Then Comes Marriage (5 page)

And I hate myself for wanting that.

~*~

The smell of smoke still hangs heavy in the air. I should open a window, rid the house of the scent of charred promises. But for the life of me, I can’t get my feet to move. I’ve been standing here in the same spot in the kitchen for God knows how long. My legs hurt, I’m hungry, and I have to pee. Yet I don’t move.
 

“Rachel,” Travis says for the millionth time. “Come on babe.”
 

I swallow the lump of vomit in my throat. In a way, this weird body freezing is a blessing in disguise. Because causing intense bodily harm to Travis sounds amazing. The moment I stepped foot back into the house, my mind checked out, putting myself in some sort of shock.
 

I’m going to have to tell my parents the wedding is off. I will be single. I lost the person who said they would love me forever. I was lied to, and have to move out. Where I’ll be moving is another question.
 

Back home?

On my own in Dallas?

It’ll be hard getting by on my salary alone. I’ll have to cut a lot out of my lifestyle, which won’t kill me, I know, but will eat me up inside knowing I’m missing out on the little things I like because Travis had to get his dick wet with someone other than me.

“Rach,” he tries again. “I’m sorry. I love you.”
 

I close my eyes, lids swollen from crying so much. As of right now, only Travis and the chick he was with know of his infidelity. I wish it could stay that way. I don’t want pity. I don’t want people looking at me differently, wondering what the hell is wrong with me, why I’m not enough for this man I gave up everything for.
 

Because I’m wondering that.
 

“You don’t love me,” I say, voice coming out thin and weak, barely a whisper. Just like I feel.
 

“Yes, I do. Babe, I made a mistake!”
 

“A mistake?” Anger floods through me and I whirl around and glare at Travis. “A mistake is pairing a black bag with brown shoes. What you did wasn’t a mistake. What you did was murder!”
 

“Murder? You’re taking things too far. I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Yes, you did. You killed our relationship.”

I shake my head, tears brimming my eyes once more. I don’t look at him, don’t want to move away from this spot. One step away from where I’m standing means one step closer to dealing with everything.
 

I’m not ready to yet.
 

But I can’t stand here forever.

Or, maybe I can.
 

“But when did you realize it was a mistake?” I ask, pleased at how level I’m able to speak. “Before or after you put your dick in her?”

“Rach, don’t be like that.” Travis moves for me, opening his arms for a hug. The second his skin touches mine, I recoil.
 

“Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me again!”
 

Travis jolts back, looking hurt. “So this is it?”

“What else would it be?” I shake my head, eyes wide. “You think we can get past this? That I can forgive you and move on, taking our vows like nothing happened?”

Travis looks at the floor. “I…I don’t know. But I do know I don’t want to lose you.” His voice cracks. “I don’t want to be without you.
 
I messed up. I’m so sorry. I can’t lose you!”
 

“You should have thought about that
before
you cheated on me.”
 

As much as I don’t want to move, I don’t want to be in the same house as Travis even more. I march past him, holding onto every shred of anger inside me, and go into the bedroom. I slam the door hard enough to cause a picture to fall onto the floor, glass shattering into a million tiny pieces—small, clear, yet dangerous. I lock the door behind me and start packing a bag.
 

I don’t know how this is going to work. We’re not married, so a lawyer isn’t going to sit down with us and force us to divide up our stuff. Our house is full of mismatched odds and ends, half of it donated to me from my grandma when she moved into an assisted living facility. But the little things, like pots, pans, and dishes…what would we do about that? I can’t afford to move out
and
get all that new stuff right away.
 

I slump on the bed, exhausted. My body wants nothing more than to collapse and sleep for a hundred years, not waking until Travis is dead and gone. Yeah, I know I’ll be dead and gone too, but I’m not exactly thinking logically right now. The tears I’ve been holding back come out, and I bury my face in my pillow, crying until there’s nothing left.
 

I’m dizzy when I sit up and wipe my cheeks. Still in my workout clothes, I grab clothes to change into and move toward the door but stop. I can’t shower in there, where
she
was not that long ago.

I have so many questions about her: who is she, how did they meet, how long has this been going on? But none of it matters. None of it will change anything. Travis cheated on me, invited some other woman into our house thinking I was stuck at work.
 

“What a fucking asshole,” I mutter. I was miserable at work, thinking I was going to have to stay over, and he was home, in here with
her.
But I have to pee, dammit, and all my makeup is in there. With a deep breath, I leave the room and go into the bathroom.
 

Travis already came in, unlocked the doors, and got dressed. But he didn’t wipe up the water on the floor in front of the tub. My sock soaks it up and I have to catch myself on the counter, the pain of my broken heart too much. I quickly pee, then force myself to have tunnel vision as I pack my makeup. My travel bag fills up fast, so I shove everything else into a grocery bag and then add it to my suitcase, lugging it downstairs.
 

Travis is sitting on the couch, head in his hands. Seeing him distraught throws me off-guard for a second. He’s a boys-don’t-cry kind of person, brought up believing that showing emotion means you’re weak. It caused a great many arguments between us, but that’s neither here nor there.
 

Not anymore.
 

“Where are you going?” he asks softly.

“Away from you.”
 

“Rachel, please.”
 

I shake my head, knowing if I turn and look at him I might come undone. “No. Travis, no. We’re done. I’ll come back for the rest of my stuff later. I…I just can’t be around you. I don’t even want to look at you anymore.”
 

“I’ll go,” he says and stands.
 

“Go back with your mistress, you mean?” I keep my eyes on the floor.

“No. I’ll go to a hotel.”
 

“Oh and have her come to you?”
 

“Rachel, no. Please, I’m sorry. I—”

“Save it. You’re only sorry you got caught. But yes, go. I’d rather stay here and pack my stuff and probably drink all the wine anyway. Get the hell out of here.”

His eyes meet mine and he’s looking at me like I can’t be serious.

“Leave,” I say, voice wavering. This might very well be the last time I see him. I close my eyes, not wanting to remember him like this. “Now.”
 

“I’ll just…we don’t have to do this, Rach.”
 

“Yes, we do. Goodbye, Travis.”
 

The couch groans as he gets up, and I hear him shuffle across the room and up the stairs. A minute later he’s out the door. I let out my breath and allow the tears to fall. I cry for a minute, then compose myself, crossing the kitchen to lock the garage door.

I bring up my mom’s number on my phone, finger hovering over the “call” icon. I let out my breath. My mom is going to be upset—really upset—and there’s nothing she can do right now. She’s a kindergarten teacher and has work in the morning too. Telling her the wedding is off is inevitable, but it’s something I can put off just a little longer.
 

Tears fill my eyes and I feel like puking. How am I going to do this? Telling everyone…calling the venue and the others involved in this…it’s just too much. Too much time, too much emotion.
 

Too much embarrassment.

I’ve posted a great deal about the wedding on my blog and on Instagram. My followers were looking forward to more wedding posts and pictures. I close out of being able to make calls and open Instagram, going to my own profile and scroll through my pictures.
 

My life looks so perfect, so organized and glamorous. That’s what I wanted, why I carefully choose each and every picture that goes up. I don’t think most people realize that the “candid” photos I post are usually the result of fifty or more photos taken, and most have at least slight editing done to them.
 

From the outside looking in, you would think my life is charmed.
 

But that’s the goal of a blogger, right? That’s what people who are Instagram famous do: Photoshop away their problems, highlighting only the best of the best.
 

“Fuck you,” I say to my phone when a picture of Travis and me comes into view. I’m tired and incredibly emotional right now, and looking at my own smiling face is pissing me off.
 

Because I don’t think I can ever smile—fake or not—ever again. I used to think love heals all things, but now I know that is a lie. Love doesn’t heal. Love destroys.

Chapter Six

Derek
 

My badge slaps against my chest, rising and falling in beat with my feet hitting the pavement. Air rushes in and out of my lungs and my heart hammers loudly in my ears.
 

Excited. High on adrenaline. Nerves on end as I’m rushing into danger.
 

This is what I live for. This is what I need. Danger so real you can feel it pressing into you, crushing against your body with such force it makes it hard to breathe.
 

This is the only time I feel alive.
 

Yellow light from a streetlamp pours down on the alley, illuminating my way over the trash that’s spilling out of the dumpster. I jump over it, seamlessly landing and keep running, keep pushing.
 

He can’t be much farther ahead.
 

I round a corner of a tall brick building and zero in on the man I’m chasing. The man who ran out the back of the shop when I questioned him. The man who is guilty, no doubt.

He turns, sees me gaining on him, and pulls a gun. I only have half a second to make a decision. I could dodge behind the corner of the building I’m next to and hope the perp keeps running. Shooting me is his last resort. If he had the intention to kill me, he would have already. The chances are he’d keep going, get out of sight.

But when it comes to someone with a gun, I don’t leave anything up to hoping.
 

I could draw my own gun and shoot him down before he even has the chance of pulling the trigger. Watch him fall without giving him the chance to hurt me.
 

My feet leave the ground as I jump, going with option number three: tackling him and taking him in for further questioning. We collide and he goes down, gun clattering against the gritty pavement. He lands on his back and swings at me, a move easily dodged. I grab him, flip him over, and slap cuffs around his wrists.

“I didn’t do nothing,” he sputters and I help him to his feet.

“Innocent people don’t say that,” I muse. “Or carry illegal firearms. I’m guessing you don’t have a permit.”
 

“It’s not mine,” he says, like that’s any better. I can tell by the crusted over scabs on his face that he’s a junkie. “Some guy gave it to me. Paid me fifty bucks to pawn it for him.”

I just nod, and move him against a wall, and then call this in to the station, not wanting to touch his gun and smear any potential prints. I can tell by looking at the weapon it’s not loaded. The magazine is missing, actually. The serial numbers have been rubbed off as well. This will be interesting to unfold.

“You got a name?” I ask.

“Roger.”
 

“Where have you been staying?”

His shoulders jerk uncontrollably. “Here and there. Stayed at Good Faith last night.”
 

Good Faith is the church that sponsors the wellness clinic where Rachel—the hot nurse—volunteers.
 
I get a flash of her pretty face, the kindness in her blue eyes. She looked at me like she could see right through me. She looked at me with compassion, without judgement. And that’s something I haven’t seen in a while.

“Have you ever shot a gun before?” I ask.

Roger’s head is already shaking…well, twitching I guess. “Nope.” I look at him, noticing the unwashed brown hair and dirty skin. How did he end up like this? Was he born into a life of drug use?
 

We go down to the station, and several hours later Roger gives us the name of the gun owner. Once ballistics come back with a report on the gun, we’ll know more. Possibly enough to make an arrest, and maybe even close the case of the murdered homeless men.

“Good work, kid,” Andy says, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He rolls it between his fingers then brings it to his nose and inhales. He’s been trying to quit since I’ve known him, and he swears smelling the damn thing helps with the craving.

“Thanks,” I say, the rush of the arrest wearing off.

“Wanna go grab breakfast?”

“Is it morning already?”

Andy gives a hearty chuckle. “It’s been morning, kid. Which reminds me, you gotta stop with these middle of the night arrests. The wife’s getting real tired of my phone ringing at four in the morning.”
 

“Didn’t she know that was what she signed up for when she married you?”

“Hah. I’ll remind her.”
 

“Let’s go to Suzy’s. You know, it’s not too late to get the waitress’s number.”
 

“You go,” I say. “I’m gonna look into the lead Roger gave us.”
 

“Kid,” Andy says and I know by his tone he’s not gonna take no for an answer. “You’ve spent more time at the station than your own house. We all got demons. Running ain’t gonna make ‘em go away.”