Page 2 of Finding Haven
“Where the fuck have you been?” she growls through gritted teeth, spinning around to face me. She leans her slender body back against the countertop, her arms crossing over her chest as she waits for my response.
I don’t have the strength to tell her. I honestly don’t think she would even care. She has always hated my friendship with Ryan, claiming that I spend more time with him than I do her. Considering she never wants to hear about the darker aspects of my job, can she blame me? I don’t enjoy discussing the horrible things I witness far more frequently than any person should have to. There are times when I just need to get everything off of my chest, and she’s never once given me the space to do that.
Death definitely falls into the “do not discuss” category.
Regardless of whether it was a civilian or a colleague of mine, she would find some way to spin it as just another excuse for me not being home when she wanted me to be. She would likely spew some bullshit about how this is what I signed up for. As if watching my partner die is somehow just an expectation because of my career.
Cold-hearted bitch isn’t a term that should come to mind when thinking about the woman who shares my bed. The woman I’m supposed to be marrying and building a life with.
Ignoring her, I reach into the cupboard above the refrigerator to pull down a lowball whiskey glass and a bottle of Buffalo Trace. The amber liquid is nothing fancy, but it’ll get the job done all the same.
“Really, Zack? You’re going to ignore me? I spent hours cooking a nice dinner, and you couldn’t even bother to tell me that you’d belate!” Her seething voice sends a shiver down my spine like nails on a chalkboard.
I wouldn’t exactly call boiling pasta and heating jarred sauce hours of cooking, but I know better than to say anything. The molten anger and frustration lacing her voice should be enough to make me respond. Maybe I should feel bad for coming home late or feel somehow responsible for her behavior.
But I don’t.
My compassion and desire to be a good man for her have long since disappeared. I’ve been on the receiving end of her vitriol one too many times to care about living up to her expectations.
For a brief moment, I think about acknowledging her and telling her why I’m home late, but considering how all of our interactions have gone over the last few months, I doubt it would make a difference. I pour a few fingers of whiskey into the glass and toss it back, savoring the way the slightly sweet and spicy alcohol burns my throat as I swallow.
“I’m so fucking sick of this, Zack. I don’t know why I even bother trying.” The shrill tone of her voice causes my skull to throb with tension, the pressure only adding to the nausea swimming in my stomach. We obviously have different definitions of the word. Trying implies making a conscious effort to improve our relationship, which is something neither one of us has done for far too long.
I want to tell her to stop.
Stop trying.
Stop torturing us both.
But I don’t. My jaw clenches in an effort to keep the words to myself as I pour another measure of the mind-numbing liquid and set the bottleon the counter with more force than I intend. Just as I’m raising the glass to my lips, she lets out a loud growl of frustration, tears the glass from my hand, and swipes the bottle from the counter.
“Is this all you fucking care about?” she screams. She holds up the glass and bottle, shaking them in my face.
No answer on the tip of my tongue will settle her rage. I can’t speak the words that she wants to hear. I can’t tell her that she is all that matters to me. I can’t tell her that I’ll put her first or even that I’ll make an effort to change. It would all be a lie, and the one thing that I can stand by and find comfort in is knowing that I have never lied to her.
I may not disclose everything that happens in my day-to-day life where work is concerned—she doesn’t want to hear it anyway—but I don’t lie to her.
The only person I lie to is myself.
I’m lying about being happy with my life.
I’m lying about being happy with her.
I don’t have the energy to do much of anything besides lose myself to the numbing buzz that only alcohol can provide. Pointedly ignoring her, I turn away and head for our bedroom. Her piercing voice follows me through the house, her words slicing away at the remnants of my soul as I strip off the layers of my uniform. Each piece I remove feels like a weight lifted, yet somehow, I’m still struggling to breathe. Still drowning.
“I’m fucking talking to you, Zack.” Her face is red with anger, her eyes brimming with tears as she clutches the glass in her hand.
And I’m not listening.
Nothing she says is going to change what happened tonight. Nothing she says is going to bring back Ryan or save that stranger’s life.
It should have been me.
I’m leaning into the shower to turn on the hot water when the bottle of whiskey shatters against the wall, shards of glass slicing against the bare skin of my back as the spray of alcohol burns into the gashes. Remnants of the bottle lay at my feet. I turn my head to see her staring at me, her shoulders rising and falling with heated breaths.
She fucking threw the bottle at me.
Holding her gaze, I step forward, and with my hands on her shoulders, I guide her backwards out of the bathroom before closing the door in her face. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and find my entire life changed. Tomorrow, I’ll tell her it’s over, that our engagement is off. But right now, I need to wash away the dirt and grime. I need to wash away the trickles of blood running down my back and the bourbon stinging my flesh.
