Page 53 of Liberating Bells
I shoot him a glare. “Why? Because I have a bruise on my neck from where you strangled me last night? Afraid Mommy’s not going to be too pleased?”
He rears away from me as if I’ve just struck him. I’m not one to usually let my temper show, and I’ve taken him by surprise. A small part of me, buried deep down, remembers that I used to be this fiery all the time. Somehow, I let him dampen that spark within me, so it’s no surprise he’s shocked to see it flare again.
“No. I was just saying ’cause you didn’t seem to want to last night. But yes, after everything, maybe you should just rest. I can stay with you if you want. I’ll call into work.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, buttoning the few buttons at the top of my blouse. “Honestly, Mark, I can barely look at you right now. Why would I want to spend the rest of the day with you?”
“Izabel,” he says brokenly. “I said I was sorry. What else do you want from me? I don’t know what came over me.”
I square my shoulders and look up at him, hoping I come across more confident than I actually feel. My hands tremble and my pulse thunders in my ears. I draw whatever remaining strength I have and pray my voice doesn’t waver as I say in a firm tone, “What do I want? I want us to be capable of having a conversation without you throwing me against a wall when you get mad. I told you that this couldn’t happen again. And yet here we are.”
“I know,” Mark whispers. “Maybe we should try to go to a counseling session today? I could call her?—”
“No.” The forcefulness in the word takes me off guard, reminding me of last night, when in the same tone, I turned down his sexual advances. Mark steps back another inch from me and I feel empowered by the slight act of submission. “I need space, Mark. I’ll go to this stupid expo with your mom, but honestly, I don’t even know if there will be a wedding after this.”
My words surprise me just as much as they appear to surprise him. My breath catches in my throat, but I buckle down and hold my ground.
“I don’t want to see you today. Or tomorrow, for that matter. Don’t call me, don’t text me, just leave me the fuck alone until you get your shit straightened out. Do you hear me?”
“I understand,” he says dejectedly. He holds his hands out, begging me. “I know I fucked up again, Izabel. I know I did. I swear on my life this will be the last time.”
“Can you leave now?” I ask through gritted teeth.
Mark stares at me with those wide chocolate eyes that, on any other day, I could get lost in. I can see the hurt etched there. My heart twinges, but I just cannot bring myself to care. He gets up off my bed and sticks his hands in his pockets. I’m grateful he doesn’t try to touch me.
“I really don’t think you should be alone. I can stay, Izabel, it’s fine.”
“Leave,” I plead with him, desperately, my body trembling. “I don’t want you here.”
“Okay. Okay,” Mark responds, holding up his hands. “You remember I’m going out of town next weekend for the holiday with my dad?” I nod. The Fourth of July is next weekend. Mark always goes to the smoky mountains to fish with his father for the holiday. “Maybe we can touch base once I get back.”
I don’t deign to respond, instead crossing my arms over my chest and watching him leave without another word. As soon as he’s gone, I take a few deep breaths.
Once he gets back.That would give us a little over a week of alone time. Maybe I can have my thoughts sorted by then. Maybe the distance will give Mark a little perspective too. I meant what I said; I don’t know if I even want to marry him after this.
I’m not about to enter into a marriage where I get thrown around whenever I do something he doesn’t like. Maybe by standing my ground now, I can nip this whole anger-thing in the bud before it truly becomes an issue. I know Mark. I’ve known him for years. And because I’ve known him for so long, I know he’s better than this. I deserve better than this.
When I hear my front door close, I allow my shoulders to slump. I reach for my phone, sitting on the nightstand and pull up Ryan’s phone number. First thing’s first, I have to apologize for bailing on him last night. Not to mention, I have an overwhelming need to hear his voice.
The phone rings and rings before being sent to voicemail. I grumble and then hit the call button again—ring, ring, voicemail.
Fine.
I want to speak to him when I give my spiel. Trying to explain myself over text is just not good enough. I type out a quickCall me, pleasetext and hit send. Then I put the phone down and walk back into my bathroom to inspect the bruise at the base of my neck. It is a mix of colors, looking as angry as I feel.
Reaching for my makeup, I apply some foundation and concealer over the bruise with a blending sponge. I wince at the pressure, the area sore.
Makeup isn’t cutting it. Though it helped conceal some of the bruising, the injury is still noticeable. I’ll have to cover it with clothing to minimize the apparent damage. Although if I wear a turtleneck sweater in the middle of summer, I will make a spectacle of myself.
I head back into the bedroom and find a lightweight scarf that I can tie around my neck over my blouse. It looks out of place, given that it’s almost July, but it will have to do. I’m very much not looking forward to this, but I suppose I can grin and bear it, even though I look like I should be employed by Delta Airlines.
I drive over to the convention center in complete silence. I am not in the right headspace for music today. Once I pull into a parking spot, I send his mom a text, letting her know I’m here. While I wait for her response, I lean my head back against the headrest and take a few deep, cleansing breaths.
How different would today be if I had made it to dinner last night with Ryan? If only I had left just two minutes before Mark showed up. I would have had a lovely night with my old friend, probably sipping wine that didn’t make me gag and laughing at old memories.
Now instead, I’m sporting a wounded heart and a beat-up neck. Distance will be good for us.
I pull up Ryan’s contact information again, making a last attempt to reach him. This time, the phone just goes straight tovoicemail. He hates me. I’m sure of it. The thought makes me nauseas.
