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I could lie here all year, weather all the seasons
Never move from our spot, hidden from the world
The diamond water clinging to your skin
This is where my dreams take me
TWENTY-TWO
TALIA
I hate irony.
What was that song? It’s like rain on your wedding day? Well, that’s a slap in the face now. And it’s not even ironic. And good luck? Questionable, considering the state of my marriage.
Apparently, my life has turned into one big ironic joke, because the husband I’ve been trying to avoid is now under house arrest, assigned by yours truly. For once, I was grateful for this big stupid house and all its rooms. I’d requested to work from home this week. Someone needed to monitor Tate and ensure he stayed put, not off roaming around town or whisking me away on dates.
When Tate was first diagnosed with epilepsy, he didn’t take it seriously, being a teenage boy, and he struggled to keep on top of his meds. As he got older, he understood the severity of his diagnosis. Then he went on tour, where no one took an interest in his health, or he wouldn’t have run himself ragged or neglected his medications.
He’s outside napping on a deck chair while I prepare us lunch.
Domesticated faux bliss.
I was mad after the paintball saga. And the dinner. And everything that’s happened since he returned. Over a year later, and he still couldn’t understand why his big career change is the issue. To him, fame equaled money, and money meant a life of luxury, with flashy cars and a big house. Maybe it makes me ungrateful, but I was happy with our matchbox apartment and sharing his pickup truck. I loved our simple life, and I shared his excitement when he came home telling me about the talent scout. But before I could wrap my head around what it all meant, it had already happened. The moment he signed the contract, it was like he wanted to trade everything we’d built. He was diminishing every moment we shared, every memory we made, the second the pen hit the paper.
When his first single dropped, I caved and looked it up. It hit two million streams in the first day. That was his life, and I was stuck in the past, holding onto the last remaining shreds of our old life.
I was here.
He was needed everywhere else but here.
As much as our confessions hurt, I felt somewhat lighter the days following.
Thankfully—or not so much—he’s quit being stubborn and relocated to the guest room next door to me. Rather than an entire floor separating us, it’s a wall. I can hear him move around in the morning, can even make out the sound of his belt hitting the hardwood floor as he sheds his clothes before stepping into the shower. And with those sounds comes my extremely pigmented imagination. No. Not imagination—memory.
Because I know exactly what he looks like under the hot spray of water. Lean body glistening. The tight globes of his ass flexing. The cool press of porcelain as he fucked me against the bath—
“Earth to Talia.”
I scream, dropping my bottle of water, when Tate pops out from behind the refrigerator door.
“Don’t do that!” I stomp my foot like a toddler before snatching up the plastic bottle.
He snorts. “I said your name five times. You were away with the fairies.”
The frisky fairies.
“You’re too big to be creeping around the place like that.” I jerk my chin toward the kitchen island. “Lunch is ready.”
“You don’t have to keep making me lunch. I’m a big boy.”
Don’t think about his cock. Do not think about his cock.
“If I’m making it for myself, might as well make double.” I shrug.
We’ve done this dance all week. I eat lunch in my office; him in here. It’s the same for dinner.
I reach for my plate as he settles on a stool, and just as I’m about to make my escape, he stops me. “Would you sit with me?” Excuses at the ready, I glance at him over my shoulder. Only they never come. Hope rolls off him as he pulls out the stool beside him. “I hate eating alone.”
