Page 37 of Honeyed

Mere minutes ago, I told him this had been one of the best days ever. In seconds, he brought me crashing back down to the reality I’ll always be trapped in.

15

ALANA

It’s rare that I spend a day just lounging around my house.

Work isn’t work to me since the other employees are my family, and the business is our lifeblood. Since I could be on social media all times of the day, I am typically on my laptop or phone at home, connecting with customers on messenger or doing fun interactive series on our various platforms.

Some would call me a workaholic, and I’d say that’s true. Especially with all the to-do lists I’ve been making for the new store recently.

If I’m not working, I’m usually getting a meal with friends, walking the canal, trying to go into the city to see a play or concert … I’m not good at relaxing or sitting still. It’s probably because my house makes me feel lonely, and it reminds me that if I stay here more, I’ll primarily be alone.

Once Warren moved in, not only did I want everything that came along with having a husband in the physical aspect, but I look forward to having a roommate to do things with. Cook, watch shows, and have a drink on the back deck when it gets warmer.

Unfortunately, that bliss only lasted a few weeks. Because since the night out at the Laura Inn, things have been so tense and awkward that we haven’t talked in more than monosyllabic words for over a week.

Warren is pretending that none of it ever happened, or maybe he thinks I was too blackout to remember. And I’m so sullen and dejected that I can barely look at him. It’s cliché, but I keep wondering what’s so wrong with me that he’d marry me but still not cross this stupid fucking invisible line he set for himself.

I’m not the kind of person who sulks in bad moods or lets myself get stuck in a funk. But after that, and a hard week at work trying to put up with all the negative energy coming at me from all directions, I find myself in bed at two p.m., scrolling through my phone like a zombie.

My stomach growls, and I have a crick in my neck from lying in this position too long, but I’ve heard Warren bustling around down there all day, and I’m being a coward.

It’s bad enough that I’m hiding the storefront from my parents, the nature of our marriage from my siblings, and what I really want from Warren now that he’s shut me down. To be actually hiding out now, though? Like some fearful child who won’t face the music?

This isn’t me.

Throwing back the covers, I puff out my chest and avoid the mirror, because my goblin-like state will only deter me from stepping the fuck up and going downstairs.

Slowly, I emerge from my cave, looking around the corners to see if my fake husband is anywhere I might be able to avoid him. My feet are soft on the stairs, my stomach bubbling with hunger and anxiety. As I hit the bottom one, I hear him.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Warren swears under his breath at the kitchen counter.

He’s leaning against the cabinet in a white Hope Crest Football T-shirt and black joggers, and it’s criminal how edible he looks. It’s also damn unfair that I have to live and be married to this man, but he refuses to give me any of the perks. I’m about to creep back upstairs like the chicken I am, but then I get a look at his face.

Pure, raw fear marks every handsome feature, and his hand shakes with the letter he’s scouring. His teeth are sunken into his bottom lip, and I’ve only ever seen him look this ruffled once before, and that was when a kid in middle school brought up his mom’s murder.

Something in my bones tells me to put everything aside and go to him.

“Are you okay?” I touch his arm, and he jumps, and I realize he didn’t even register me entering the kitchen.

“Fine.” He crumples up the letter and proceeds to hide it behind his back.

Even though I’m mad at him, even though we’re in this weird non-talking stage again, I chuckle a little at this childish move.

“Really? We’re not five. I see you holding that behind your back.” I pop a hip and cop an attitude.

“It’s nothing, Al. Drop it. I can get out of your hair if you want the house to yourself.”

“Oh good, I see we’re going to continue completely avoiding each other.” My saucy side comes out because even if I’ve been ignoring him, it doesn’t mean I like it when he points out trying to do the same to me.

“It’s a letter from a director,” he grits out, that strong jaw ticking like he’s grinding down on his back molars.

“Huh?” I’m usually the one that media reaches out to about the restaurant, so I’m confused. “For something for Hope. Let me see.”

My hands make a grab around him for the letter, and all of a sudden, my body is pressed to Warren’s. He must be so in his own head, though, because he doesn’t back away or push me off.

“It’s a letter from a directory who has been harassing me about doing a documentary about my father. About my mother’s murder. He’s apparently in touch with him in prison and wants me to sit down for a full interview.”

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