Then he spotted the black box and knew it held her engagement ring, the one he’d given to her on bent knee on a warm Saturday afternoon in June after he’d taken her on a picnic in the mountains. Her wedding ring was probably nestled in beside it. He couldn’t touch that little box right now. He knew it would break him completely to see the infinity symbol engraved in the bands, just like the ones he’d had engraved on the bridge. He set her dress on top of it, hiding it from view.
But he couldn’t stop himself from reaching for the photo. He drew it out, trembling everywhere now, and traced the outline of her face. Like usual, she’d eschewed fashion trends. She’d left her hair down and curly like he preferred, and instead of going with a sleeveless wedding dress like most brides, she’d chosen one covered in Spanish lace. They were standing in front of the ocean, on the beach outside of Santa Cruz where they’d exchanged vows. In the picture, she had her hand on his cheek, her long lacy sleeves blowing in the breeze. He was gazing into her eyes, his eyes full of love, and his hands gripped her hips to him.
“I love that picture,” she said brightly from behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Take me to bed like you did on our wedding night.”
Her easy touch broke his heart once again. He made himself replace the wedding mementos and reach for the nightshirt he’d dropped to the floor. Thrusting it at her, he rose to his feet.
“Put that on, and then come and eat.”
He had to get out of her room, away from her touch, or he was going to do something he regretted. Like kiss her. Hold her. His willpower was rapidly approaching zero.
As he strode out of the bedroom, he leaned down to pick up Touchdown. If he had something occupying his hands, surely he couldn’t put them on her.
She came out, holding the nightshirt under her eyes like it was some veil and she was the exotic dancer sent to seduce him, which only made Touchdown bark. Pink was singing about the walk of shame now, which seemed appropriate. If he acted on his feelings, he was going to feel a whole heap of shame tomorrow.
“Why are you acting so weird?” she asked, dancing closer to him. “I’ve never seen you this uptight. Why don’t you let me loosen you up?”
He ran to the kitchen and gave Touchdown a treat. When she found him, she was dancing and…yes, weaving more than just a little. He knew he’d have to leave her and hope she’d eventually pass out on her own.
He slid the sandwich toward her. “Eat. Take two aspirin. Drink a glass of water. And go to bed. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
Her face looked as though he’d slapped her, and he cursed. To his shock, tears formed in her eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, all the teasing and seduction stripped from her voice. “You’re scaring me.”
Having experienced his fair share of pain and confusion over the past two years, he understood the emotions shaking her.
“You’re not yourself right now.”
She clutched the nightshirt to her body. “Don’t you want me anymore?”
Not want her? How could she accuse him of that after everything? He crossed over to her and took the nightshirt from her hands. “Raise your arms.”
She did so meekly now, and when it fell over her body, she raised her troubled eyes to meet his. “I’m sorry for whatever I did to make you this mad.”
A sigh gusted out of him as his heart burst. “I’m not mad.” He headed to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asked when he opened it.
Touchdown gave a happy bark and whined and pawed at Blake’s leg like he wanted to go out. “Stay, boy.” At least one of them could watch over her. “I’m going next door. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Dammit, tell me you love me. Right now.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. Even if he said the words, she wouldn’t remember. What would it hurt? “I love you. Now eat your sandwich.”
“Uh,” he heard her rasp out and looked over immediately.
Her body was sliding across the kitchen island in a ladylike slump. Should he help her or leave?
“I don’t feel well,” she whispered.
Finally. She was crashing. And right after she’d broken his heart to smithereens again. Touchdown barked as if to remind him of his duty to take care of her, of the vows he’d made to stand with her in sickness and in health. Like he could have forgotten them. He strode back into the house as she started to fall. After catching her in his arms, he lifted her like a small child and carried her to her room.
“I’m going to be sick,” she said, slapping a hand over her mouth.
He made it to her bathroom in time and held her hair as she vomited. He rubbed her back throughout, and when she was finally spent, he rose to fetch a glass of water so she could rinse her mouth out. Her hands were shaking so badly he had to help her hold the glass. He didn’t even bother to hand her a warm cloth—he simply washed her face, trying to be gentle and yet mechanical.
“You poor baby. You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you?” he asked when she rested her forehead on the toilet seat.