Did it matter? Since we were doomed anyway, did it matter if I kissed him or not? Logic cut both ways. If I couldn’t see further than the length of my arms, what was the difference? I had no future with him and no future without him. No future. What had I sold myself for? For this? A guy with a wife? Of all the ridiculous, irritating, miserable, shitty choices in men.
“You know what?” I said. “Go to hell. You’re a piece of shit. And that’s not foreplay. I hate this. I hate everything about it. I hate feeling committed to you, because everything about it is wrong. I hate loving you. I hate myself for standing here right now, wanting you to fuck me.” I felt the muscles of his face change. He was smiling. I pushed him back. “That was not an invitation. I hate you for turning me into your side piece, and I don’t care if you meant it or not. I don’t care if you knew. You know what I care about? The damned facts. You made me a mistress, and I made myself a whore for loving you. And shut the hell up. Don’t defend yourself or what’s happening here. I’m mad, and I’m staying that way.”
I took the doorknob in both hands and shook the door. It was wedged shut by something on the other side. I punched it, which was the very definition of ineffective, and it hurt my hand. I pressed my face against the painted wood.
“Theresa,” Antonio whispered, putting his hand on my shoulder.
I leaned into it, because I was soothed wherever we connected. “Don’t touch me.”
“Get away from the door then.”
He dropped his hands, and I stepped back onto the upside-down bath mat.
Antonio kicked the doorknob once then again. It bent. One more kick, and it hung by half a screw. On the other side, something thupped to the carpet. He opened the door.
I walked through the bedroom and swept up his phone, wielding it like a sword. “I’m using this.”
“To do what?”
“To call my sister.”
His shirttail hung in fangs at his thighs. Hair stuck up in a sexy disaster. Pant cuffs an ombre of dirt. I’d never seen him look so helpless. I wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be all right.
“Get out,” I said.
He stood stock still. I didn’t know what to expect. He’d drag me to my knees and put his cock in my mouth, or he’d leave me alone. I half wished he’d take control of my body, force me to bend to him, so I didn’t have to be responsible for choosing him.
He spun and strode out of the bedroom, snapping the door closed behind him.
eighteen.
theresa
he closet was dark as sin and hot as hell. I’d been there an hour and had just gotten through to Margie five minutes before.
“He needs a heart,” Margie said. “That’s all there is to it. He’s got a shredded valve, and there’s not enough blood in the world to make up for the leaking.”
“We’re really going to lose him.” I huddled in the corner. My eyes had gotten used to the light from under the door. Two wire hangers hung above me, and under me were dust bunnies and nylon carpet.
“Change the subject,” Margie said. “I can’t talk about this anymore. It’s making me want to punch someone.” She entered a crowded space. I heard voices and a whoosh of white noise. “You’re alive. That’s the good news. Everyone’s happy, but you ducked out without saying a word, and they’re scared you’re going to do something stupid. Or disappear again. Or die like you mean it.”
“I want to.” That was the wrong thing to say. I was heartbroken, but Margie was on the front lines of real tragedy. “Not really,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m being—”
“Please. Be dramatic. Talk about small things that seem big. Is he getting a divorce or what?”
“I don’t think so,” I said, hugging my bare knees. “He can get an annulment.”
“And make his kid a bastard? Sure. Good thinking.”
“Maybe she’ll divorce him?”
“She waited for him a long time,” Margie said.