Page 64 of Shameless Vows

In the en suite, I fill the massive, clawfoot tub and roll the information over in my mind.

Iruinedus both. I shattered all the hopes and dreams that we’d had since childhood. Neither of us have a prayer of ever being happy like that again. I would venture to guess that even simple happiness is a pipe dream because now we’re trapped in this marriage, living with a constant reminder of whatwas. And we’re only trapped in this marriage because Malachi is committed to protecting me despite what I did.

Staring at the clear, colorless water while it slowly swirls and inches up the sides of the tub, I picture him at twenty years old, checking his phone, and seeing such text messages. I consider the panic and turmoil of being blindsided like that and not being able to get a hold of me. I remember the day my parents brought me home and the guttural drop of my stomach after briefly speaking to Malachi’s family. Because of that, I have a general idea of what he probably felt, but I’m sure it doesn’t even come close.

A searing pain slices across my chest, but I donotlet myself cry. I don’t deserve to cry. This was all my doing, regardless of my faulty brain wiping away the knowledge of it.

The water is now about halfway up the sides of the tub, and I wonder what Malachi would do if I drowned myself.

Would he be relieved, or would it only contribute to the pain I already inflicted upon him?

The only thing that keeps me from holding my own head under the water is the idea that it would cause even more complications that he shouldn’t have to deal with.

Instead, I reach for a glass bottle of luxury bath oil and pour some into the water, then stir my arm through it. I return to the side of the bed and wipe his face with the cloth once more before pulling back the sheet, revealing only black boxer briefs and thick, muscled thighs.

I slip my hand under one of his shoulders and give him a nudge. “Up, up,cariño.” The term of endearment is automatic and accidental, but he seems to respond to it, such is his state of delirium.

“Ugghh…” he grumbles, but slowly pushes himself up anyway. “This room is too fucking cold.”

I drape his arm around my shoulders, bracing him with all of my weight as I lead him toward the en suite. “The bath is nice and warm.”

We pause next to the bath and I prop him up with his shoulder against a wall, then strip off the boxer briefs. Fully naked, he is gloriously,beautifullymasculine, and every part of me hurts at the idea that I will never again be lovingly wrapped up in his large, solid, strong, fully encompassing embrace.

Standing behind him, I wrap my arms around his torso and turn him toward the bath. “Step in carefully.”

Malachi compliantly lifts one leg and then the other to step into the water, then all but drops himself to recline in the tub. The water splashes around him as he submerges himself up to his neck and lets his head fall to one side.

“Hmm.” His strong, tapered fingers do an absent flit through the water at his side. “Nice.”

I kneel next to the tub and dip one hand in, cupping the water in my palm, then pouring it through his hair. “I told you so.”

For long minutes, I pour water over his hair and comb it back with my fingers, staring at his face, all the while every manner of grief aches throughout me. Like I’m gripped with the deep, throbbing ache of fever as well.

Fresh grief over the most recent loss of an unborn baby. Old grief over the loss of the previous one. Brand new grief over the panging realization that the chasm in the universe that now separates Malachi and me is my own doing. Residual grief over the loss of the person I loved more than anything. Grief at the idea of what he endured at my hands.

The lump in my throat is large enough now to suffocate me, and I let the tears come silently. “I’m sorry, Malachi. With all my heart, I hope you know how sorry I am.”

“If you’re sosorry,” he mumbles with a slight edge to his subdued tone, “why did you file a fucking police report? What did you hope to accomplish with that?”

“Oh.” I swallow the lump and wipe my face with my dry hand as I recall the breakdown in communication that was forgotten in the chaos of the miscarriage. “I was trying to explain… I didn’t file the police report recently. I found an old email about a police report I filed years ago that I don’t remember filing. I apparently reported that my phone was stolen, and I don’t remember my phone being stolen. It all happened around the same time my parents told me I had started avoiding them before I…” I pause as shame grips me. “You know, when I got into trouble years ago. The officer says he can’t…”

My words trail off as Malachi’s eyes are suddenly wide open. “Are you oka—”

“When was this report filed?” he asks, mostly coherent for the first time since I came into his room.

I retract my hand from his hair as I peer at his curious expression. “October of 2010.”

He abruptly pushes himself upward to sitting and stares at the faucet. “What did the officer say about it?”

I reach for a towel to dry my hand. “Well, he said he can’t discuss the case over the phone due to the nature of it, and I’d have to go speak to him. Which is why I said I needed to go to New York.”

After a beat, Malachi turns his face toward me, pewter eyes wide and pupils restricted to tiny black specks. He is suddenly a lot paler. “We need to go to New York,” he declares with intensity that belies his otherwise sickly state, then grips the sides of the tub to start to push himself up.

“Malachi, no, don’t stand up,” I say, holding his wrist to urge him to lie back down. “You might faint if you stand quickly like that.” I tug his arm again. “We can’t go anywhere while you’re sick like this. But I do hope you don’t change your mind later when you—”

“I won’t.” He slips back under the water and reclines again, closing his eyes. “I knew nothing about this police report, neither did your father, and we need that information.”

I need that information, too, I want to say, but don’t. Instead, I merely look at my hands and nod. “Okay.”

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