If I Could Do It Again

  “Okay.”

  He mumbles a goodbye, and then the line clicks and the familiar recording plays in my ear indicating that he hung up. Groaning, I shove my phone into my purse, and run my hands over my face, frustrated. Shit. Why is Richard even still here?

  I reach into my purse, digging around for the pack of cigarettes and lighter, knowing that the electronic one isn’t going to cut it right now, before I get out of the car and start toward him, lighting one up. He’s watching me, his expression blank as he opens up the shears and takes another random snip out of my flowers.

  My footsteps falter as the yellow blossoms fall to the ground, and I take a drag from my cigarette. Richard’s eyes are puffy and red, his nose slightly swollen. His allergies are kicking his ass. From where I’m standing, I can see that three of the once beautiful bushes have been torn right out at the roots, which explains the redness spreading up his arms.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  What the hell is he doing?

  “Are you okay?” I ask, stepping onto the lawn, approaching him cautiously.

  “I’m great,” he says, and takes another snip out of the flowers. He tips his head toward the destroyed bushes. “What do you think?”

  I blink, taking another puff. What do I think?

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head, because I truly don’t know what to think. “Why are you doing this?”

  Richard shrugs. “I figured I needed a new hobby. Becoming a gardener sounds … appealing.”

  Grimacing, I scan him over as an uneasy chill spreads up my spine. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” he says. He’s silent for a moment, regarding me, looking none too impressed that I’m still standing here. “Don’t you have work to do?”

  I hesitate, staring at him for a moment, not sure what to do. He looks like he needs his medication, but he’s irritated about something and I most definitely do not want to deal with that.

  Sighing, I eventually nod and put out my cigarette. “Yeah, I do. Do you want me to grab your allergy meds before I get started though?”

  “Nah,” he says, smirking at me. “I’m good.”

  I stall for another second, eyeing him carefully, before heading straight for the door. I slip into the house and shut it behind me, so he doesn’t decide to follow me. Running a hand through my hair, I head up the stairs, my footsteps faltering when I reach my office. The typically closed door is wide open. I pause a few feet away, scanning the room, noting the shredded paper scattered all over the floor and the always locked filing cabinet with the drawers hanging open.

  My eyes glue to it and a legitimate feeling of surprise passes over me, although it’s wiped away by fury just as quickly. Shaking my head for a moment, I stare at the broken lock, before my feet start to move.

  Rushing into my office, I pause at the first shreds of paper, recognizing the colorful scraps immediately.

  Joshua’s letters.

  That asshole!

  He tore up Joshua’s letters.

  Fury induced tears burn my eyes as I move over to my filing cabinet. It’s a mess. Files dumped, papers scattered. I dig through the mess, searching for my photo album, hoping like hell that the bastard didn’t destroy that too.

  After a moment of searching, I find it laying open to Joshua’s picture at the bottom of the pile. My gaze locks on it, my throat closing as I see the state of the photo and Richard’s poor captioning job. Joshua is now sporting devil horns and there’s a caption bubble that reads: I’ve killed and I’m okay with it.

  My heart thundering in my ears, I pivot in place, not bothering to drop my purse before jogging back down the stairs. Anger overwhelms me, heating my skin, blurring my vision. It spreads through me like a wild fire, burning me up.

  “You broke into my filing cabinet.” The words fly from my mouth as I rip open the front door, stepping out onto the covered porch. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

  “Of course I did,” he says, smirking at me from his spot by the garden. “I know everything. Every-fucking-thing.”

  I let out a sharp laugh. “You don’t know anything.”

  “I searched your computer, too,” he says casually. “I read all of those letters you wrote him. You’re a goddamn fool, Vic, falling for all his bullshit.”

  I roll my eyes, throwing my hands up in the air. “I’m not falling for anything.”

  “You love him,” he says, matter-of-factly. “You fell in love with a convict.”

  His statement freezes my rage. Did I? I don’t know. I like Joshua. No. Scratch that. It’s more than like. I care about him—a lot. But love?

  I don’t know.

  At the moment, I don’t even know what to do or what to say or even what to think.

  I laugh because I can’t dispute his claims and there’s really no point in lying about it—I like Joshua. I care about him a lot, so much so that I’m terrified to admit it. And from the way Richard’s eyes are searching me, and that goddamn smirk on his lips, I’m pretty sure he can see it. He knows how I feel.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick out here,” I mutter after a moment, spotting the beginning of what looks like hives spreading up his arms. “Take your pills and go to bed. We can talk about this later.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” he hisses. “It’s either me or him, but fair warning, if you decide to leave me for some fucking killer, I’ll take you for everything you have. I’ll take your business, this house, every goddamn cent in your bank account. I’ll take everything and make sure you don’t get even a goddamn penny of my money.”

  I laugh harshly, feeling the red-hot rage flare once more. “Don’t you dare threaten me.”

  “It’s not a threat,” he says, dropping the gardening shears to the ground. “It’s a promise. You choose to keep talking to that biker and I’ll take everything from you.”

  “The choice isn’t between you and him.” Heat rushes through my body as my hands curl into white-knuckled fists, although when I speak again, my voice comes out scary calm. “It’s between me and you, and you know what, Richard, for the first time since I met you, I’m choosing me.”

  He narrows his eyes, taking a long stride toward me. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  I don’t respond right away, glaring at him, my thoughts racing as I attempt to pick my words carefully. I open my mouth, close it, open it once more, and then my phone rings.

  Pulling it out of my purse, I glance at the caller display, not surprised to see Joshua’s number flashing there. I know I shouldn’t answer it. I know it will only piss Richard off further, but I do it anyway.

  Maybe it’s because I don’t care if it pisses him off.

  Or maybe it’s because I want it to.

  I’m not really sure.

  “Hey, beautiful,” Joshua says as soon as the call connects, his voice instantly soothing my nerves. “Is everything okay?”

  “Hey, I’m not really sure yet, but it will be.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” I say, trying my damnedest to keep my voice light and cheery. I’m pretty sure I fail. “Everything’s fine. I’m just in the middle of something with Richard. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  A moment of silence, and then, “Fine. I’m going to call back in twenty minutes,” he says, although he doesn’t sound happy about letting me go. “Please, even if you’re not done, answer the phone and tell me you’re okay.”

  A genuine smile splits my lips. This man …

  “Okay,” I say softly. “I will.”

  “Talk to you soon.”

  “Bye.”

  Hanging up and dropping the phone back into my purse, I turn my attention back to my so-called husband, glaring at him. I take a deep breath, and then I answer his question. “What it means is that it’s about time I do something that makes me happy, Richard, and stop worrying about what you think.”

  Red tints his a
lready swollen face, and he balls his hands into white-knuckled fists. “You didn’t seem to give a fuck about what I thought when you quit your job and started writing fulltime.”

  I snort out a laugh. “I did that for you. You’re the one who was embarrassed that I was a waitress, not me. I loved that job. And don’t act like that wasn’t the best career decision for me.”

  Richard sneezes so loud it makes me jump. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “It wasn’t. It gave you too much time on your hands, and look at what you did with that time.”

  Shaking my head, I sigh. God, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. “For a few years now, I’ve been living my life trying to make you happy, trying to make you proud of me. I worked like a dog fulltime, and started publishing books to make more money because that’s what was important to you. Then, I quit a job I loved because it embarrassed you. I gave up friends and I barely speak to my family because you don’t like them. I moved to this ostentatious, oversized house because you needed to have everything better than everyone else. I do everything you want, killing myself to try to make you happy, and you do nothing but ignore me and degrade me. It doesn’t matter what I do, it’s still not good enough. Nothing’s ever good enough for you, and I’m done trying.”

  “You’re done trying,” he says coolly, closing the distance between us, stalling a mere few feet from me. “Sorry you think I’m such a shitty husband.”

  And then he walks past me and into the house, and moments later, I hear what I hope is the bedroom door slamming shut.

  My stomach clenches. I’m not sure if it’s from the door slamming or the guilt that’s twisting me up.

  Did he just look hurt?

  I hurt him?

  I hurt Richard.

  I …

  I’m not sure how long I stand there before I head back inside, kicking off my shoes and strolling back upstairs, arms crossed over my chest. I go into my office, kicking the door shut behind me. It couldn’t have been too long because Joshua hasn’t called yet, but it feels like forever.

  I glance at the mess before dropping my purse and curling up in my chair, staring blankly out the window, listening to Richard’s muffled snoring coming from across the hallway, feeling more alone than I’ve ever felt before.

  I don’t know why I feel guilty.

  I shouldn’t, I know.

  I’ve been honest with Richard from the start. He knew—he knows—how I feel. He knows I want out. He knows it’s over.

  God, I need to get out of here.

  When my phone finally rings, I answer it immediately. Grabbing my keys, I head back downstairs, slipping on my shoes and walking out the door, locking it behind me as I wait for my chance to accept the call. As soon as the call connects, Joshua’s voice surrounds me like a warm fleece blanket. “Hey, beautiful. You done yet?”

  “Yeah, I’m done,” I say. “He’s passed out now.”

  “What’s happening?

  “He kind of broke into my filing cabinet and read, then tore up, all of your letters,” I say, walking down the driveway, and onto the sidewalk. I feel restless … uneasy. A walk is exactly what I need even if every step feels like torture. Damn that cycling class. “I think that’s why he decided to destroy my rosebushes.”

  “I’m not surprised,” he says. “So what did he have to say about the letters?”

  Sighing, I reply, “Nothing really, but he’s under the impression that I’m in love with you.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “Are you?”

  My blood runs hot at his question. “What? I, uh …” I don’t know what to say. “No. I’m not in love with you. I barely even know you.”

  “Baby girl, you know me better than anyone ever has, but if you don’t want to admit your feelings yet, no problem. I can wait.” He chuckles softly, before continuing, “So he’s feeling threatened by me.”

  Yeah, and he’s also threatening to take everything from me.

  I don’t tell him that, though, instead saying, “It doesn’t make sense. He never gave a shit before. Not about anything I did.”

  “Yeah, but now you’ve got another man in your life,” he says lightly, and then his tone turns serious. “I’m sorry he ruined all the letters, baby.”

  “Yeah,” I grumble, annoyed and more than a little sad that I didn’t take better care of them. “Me, too.”

  8

  I’m Not Jealous

  “Have you picked a date to come see me yet?”

  Taking in the harsh voice that greets me when I accept the call, I turn my desk chair around, placing my back to the computer screen, and I give Joshua my full attention. He sounds on edge today, a little amped up and a little annoyed. I’m not sure what to make of it.

  “Not yet,” I say hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking maybe November would be good, but I’m still trying to rearrange my schedule. Um, are you okay?”

  The line is stone cold silent for a moment before his voice carries through. “I got a letter today.”

  Okay …

  “That’s awesome,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and cheery. It’s a challenge. “I’m glad, honey.”

  Silence.

  “Don’t you want to know about it?”

  I don’t respond immediately, my gaze scanning the books on my shelves, the question lingering on the silent line between us. After a moment, I sigh. “No, not really.”

  “Why?”

  Why? I’m not even sure I can answer that. I’ve thought about Joshua’s other pen-pals a lot these last few weeks, pretty much every single day since that first time we had phone sex, and I can only come up with one logical conclusion: I want to pretend there aren’t any others. “Because it’s really none of my business.”

  “Why’s that?” he asks.

  “Because it just isn’t,” I say. “Besides, I don’t particularly want to hear about the other women in your life.”

  He hums. “I thought I could talk to you about anything. Isn’t that what you told me?”

  I sigh again, this time long and loud as I recall that particular conversation. After a long pause, I say tentatively, “You can.”

  And I mean it for the most part. I want to know everything there is to know about him, see every side of him, dig deep down and understand everything that makes him who he is. But those letters … I don’t think I can handle knowing what’s in those letters.

  “Obviously not,” he says.

  The disappointment I hear in his voice makes my chest constrict. “Is this letter really that important?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine.” My voice sounds snappy even to my own ears, but I can’t help it, can’t seem to smooth it out. I take a breath and then another. It does nothing to soothe the anxiety blooming in my chest. “Okay, fine. If it’s that important, tell me about it.”

  “Someone’s getting a little bitchy,” he says almost playfully—almost. “Is your period starting soon?”

  His comment startles a laugh from me. Did he really just say that? “You can be such an ass sometimes; you know that?”

  “I know.” He laughs, and then stalls for a beat. “Are you jealous of the letters I get, baby?”

  I roll my eyes. So, that’s his game here. He’s trying to make me jealous. Even so, it stuns me how easily he reads me, even over the phone. He sounds so edgy, but still so damn confident. I wish I had his confidence, wish I could speak my mind the same way he does, holding nothing back. “I’m not jealous.”

  “So that’s how it’s going to be? You’re going to lie to me now?” He hums his disapproval. “Come on, beautiful. If you’ve got something to say, now is the time.”

  I hesitate, not sure what to tell him. It’s been nearly a week since Richard went back to work. Nearly a week since he violated my privacy and destroyed my office. It’s been nearly a week since I told Joshua I don’t love him.

  Since I told Joshua I don’t love him …

  I blink, swallowing down a startled laugh, the pieces falling in
to place. Jesus, is he feeling insecure?

  I take a breath.

  And another.

  And then another.

  “Just tell me about the letter,” I say, although I feel anxiety bubbling in my stomach as the words slip out of my mouth. “Who was it from?”

  “Melissa.”

  That’s it. That’s all he says as though the name answers all the unspoken questions filling the air between us.

  My brow furrows. “Which one is that again?”

  “I dated her, remember?” he says. “The one that decided she couldn’t wait for me to get out, and hooked up with someone else. They broke up and she started writing me again. She’s the one I told about you.”

  Great. That’s the one that’s been trying to convince him to take her back. The last he told me, though, was that he had sent her a letter using me as an out, telling her he was in a committed relationship.

  “Oh, right. The one you lied to about us.”

  My response makes him laugh, though it’s not an amused sound. “She said she’s happy that I found you, but she hopes it doesn’t work out so she can be with me. She told me she loves me and wants to marry me. She even hinted that she’d like to get married before I get released.”

  I stop breathing at those words, and for a second my heart feels as though it stops right along with my lungs.

  And then … it races.

  My skin flushes and my eyes begin to sting. I blink fast, banishing away the threatening tears as I suck in a breath.

  This man … this man is trying to make me jealous.

  If I didn’t think it before, I’m convinced now.

  This is my punishment for letting my marriage fail. Finding what could very well be an epic love, and then watching it vanish before it has a chance to turn into what it could be. What it’s meant to be.

  “Why are you telling me this?” I whisper eventually.

  “Because.”

  He says nothing more. Just because as though that’s an answer in itself.

  Maybe it is.

  Or maybe he’s just being an ass.

  “Because why?” I ask, although I’m almost certain I don’t want to hear the answer.