Page 60 of Shameless Vows

But after only twenty minutes of conversation with Ernesto, learning the background of the mystery texter he was able to decipher from the information I offered, and the arrangement of a meeting the following day, I already knew I wasn’t going to marry her.

I was going to marry Isla. Just like I always intended to, except now the reason was the polar opposite of what I’d always believed.

I offered Elena a warm, appreciative smile. “Absolutely.”

MALACHI

Present

SHE IS STILL.

Still sleeping. Still pallid. Still trembling slightly, even in her slumber. But mostly, she’s just motionless, flat on her back in bed, dressed in a fresh nightgown, tucked under the sheet and blanket, her long, full, black eyelashes matted wet with tears, even in her sleep.

It’s somehow worse this time. And I don’t know why.

Maybe it was because she was totally unconscious for a good thirty minutes. Maybe it’s because I likely caused it by dragging her down the hall and down the stairs. Maybe it’s because, despite being married, we are definitivelynotin this together this time. Maybe it’s because there’s no hope for anything good in the aftermath this time.

Maybe it’s because of all of those things.

I don’t know anything except that I’m sitting here next to her bed, angry and broken andwishingthat none of this was the way it is.

She’s still sleeping, but I’m still here, shattered and with a fucking lump in my throat, because none of it had to be this way, and I just want to be twenty years old again.

I want to be a kid again because few things hurt as much as a situation like this, and I just wantmy Islaback, because when everything in the world was wrong,shewas alwaysright.Wewere alwaysright,andokay,andhappyas long as we were together.

I miss her.

She’s lying right there only inches from where I’m sitting, and yet, she’s not really there. She’s not the person I loved for my entire life. And I haven’t felt this alone since I ran off to New Zealand for a year.

She’s still sleeping, she can’t see or hear me, and nobody else is in here, anyway, and so I simply let go.

Sitting on the edge of a chair, I lean forward, shoulders hunching, and as my forehead makes contact with the bed next to her hip, I let go. Just like on the shore of that lake in Milton Sound, albeit silently, I let go.

Tears soak the bed linens. My breath draws in and out raggedly. My throat becomes raw. And I once again grieve the loss of so many things that were such an innate part of my heart and soul that without them, I feel like I’ve lost both. The loss of everything she and I had is what turned me into this heartless, soulless monster, and the loss of this now feels like it will simply kill me.

“Isla,why…?” Quiet words drain from my lips, but it doesn’t matter because she can’t hear me anyway. “Why did you have to do this? How could you do this to me? What happened to you? None of it had to be this way. What more could you possibly have wanted or needed? I don’t understand you.”

Even above my own intensifying, rare release of my emotions, I can hear her quiet, steady breathing, and I am suddenly so angry that I could grab one of the pillows and smother her to death. But I don’t do that because the hate I have for this woman is merely my love turned inside out. Even though it shows itself ashate, I know the root of all of it is that I’ve never loved anything in the world as much as I loved her. And that never went away. Something like that doesn’t go away. It only causes you to suffer while it remains.

So, I don’t smother her. I don’t fucking strangle her in her sleep. I lift my face only long enough to rest my cheek on her flat abdomen. Flat because the second baby didn’t survive either. The third death of something she and I created together. Two unborn babies, and one lifetime of love and joy that never materialized. None of them meant to be.

“Why, Isla? How could you do this to me? How could you… how could you… how could you…?”

My words string together amidst a series of hitched, ragged breaths for so long that I lose track of time, until I feel a delicate, gentle hand stroking the back of my head, accompanied by a quiet, labored voice.

“I’m sorry, Malachi.” Fingers combing through my hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about this and everything. I never wanted to hurt you. I wish I could tell you why, but I just don’t know. And I’m just so sorry.”

Hollow platitudes do little for anyone, let alone me, but somehow right now, they only manage to break me down even further. The tears spill out with even greater intensity, and her nightgown is soaked with them, and I have to hold my breath to restrain my guttural sobbing.

“I’m sorry, Malachi.” The gentle hand continues to stroke my head and my exposed cheek in a fruitless attempt to comfort me. “I’m so sorry. None of this is what I wanted. And I would do anything to fix it all. I miss what we had. I miss you. I wish I could fix it. I wish I could fix it. You didn’t deserve any of this. I’m just so sorry. I will be sorry for the rest of my life.”

I can’t listen to this anymore, and I pick up my head. Isla lifts her other hand, both of them still shaking like dried up autumn leaves ready to make their descent, and frames my face with her palms. I’m forced to look at her face.

She’s so pale and looks even more frail than usual, but apparently, I’m even more physically weak than she is, and her limited strength overrides mine as she holds me in place while I stare at her.

Her bottom lip is quivering as much as her hands; dark, elegant brows drawn together in a deep V; tears spilling down her colorless cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

I can feel the tremble of my own chin and the wetness between the connection of her palms and my cheeks. “Your words are futile.”

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