ve ever seen. And that’s saying something because Preston really liked his electronics. It’s hung on the wall above an industrial looking metal console table with old rustic wood inlaid in the metal.

I turn to look through to the kitchen and there he is.

He’s standing behind a big rectangular island in an old t-shirt that looks as if it has been washed a million times and reads “Washburn Law”. His jeans are just as worn but I can tell even from where I’m standing they fit him perfectly. His hair is messier than normal, his skin tone healthy again, just as olive and beautiful as I remember with his eyes just as bright and almost black.

He looks good, too good. So good it hurts, worse than I ever imagined from not seeing him for two weeks. He takes my breath away. The last time I saw him he was lying in ICU, had just been shot, underwent major surgery and had an organ removed. Standing in front of me now full of life, looking like his old self is almost painful. A pain that feels like a knife in my core, twisting and ripping through me, an excruciating reminder of how much I’ve missed him.

I shouldn’t have come.

I should’ve just called him an ambulance.

“Gem,” he states, his voice rough.

I look away, because that hurts, too. I need to get this done and go. Get away from him.

My voice sounds small and I move closer. “Let me see your incision, Tony. You might need antibiotics.”

“I don’t need antibiotics.”

I stop immediately across the island from him and frown. “But it could be infected. That’s what it sounded like from your text.”

“It kills me,” he says low but strange and I realize he hasn’t moved. He’s standing stalk still, his body ridged, as if he’s trying to control himself.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Kills me,” he repeats, but not as softly this time. “It kills me you took yourself away from me. I was shot, Leigh, and you took yourself away from me.”

I pull in a breath because I deserve that. “I’m sorry.”

He raises his voice. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I thought it was for the best. You had your family.”

“Two weeks, Leigh. You didn’t come to me. Wouldn’t answer my calls. Not even a fucking text,” he bites out angrily.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, but I can hardly hear by own voice this time. My heart is starting to pound in my chest, I’m not used to Tony being angry. For months he’s been nothing but sweet, kind, and gentle. But not anymore. He’s pissed and it’s all directed at me.

“I was shot, but you know what? That wasn’t the worst part. Do you want to know what was more painful than a bullet to my gut?” he asks leaning forward, putting emphasis on his words with his body as well as his voice. “That I’m only ten minutes away from you and I have no fucking idea if you’re okay. If you’re dreaming. Dreaming dreams that haunt you, Leigh. I saw it every time you had one and I came to you. But you took yourself away from me in every way.” He raises his voice even further, piercing through his big quiet house and yells while slamming his hand to the counter in front of him. “For two fucking weeks, I don’t know if you’re okay!”

I feel my chest rising with my labored breathing and pounding heart. I’ve got to get out of here. Escape. He can’t do this. He needs someone better, someone who can be normal and he can be happy with. I’ll never be able to be that for him.

“I know what you’re doing, but I can’t be with you, Tony,” I say.

“Why the hell not?” he yells.

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