Page 25 of What Happens This Christmas
I had quit…eventually…but not for her, as much as she believed that to be true. I’d quit for the simple reason that I had been fed up with going outside like a dog to do their business when I wanted to light one.
Candy was a weakness I couldn’t afford because it made me unable to see straight. Even with my unhappiness. Mix that with the knowledge that I wanted to fight like hell to keep her in my life forever, and strong currents were the least of my worries.
The logical thing to do would be to divorce her and put an end to the misery.
I’d done my duty. I’d told her about it so that she wasn’t completely caught off guard. I felt like I owed that to her after everything we’d been through.
I’d removed my wedding band. What was the point in wearing something that symbolized vows we weren’t going to be holding on to for much longer? ’Til death do us partwas a load of shit that could put a horse stable to shame. It was more like ’tildivorcedo us part. At least that was the case for fifty percent of marriages, which was a shockingly large percentage if you thought about it. Remarrying wasn’t in the cards for me for multiple reasons, one of which being that no one was Candy, who was the best fucking standard I knew. Even with her flawed character.
I’d even gotten the ball rolling with my attorney.
Everything was situated.
Unfortunately, my desire to have her and be with her ran too deep, and after knowing her and being married to her, nothingwould ever be the same. So, succumbing to her silly little request had been easy…far too easy.
But look where that got us.
Pianos.
And bickering.
And stupid fucking Christmas cards that did nothing but put us on display. Posing in a way that showed off ouroptimal angles.
Candy switched positions, nodding at something the photographer must have said, and I missed because I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what she was directing us to do. Not Candy, though. She cared. A lot. As she did with everything. Except me and our marriage.
To hell with the man standing beside her, taking the godforsaken photos with her.
But her body, and the reaction she consistently had toward me, told an entirely different story. Candy still wanted me. She yearned for me, maybe as much as I yearned for her. All of her. Especially the one thing that was so frozen and held captive under an icy cage that not even a blowtorch could defrost—her heart.
Following her lead, I didn’t listen to the photographer, only did what felt natural. I snaked my arm around her waist.
She held her breath, her body sinking into my touch, betraying her stiff shoulders.
Why didn’t she want me to know that she wanted me? There was a point in time when she had been more forward. Sure, it had been a minute…or a million.
It was a ridiculous thought, I knew, because that was a vulnerability Candy wouldn’t allow herself. She couldn’t afford to. After all, it might have weakened the armor she used to protect herself, to conceal real emotion.
“These are great.” The photographer turned the camera to the floor, still holding it even though she had a strap around her neck. “Really, they are. You’re both doing great.”Don’t oversell it.We didn’t need to be buttered up with compliments. They were useless. Neither Candy nor I subscribed to words of affirmation for our love languages.
“So, what’s the problem?” I asked, getting right down to it. It was obvious there was a problem, so she might as well have just said so already.
Sighing, her face scrunched up, making her appear like she was in pain. A feeling I knew all too well thanks to this session. “Well, it’s just that…I’m not feeling the love. Or your holiday spirit.” She sighed and looked from me to Candy. “Maybe, Candy, you can place a hand on Nick’s chest and look up into his eyes with admiration and appreciation? Like you’re full of joy. Like he’s your dream come to life. Like you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else, with anyone else, this time of year? Try gazing soulfully into his eyes.”
Whoa. Okay. That was asking a lot from a look. Did she know these were just going to be printed on cardstock and mailed out to people who would inevitably throw them away anyway?
There were admiration and appreciation, like she’d said, and then there was shit that was never going to happen. If she was waiting for that, then I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but she’d be leaving here and heading to an old folks’ home. That was how long she’d be waiting.
Candy extended a hand behind her and touched her updo that looked tighter than her pussy felt when I’d fucked her for the first time. I thoughtno way is my dick going to survive this. Now I was thinkingno way is she not going to need to take something to subside the pounding headache she was going to have from her hairstyle. “The guidance isn’t necessary,” Candyfinally managed, her face the look of annoyance. “I think we know what we’re doing.”
I knew a lot of things actually. Posing for a photo happened to be one, luckily for them. It didn’t feel like brain surgery. It didn’t even feel like it took a brain. Okay, maybe that was wrong. It took a functioning brain. It was a good thing that mine worked just fine. Besides when I’d agreed to push back the date of our legal separation. “Your hair is not going anywhere,” I said, drawing my arm back and getting ready to help myself to the whiskey I’d left unattended on the top of the piano. “You should have worn it down.”
Her head whipped around, her eyes snapping to me at lightning speed. “I’m sure you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Did I speak to myself? “I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.” I cracked my knuckles. “What’s wrong with you? You’re usually intelligent enough to pick up on shit.” Unless her mind had become frozen with time too.
She narrowed her eyes and strode over to me where she proceeded to poke a finger at my chest. Not exactly what the photographer said, but fine. The woman must have taken this as some sort of win in whatever messed-up book she kept, since she started snapping photos like crazy.
Jesus, at this rate, I should be expecting these photos to be submitted to a publication for consideration on the damn cover. Had she worn her hair down, we might have actually been picked up by one.
