Then Comes Marriage (4 page)

“I’m guessing the dating scene isn’t go too well for you if this is how you get your kicks,” I say and then look him right in the eye.
 

“What the hell, dude?” the guy asks, coming to a halt.
 

“So your plan was to go home to your mom’s basement to review the footage, right? With Rosie and her four sisters keeping you company?”
 

“What is wrong with you?” the guy—who is several inches shorter than me with shaggy brown hair—snaps, eyes widening.
 

“What’s wrong with
you
is the better question. I’m not the one taking pictures to jerk off to later.”
 

“I’m not!”
 

I don’t think. I just grab his phone despite his protest and look down, expecting to see the pictures of that woman’s ass, but instead see some sort of weird GPS. “What is this?”

He reaches for his phone. “It’s a geo-catcher game that I was winning.
Was
, asshole.”

“Don’t call me an asshole, asshole,” I shoot back, even though I know I’m acting like one. Sad thing is I don’t mean to. But it’s become my default. No expectations, remember? I don’t have them for anyone else…or myself.
 

 
The guy grabs his phone. “Fuck you,” he says loudly, loud enough to cause the blonde nurse to turn around. Without looking in front of her, she trips, ankle twisting. She hits the ground. Fuck. I wanted to help her, not hurt her.
 

I rush forward and extend a hand. “Are you okay?” I ask. She looks up, blinking in the bright light, and takes my hand. I help her to her feet, and she pulls her earbuds from her ears.
 

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” she says and she nods, eyes meeting mine. A beat passes between us before she speaks. “I saw you this morning, didn’t I?”

I nod. “Yeah, at the welfare clinic. You’re Rachel, right?”

“Yeah, I—wait. I never told you my name.” She leans away, eyes narrowing.

“You had on a name badge.” I find myself smiling at her. “You’re an RN and work at The Meadows. It’s my job to notice stuff like that.”
 

She returns my smile. “Oh right, you’re a detective and all. Being observant is a good quality to have.” She looks behind me. “What was that guy so angry about?”

I shrug. “He lost some game or something.”
 

“Oh, that’s a shame. It’s too beautiful a day to be angry.”
 

“Yeah,” I say, her words hitting me, making me realize that the storm clouds are just in my mind. “It is a shame.” I flick my gaze to the little earbuds in her hands. “You like Journey?”

“Love them.” Her eyes light up and she smiles again. It’s genuine, and I can’t help but miss finding joy in the little things.
 

“I do, too,” I tell her. “I don’t come across too many people our age who do.”
 

“Don’t stop believing, right?” she says with a chuckle. “We’re out there.”

“Your ankle…I saw you twist it. Are you sure you’re all right?”

She slowly rolls her foot. “It’s a little sore, but I’ll live. I’m not the most athletic person in the world. This isn’t the first time I twisted my ankle while running, and it probably won’t be the last.”
 

“You look pretty athletic,” I say without thinking.
 

She wrinkles her nose. “Looks can be deceiving. Trust me, being graceful isn’t my strong suit.”
 

“That’s surprising. I never would have guessed it.” Am I flirting?
 

She laughs, and I laugh too.
 

Fuck. I am flirting. What the hell? The shock wipes the smile off my face, and Rachel takes a step back again. “Well, thanks Detective, uh, Turner. I should go…finish my run.”
 

“Right. Me too.” I’m not interested in dating or even hooking up, yet I feel bad for making her uncomfortable. She puts her earbuds back in her ears and I notice her engagement ring. She gives a little wave and takes off down the path.
 

She’s getting married, and I’m not interested in a relationship of any sort. I shouldn’t feel anything; I shouldn’t care at all.

So why am I disappointed?

Chapter Five

Rachel

I reach inside the car, holding my breath when the thick, hot air hits me. I turn the key and crank up the A/C, and then step back, giving the car a minute to cool off before I get inside. I run my hand over my hair, smoothing it somewhat into place, mentally debating if I should run a few errands now or go home and shower first.
 

I’m sweaty from running, but if I go home and shower, then I won’t want to go out again. And I’ve gone to the store after the gym before. This isn’t much different. Yeah, I’ll just go and get it over with so I can have the rest of the day to work on my blog. It’ll be a quick trip into Target anyway. I get in the car, leaning into the cool air that rushes out of the vents, and pull up the list I made on my phone of the things I forgot to get when I went shopping on Friday.

I’m not a list maker. And I’m a tad forgetful. Hand in hand, those things make me forget stuff pretty often. Being completely out of laundry detergent is a bit of a first-world crisis…though using it as an excuse not to do laundry is working for me.

My cart is full of stuff I don’t need ten minutes into my Target shopping trip and I’ve only gotten one thing on my list. I steer the cart toward the cleaning supplies, and stop in front of the detergents, looking for the best sale. I’m holding a bottle of lavender scented soap when I feel someone close by. I flick my eyes up and see Derek—who is also still wearing his workout clothes—walking toward me.

“I’m starting to think you’re following me, Detective,” I tell him with a smile. “I would call the police and report a stalker, but I might end up talking to you.”
 

He smiles back, eyes lighting up for a second before dimming again, overcome by a sadness deep inside. “Busted. Though really, I’m a bit concerned with how long it took you to catch on. I’ve been following you all day.”
 

“My life isn’t that exciting,” I laugh. “Sorry for how bored you must have been.”

He shrugs, and I’m not noticing how ruggishly handsome he is. “It’s better than looking at dead bodies.”
 

“I guess, when you compare the two…” I chuckle and shake my head. “Getting laundry detergent?”

“Uh, not quite. Fabric softener. I’ve been out for, uh, way too long obviously.”
 

“We just ran out of this.” I give the bottle in my hand a little shake. “Which is way more problematic than I thought. And now I have a week’s worth of laundry to catch up on.”
 

“Have fun with that,” he says with a smile and takes a step. “I’m going to go back to lurking in the shadows now.”
 

“Like a proper stalker.”
 

He nods, gives me a half smile, and walks away. I put the detergent in the cart, unable to get the image of his eyes out of my head. It’s a look I know well, though not from personal experience. I’ve seen it in the eyes of my patients, the ones tormented by the past, the ones who have suffered.
 

I can’t fix everyone, can’t take them under my wing like a wounded animal and mend their hearts. And Derek is a stranger. I shouldn’t want to help him. I shouldn’t feel bad.

Yet I do.
 

~*~

Wanting to surprise Travis with an earlier-than-expected booty call, I don’t let him know I’m on the way home. Assuming he was at the gym before, I’m sure he’s home now. I open the windows of my Ford and let the warm air tangle my already messy hair, singing loudly all the way home.

There’s a truck parked in front of our house. Travis didn’t mention having friends over, but then again, he still thinks I’m at work for another two hours. I park behind the Camaro, twisting my long hair into a bun as I walk into the house. I’m expecting to see Travis and friends bullshitting on the Playstation, with beers not on coasters leaving rings on the wooden coffee table.

I’m not expecting to stumble over a stiletto.
 

Travis having female friends is fine by me, and I know he’s hung out with his female supervisor a time or two. I had a couple close male friends back home and thought nothing of it. We trust each other, so why make a stink of it? I straighten myself and kick the shoe to the side. It’s black and sleek, something you’d pair with a sexy dress for a night out. It’s just a shoe. It doesn’t mean anything…but where is the other one?
 

I turn my head, finding it in the middle of the kitchen…next to a black lace bra.

I don’t need to see anymore to know what’s going on, yet I can’t stop myself. My feet move on their own accord, taking me into hell. Past Travis’ boxers on the floor. Past that sexy dress that was paired with those sleek shoes. Into the hall and up the stairs.
 

The shower is running, and I hear moaning. And suddenly I can’t breathe. I clutch at my chest, pulling on my tank top like it’s the reason I’m suffocating. I stagger back until I hit the wall. I slide down, too shocked to scream or cry.
 

I’m shaking and feel sick to my stomach. I cover my mouth with my hand as tears fill my eyes.
 

Travis is cheating on me. Right now. Right this very fucking second. With some sleaze-ball of a girl who knows he’s in a relationship. There is no way you can be in this house without knowing a woman lives here.
 

I hate her and I don’t even know what she looks like. I hate her even more for having good taste in shoes. I hate her for not caring what she’s doing to us, to me. I’m bombarded with thoughts and my heart shatters to the floor.
 

We are supposed to get married. Soon. We are supposed to take vows, pledging our love to one another—and
only
one another—for the rest of our lives. How can he do this? Travis loves me. He asked me to marry him because he can’t stand the thought of not being with me. He asked me to marry him because he wants to be with me—only me.
 

He loves me.
 

Tears cascade down my cheeks and vomit rises in my throat. A load moan is followed by the distinct sound of an ass being slapped. The betrayal and heartbreak twist into rage. Pure rage that can’t be held back.
 
I spring to my feet, ready to go in there and beat the hell out of Travis and the whore he rode in on.
 

Heart hammering in my ears, I reach for the bathroom door and stop myself. I’m a smart, rational person. And smart rational people don’t get angry. They get even.
 

The rage takes over and it’s like I’m channeling another person. Moving so calmly I’m even creeping myself out, I slowly twist the doorknob open and sneak inside the bathroom. I can’t think about what’s going on behind the curtain. Instead, I grab the pile of clothes on the ground along with the towels hanging on the wall next to the shower, the rug, and the towels from under the sink.
 

I toss them into the bedroom that’s across the hall and shut and lock the door. I lock the door to the spare bedroom as well, then hurry downstairs to take any and all blankets and clothing out of reach.
 

Tears are running down my face, the hurt from being betrayed seeping through the mask of anger. I put the keys to the Camaro in my scrub pocket and pick up that stupid dress the stupid girl was wearing.
 

Was.
 

Because she stripped in my kitchen then had sex with my fiancé. The fabric is soft and silky and smells like perfume. The same perfume I wear.
 

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
 

My breath comes out in ragged huffs, and I know I’m close to coming undone. Sobs escape me as I bend down to get the biggest pot we own out from the lazy Susan. I drop the dress inside and retrieve the box of wedding invitations from the living room. The invitations we were going to sit down and address this week. I dump them in the pot and search through my collection of household cleaners for anything that has a flammable warning.
 

It takes just about a minute from ignition to the smoke alarm going off. The blaring beeps fill the house, drowning out a few hysterical sobs. I think the shower turns off. I’m not sure of anything anymore other than the bloodlust filling me, urging me to cut off Travis’ testicles.
 

I’m sobbing, crying so hard my vision is blurred, but push off the counter, taking a butcher knife from the block with me. Then I’m out in the driveway, eyes set on that stupid car Travis loves so much, probably more than he loves me. No, obviously more. He’s not cheating on the car.

 
On some level, I know the intense emotion flooding my veins is making me absolutely fucking crazy. With a capital “C”. But I don’t care. I suppose that’s part of what makes a crazy person crazy: not caring.
 

Grit and dust crunch underfoot. My heart is racing and I bend down, raise my hand, and bring the knife down on the front right tire of the Camaro. I’m not strong enough to bring it down and slash the tough metal, or even pull it out.

That only fuels the fire. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, right?
 

I scream and bring my foot down on the knife, breaking the handle. The blade stays lodged inside the tire. I’m not thinking. Just acting, and the next thing I know, there is a baseball bat in my hands and pieces of the headlights littered all over the driveway, sparkling in the sunlight.

“I hate you!” I scream, dying inside. The bat comes down on the hood, making a satisfying dent. I raise my arms again, and hate myself even more.
 

Because I don’t hate Travis.
 

Not now, not yet. He is the man I love, the man I want to spend my whole life with. The man I’m supposed to marry, who’s supposed to be the father of my children. I want him to rush out here, sweep me up in his arms and tell me how sorry he is, how much of a fool he is, and how this has just reinforced his love for me.