Each new piece of the jigsaw was building a clearer picture.
Whatever had happened to Ash in Las Vegas was more than I knew. But with what I saw, I’d have to guess at sexual assault alongside the beating, although he’d denied being raped. Thank the Lord. It would explain why both Angie and my father had alluded to Ash being ‘damaged’. His reaction, the epic fail when I’d tried to give him a blow job was evidence of that. But thinking back, the way he’d decimated those men outside the theater, the catalyst was one of them yelling at Ash, “Suck my dick.”
It scared me seeing him so, so inhuman, for want of a better word.
Part of me needed to know the truth because forewarned is forearmed, but another part of me didn’t want to live with the horror inside me. Maybe that made me a coward, I don’t know. But Ash didn’t want to tell me either, or rather, he didn’t want me to know. It would also explain why he was so off-hand with Angie, why he was reluctant to be friendly with her. She knew.
I’d have to say that the last 24 hours had been an eye-opener.
And Collin, who’d never shown anything approaching passion in the ten years we’d been together, had driven an hour out of the city to confront me with the truth. The guilt from that was strong. We should have ended things years ago.
And now there was Ash. Confusing as it was, I knew there was no way to predict the future, and I still hadn’t dealt with my past—I had to speak to Collin.
I kept my shower short, aware that there was a line of people waiting to use it, and trotted back to the bedroom, wishing this old farmhouse had better heating. Although Ash was doing a good job of keeping me warm.
He’d pulled the quilt up so high, all I could see was a tuft of his dark hair poking out the top.
I decided to let him sleep. With rehearsals six days a week for Broadway Revisited, he only got the chance of a sleeping late on Sundays, and that wasn’t easy when his bed was in my living room. Not that he slept well anyway. And he’d been looking tired before yesterday’s debacle and this morning’s revelations.
I slipped into a pair of jeans and a tank top, glad I’d brought the novelty sweater that Mom made for me three years ago, smiling at the knitted turkey’s startled expression.
Thick socks and a pair of Aunt Lydia’s slippers completed my stylish ensemble. My family didn’t dress up for Thanksgiving—that was saved for Midnight Mass at Christmas.
I clomped down the stairs, meeting my sister Bernice, her toddler clinging to her like a baby bear.
“Happy Thanksgiving, sis. Marie, say hello to Aunt Laney!”
The little girl squirmed, then squealed like a siren going off when she saw Mittens the cat. Bernice put her down with a grimace, then smiled as she watched my niece’s chubby legs chase after the poor beast.
“Sorry about that,” she said. “We’re working on her ‘inside voice’ but it’s a work in progress—obviously.”
“Obviously,” I laughed.
“You look happy,” she said, raising one eyebrow. “Nothing to do with that incredibly hot mystery husband you’ve been humping all morning.”
My mouth opened automatically to deny it as blood rushed to my cheeks.
Bernice laughed out loud. “You should see your face. I’m jealous, of course. A toddler in the room definitely cramps our style. But here’s a tip, sister to sister: for the sake of my sanity and marriage, please move your headboard away from the wall.”
She winked at me while I looked for a convenient hole to crawl into.
I should be used to this by now—there was rarely any privacy in a large family. It was one of the reasons I’d gotten my own apartment as soon as I could afford it. But because everything with Ash was so new, so unformed, it was embarrassing to think that we’d been overheard.
The kitchen was wonderfully warm and full of delicious aromas, with the enormous turkey already in the oven.
And lucky me, the full set of my parents, aunts and uncles were sitting around the table. It was obvious they were talking about me because the conversation dropped away as soon as I walked in.
I grabbed a piece of toast from a stack and started spreading it with thick, creamy, country butter. I was 29 years old and I earned my own living—I didn’t need their approval.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” I said brightly.
“Happy Thanksgiving, pumpkin,” said Dad affectionately.
“Where’s your, um, husband?” Mom asked. “Oh goodness, it feels so strange to say that!”
You and me both, Mom.
“He’s sleeping in. He’s been at rehearsals Mondays through Saturdays for a month, and long hours, too. The premiere is in just over a week.”
“Are we invited this time?” Mom asked coolly. “Or is it a secret premiere?”