Page 82 of Takedown

“Let’s hear it anyway,” Alex says.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath and continue. “Other than yesterday, things have been really great between us. I freaked out those first few days, but I love being married to him. There isn’t a single thing that I don’t love. But that’s when I thought we were equals. Both of us working together, joining our bank accounts, and making plans for the future. We’re by no means struggling, but I wanted us to share everything. Build together, you know what I mean?” They both nod in understanding. “Now that’s not the case anymore, and I don’t know where or if I fit in. His family is kind of out of my league. I’ve spent the entire morning googling them. Adam is way out of my league now.”

“Mellie, he’s still Adam. The guy who didn’t have matching dishes and ugly furniture. The guy with the nice mom and crazy uncle. He’s still the same guy who's been waiting for you to fall in love with him. And girl, you’re good enough. I know that’s what this is really about. Youareenough. You’re smart enough. Successful enough. Beautiful enough.” Ananda snakes an arm around my waist. “I don’t make friends with basic bitches. You slay, Mellie.” She grabs both my shoulders and gives me a shake. “And I understand about wanting to build something together. I get it. But you can still do that. Take that fifty million and help him turn it into five hundred million.”

“Yeah,” Alex says. “What she said.” They hug me again, and I let my insecurities go. At least for now.

“Are you going to feed us? I came all the way over here, and we know you can afford it.” Ananda opens my fridge and pulls out three bottles of water.

“Greedy ho,” I say to her while I grab all the takeout menus out of a drawer.

42

Instead of going home to talk to Mel once school let out, I drive in the opposite direction. Straight down Commonwealth Avenue. I honk my horn at a guy wearing a Boston University hoodie who decides to run in front of my truck while I have the green light. Impatient little asshole.

The heavy rain slows traffic down, and it takes me twice as long before I turn down Botolph Street. Of course, this is where he would be. One of the most ostentatious neighborhoods in the city. I haphazardly park my car in front of the brownstone, the biggest one on this street. I take the stairs two at a time until I reach his door and pound my fist on the hardwood, ready to kick the fucking thing in if someone doesn’t answer soon. I thought if I slept on it, I’d be less angry when I woke up this morning. I was wrong. The anger only festered overnight. It ate at me. Add in sexual frustration, and you have a perfect storm.

I check my phone, and there are no messages from Mel. She was there physically last night and this morning, but she’s withdrawn completely. She barely ate the breakfast I made for her. And I can’t read her mind, but I can read her expressions. She barely looked at me this morning, and despite how comfortable the couch is and how easily I can fall asleep, I spent the entire night awake, staring at the ceiling and missing my wife’s warm body next to mine.

I pound on the door again. I look around the quiet street and notice there isn’t a single person outside. Not even a jogger or a nanny pushing the stroller of a trust fund baby. When no one answers the door, I kick it, and right before my foot strikes for the second time, it swings open. I push my way inside and slam the door so hard, the fucking townhouse rattles.

The asshole who wrecked my life stands in front of me. The temper I’ve barely held at bay boils over. I grab him by his collar and push him against the wall so hard, the pictures shake.

He stands there, making no moves to push me away from him. He arches his eyebrows as if he’s waiting for me to either strike or talk. I plan on doing both.

“I fucking told you I didn’t want anything to do with you,” I hiss. I don’t let him go, but I take a small step back to give him enough space to throw a punch. I can’t find it in me to look into those familiar eyes, so I look past his shoulder and wait for him to hit me first. All he has to do is throw one punch to give me an excuse to unleash my rage.

“I told you I didn’t accept that.” I make a fist and he chuckles. The fucking asshole has the nerve to laugh at me.

“I don’t care whether you accept it or not. It’s not about what you want. I’m not a shiny new toy for you and your sister to play with. I’m a real person, and you don’t walk into my life and blow it up. I’ve always known about you, and I’ve never reached out. What does that tell you?”

This time he shoves me away, and I stumble back. I don’t stumble for long. I step closer and punch the wall so hard, I know I’ve either broken a knuckle or at the very least, bruised it.

“It tells me you thought we wouldn’t want anything to do with you, so you decided to reject us first.” His calm voice takes the wind out of my sails, but I still refuse to acknowledge the partial truth to his words.

“Stay away from me and my wife,” I say. “Or I swear to God, I will pound your fucking face through that wall.”

“Try it,” he taunts. I step back and he shoves my chest, almost daring me to hit him.

“You don’t get to walk into my life and blow it up. She kicked me out of the fucking bedroom after your impromptu visit. You think it’s been fun walking around with blue balls all fucking day?” I don’t know what prompted me to say that, and I wish I could take the words back. No part of me wants to give this guy even the tiniest glimpse into my personal life. A small laugh escapes him, and he does his best to wipe the smile off his face, but can’t.

“First, I don’t have anything to do with your balls. Second, I told you I was coming. But if you came here to fight, do it. Hit me. What are you waiting for?” He’s tall, but I have about an inch on him. He’s fit, but I’m younger and I’m trained. It wouldn’t take much. I doubt he could get a punch in, but his face and voice remind me so much of my father, I take a step back. I was completely unprepared for that. Our father’s been dead for five years, but I hadn’t seen him for three years before he passed away. Despite being in his seventies the last time I saw him, Ethan is his spitting image, only younger.

I step closer and push him against the wall again. He stands there much too calm for the situation.

“I came here looking for a fight,” I tell him.

“I know.”

“Give me one. You look so much like him I’m dying to rearrange your fucking face. Say something. Do something to make me hit you.”

“There’s no denying that we’re both his sons,” he says.

“I’m nothing like him.”

“Neither am I. Not in any way that matters.”

“Back away,” a feminine voice says from behind me. She’s a short black woman, the same one I saw photos of online, but she’s prettier in person. Despite her smaller stature, something about her reminds me of Mel. I ignore her and focus on the prick in front of me instead. “I said back away,” she says again.

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