Page 5 of Through The Rain
“I’m done.”
She still remembered how the world had seemed to pause and her body had gone numb when she finally said the words out loud.
“We haven’t done the online banking yet,” he’d argued, his voice laced with annoyance.
“No, I’m done.” She’d stood up and taken a deep breath before looking him in the eye. “We’re done. I can’t do this anymore.”
She still couldn’t believe she’d said it. Or that she’d meant it. As gut-wrenching as the following days—even weeks—had been, she’d never taken the words back because she was done. She didn’t want to be, but since things never changed and she was tired of wishing they would, she was.
And all he had said was, “Fine”.
Every time she doubted her decision—every time she panicked as the pain of spending the rest of her life without Scott at her side threatened to overwhelm her—all she had to do was remember the way he’d let her go with that single word.
Fine.
It had been stunning at the time, and remembering that moment still had the power to take her breath away. Maybe on some level she’d thought he would come after her—that they’d have a massive argument and they’d yell and she’d cry but at least they’d be feeling something. All she really knew was that they couldn’t keep going on the way they were.
Fine.
Emily took the bottle of wood cleaner from the lower cabinet and set it on the counter with as much force as Scott had used on his tailgate, trying to hold on to her anger. It was a lot easier to cope with than sorrow and regret.
Scott hadn’t even cared enough to have a conversation, never mind fight for her.
Without making a conscious decision to do it, she walked across the cabin until she could see Scott through the window. He’d set up the makeshift desk he often used on jobs, with a wide plank set across two portable sawhorses, but he wasn’t actually working. Instead, he stood with his feet slightly apart and his arms crossed, staring out across the lake.
She couldn’t see his face, but she knew him as well as she knew herself and she could see the tension in him. If he were simply enjoying the view, his back wouldn’t be so rigid and he’d probably have his hands shoved in his pockets.
But just when she’d made up her mind he was angry about being stuck in their current situation, Scott dropped his head and she watched his shoulders slowly rise and fall as he took deep breaths. He wasn’t angry. He was hurting and confused and not sure what to do.
Emily realized she was rubbing the spot on her finger where her wedding rings used to sit, and she wondered again what it meant that he was still wearing his. Maybe nothing. He was definitely a creature of habit. Or maybe it meant that he wasn’t ready to accept the ring didn’t signify anything anymore. Maybe that’s why he was standing out there in the yard looking lost.
What would happen if she walked out the door and ran her hands over those shoulders, trying to ease the tension in his muscles? The need to touch him and comfort him was an ache not only in her body, but in her heart. She’d lost the right to put her hands on him when she ended their marriage, though, and her touch probably wouldn’t be welcome.
Tears gathered in her eyes, blurring her view of Scott, and Emily made herself turn away from the window. There was nothing she could do to make him—or herself—feel better, so it was time to roll up her proverbial sleeves and take her frustration on throw rugs that needed beating and cobwebs to be swept away.
CHAPTER 3
He needed a hug.
The thought was strange for him to have, and not very welcome, but Scott had to admit it wasn’t a lie. He wanted to sink into a comforting embrace—to feel arms wrap around him and offer strength and support.
Unfortunately, the only person who could offer him that was the reason he needed it.
He’d barely been able to keep it together since Emily ended their marriage, not that anybody could tell. He’d been raised by a hard, old-school father who believed men didn’t share their emotions or reveal their pain. They certainly never cried. While Scott had worked hard not to pass any of that crap onto his son, he’d never been able to shake it himself.
Sitting there three months ago, with that stupid cell phone bill in his hand and his wife telling him she couldn’t do this anymore—couldn’t do them anymore—he hadn’t been able to say what he felt. There had been too many feelings to voice, or even to process, so he’d let her walk away from almost twenty-two years of marriage with one word.
Fine.
She’d walked away and then he’d heard her footsteps on the stairs. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat at the table, paper crumpled in his hand. Long enough so his back protested when he finally stood up.
He found her sitting on the edge of their bed, her hands folded in her lap while she stared at the wall with dry eyes.
That had scared him. She cried easily—always had—and the lack of wet cheeks and pink nose told him in a way words never could that she didn’t love him anymore. That realization was a blow that answered the question he’d gone upstairs to ask her. How can we fix this?
They couldn’t.
“How do we do this?” was what he asked her.
