Breaking Perfect (4 page)

Pushing the dusty memories back as
far as he could, he focused on the happy life he had in the here and now. He
loved his wife. She was a magnificent woman. He would not disrespect her by
fantasizing about someone else. She was more than enough to meet his needs both
emotionally and sexually.

After drying off and shaving, he
moved back into the bedroom. Libby had been there. The evidence was in the
freshly made bed, pillows fluffed like little plump clouds and blankets
smoother than an idle millpond kissing the horizon. She did like to have
everything just so.

A few minutes later he walked into
the kitchen to find his beautiful wife placing a dollop of hand whipped cream
on a stack of perfectly shaped buttermilk pancakes. Placing a kiss on the side
of her neck, he grinned as she shivered. His mouth gently nibbled her there,
the motion causing her hand holding the whisk to shake and leave her with a
less than perfect tear shaped cloud of cream. She huffed, but smiled at him
anyway. There was a teasing sort of pleasure that came with ruffling her
feathers, playing with her just enough to keep the atmosphere of their home
light and forgiving, while still supporting her need for perfection.

Mason opened the double door
stainless steel fridge and pulled out a quart of orange juice. Just as he
brought the bottle to his lips Libby snatched it out of his hands.

“You’re picking on me on purpose
today,” she teased, pouring him a tall glass of juice.

“I just like to give you a
challenge.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your mother
called again this morning. Mase, it isn’t fair to blow her off on your
birthday. You know she just wants to wish her favorite son a happy fortieth.”

“Oh ho! Now look who’s picking!” He
had two years to go before he climbed over that hill.

“I’m sorry, I meant fiftieth.”

As she tried to sashay by him after
returning the juice to the fridge Mason grabbed her wrist and spun her into his
hold. Her back pressed against his front. Leaning down, bending over her much
smaller form, he pressed his lips into her neck. She squealed as he gave her a
slight tickle. He wanted her too much, considering he just had her the night
before and jerked off that morning. “Listen here, little girlie, keep being so
cheeky and this old man may have to give you a spanking.”

Liberty suddenly grew very still.
Fuck. Had he taken things too far? Her petite frame radiated with strong
emotion as she took deep, slow breaths. Was she scared? Had he frightened her?
“Liberty, I was just playing around, baby.”

Her body sagged a little and she
nodded silently. As he released her she didn’t look at him. Cheeks flushed, she
seemed intent on busying herself with bullshit that didn’t have to be done,
like wiping down an immaculate countertop. Little walls, that’s what his
marriage was contained in. Sometimes their marriage was like navigating his way
through a labyrinth.

She cleared her throat softly.
“Your messages are by the fridge. Breakfast is ready. If you want to make calls
while you eat I can bring your coffee and paper in here.”

“No, that’s all right. I’ll go over
them after breakfast. You made a lovely meal. Come on, let’s go enjoy it.”

By the end of breakfast whatever
blip on the radar they experienced was gone. As usual, Libby made sure
everything ran smoothly. He had no idea where she found the energy. She seemed extra
anxious that morning, perhaps because of his stupid joke. Knowing what kind of
odd things she found cathartic, he purposely tipped over the last half of his
coffee and pretended regret as it dribbled down onto the light carpeting.

“Damn, baby, I’m sorry.”

She was up with a rag in her hand
before the cup even emptied. “That’s all right. Let me just blot up the most of
it then I’ll get you a fresh cup. Do you want to make calls from the study? I
can run your coffee up to you.”

Mason stood and picked up his plate
and toppled cup. “Don’t worry, I’ll get the coffee. Why don’t we swim this
afternoon? I’ll make my calls, you tidy up, and then we’ll rendezvous here.”

“It’s a date.”

He paused for a moment. Sometimes
it still took his breath away, seeing how beautiful she was. Those soft blue
eyes stared up at him with such love and admiration it was sometimes
overwhelming. There was something so special about Liberty, something pure and
youthful he wanted to protect since the first day he met her. At age twenty-eight
she still possessed that charming, nameless quality and he hoped it never
faded.

“Mason?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.
 
Right. Okay, I’ll grab my coffee and messages
and come find you when I’m done.”

The smile spread to her eyes and he
wished he knew what she was thinking in that moment. What had taken her from
amused, to genuinely pleased? Right, coffee. He left her to clean up the
intentional spill, glad to see it was already relaxing her to be of some help,
and headed into the kitchen.

* * * *

He had given her the look, that
look that he gave her the first time he told her he needed to have her. Liberty
understood that look. She would always recognize it. It was that random glimpse
inside of him when all barriers were gone. A moment, just for her, one of
life’s little gifts, where she was shown that yes, her husband still found her
attractive.

Folding up the damp napkin, she headed
toward the laundry room and jumped when she heard the sound of glass
shattering. “Mason?” Pivoting, she ran into the kitchen. Mason was standing
with one hand braced on the counter between the fridge and the sink and his
other hand spread over his face. “What’s wrong?” she cried and ran into the
room.

“Stop!”

Liberty froze.

“There’s glass on the floor and you
don’t have shoes on.”

She shook her head. Something was
terribly wrong. Ignoring his warning she began walking toward him. “I don’t
care. What happened? Are you all right?”

“I said, don’t move.”

Something inside of her went on
lockdown. She couldn’t move, not after he used such a firm tone of voice. Her
body quivered. What the hell? Why was she suddenly getting turned on? She
wanted to ask again if he was all right. He hadn’t answered her either time.
There was no sign of blood. Something about the way he was now standing told
her he was fine. Physically. Emotionally something seemed to have upset him.
Yet, she waited, as he commanded.

The glass lay between them like the
Red Sea.
 
Only his authority could clear
the way. His hand dropped to his side and reached for his messages on the
counter. His tense fingers crumpled them as if he were angry. “Is this who
called last night?”

“Who? Your mother? I told you she
called yesterday and this—”

“Sean. Was it Sean O’Malley who
called last night after dinner?”

Was that the guy’s name? She had to
think for a moment. Mason had been kissing her and she was incredibly
distracted as she took the message. “I think that was his name. Do you know
him?”

Mason nodded, again appearing as if
he were in pain. “I’ll be in my study.” Without looking at her again he took
the messages and walked out of the kitchen.

Liberty stood there for several
minutes wondering what she should do. The coffee stain was setting in the
carpet and she needed to treat it, but the cleaner was under the sink. She
didn’t have shoes on and he’d told her not to move. Could she move if she got
shoes? Someone had to clean up that glass. It couldn’t stay there. Her anxiety
over the disorganized state of the room and the inexplicable need to do exactly
as her husband asked pushed and pulled at her like similar sides of a magnet. The
nagging pull to correct the state of things battled with the push to obey. She
didn’t want to get glass in her foot and have to explain that she didn’t listen
to his edict.

Her palms began to sweat and her
fingers shook. Biting down on her lip, she whimpered as nausea set in. If she weren’t
crazy there wouldn’t be a problem. If she were a normal person who didn’t need
everything to be in its rightful place in order to function she wouldn’t be
standing there. If she weren’t a pervert she wouldn’t be getting a sexual rush
from following her husband’s command, a command that was anything but sexual.
What the fuck was wrong with her?

A door slammed upstairs and she
began to cry. “God damn it!” she snapped and turned to run out of the kitchen. Taking
the steps as fast as she could, her small feet rounded the bend and her
footfalls grew muffled the moment they landed on the soft runner of the second
floor hall. The office door was closed, thankfully. She made it into her
bedroom and out again, with shoes now on her feet in under ten seconds. A
minute later and she was standing back in her place in the kitchen.

It took another ten minutes of
internal debating that only a psychotic person would suffer through to take a
baby step closer to the pieces of broken glass. She debated and looked from the
door, to the glass, to the cabinet that held the stain treatment, to the
forgotten, soiled napkin on the ground.

Once she was over the humiliation of
coming up against a crazy person and acknowledging that it was only herself,
she moved onto being upset. Why would he tell her not to move and just leave?
Did she do something wrong? He should know she wouldn’t be able to deal with
such a mess. Was he trying to test her? Push her? Was he doing this to be mean?
Then came anger. How could he leave her?

Wrapped up in such a whirlwind of
emotional confusion and rage, she didn’t hear him return to the kitchen. Her
lips pressed firmly together and trembled as her eyes blinked repetitively,
holding back her tears, tears that would surely underscore that she was nuts.
Who cried over coffee and glass? And what kind of moron didn’t have the common
sense to move when something had to be done?

He walked into the room and didn’t
appear to notice her.
 
It was as if she
was invisible, and then he stopped. “Oh, Jesus, Libby, fuck, come here, baby.”

She turned to him and couldn’t hold
back the stuttering breath that broke her resolve. Regardless of her silence,
she hurled the blame at him.
Bastard!
Only thought, no words needed,
because he understood her that well.

Mason wrapped her in his arms and
she crumbled. Too weak to hold it all inside, she couldn’t prevent some of the
ugliness within her from seeping out. She hated the jagged edges of herself,
hated when others saw them too.

Liberty pounded weakly on his chest
as she cried. “You just left. You told me not to move and you left! The carpet
will be ruined now and that stain will be there forever.”

Holding her tightly, he moved them
to one of the stools along the breakfast nook. “Baby, I’m so sorry.” He pulled
her onto his lap and tilted her chin so she was facing him. “Liberty, please
don’t cry. I’m an asshole. I forgot about the stain and I wasn’t thinking when
I told you not to move. I just didn’t want to see you cut your feet.”

She couldn’t stop shaking or
crying. His acknowledgement of forgetting about her only made it more real and
more painful. His hands ran over her curls and cupped the back of her head,
forcing her gaze to meet his.

“Look at me. I’m a jerk. You did
nothing wrong and I’ll buy you a new carpet before the end of the week. It
isn’t your fault. It’s mine.
I
spilled the coffee.
I
broke the
glass.
I
told you not to move. And
I
was the one who got distracted.
Me
. You did nothing wrong. As a matter of fact, look how hard you pushed
yourself just to please me. I don’t deserve a wife like you. I know how hard it
must have been for you waiting here, alone and unsure. I won’t let it happen
again.”

He spoke slow and calmly. Offering
a jagged nod, she rested her head on his shoulder. She needed to cry a little
bit longer and once she was done he simply held her. Exhaustion set in. Emotion
clouded her mind until numbness set in and she began to fall asleep in his arms.
Her eyes seemed to be blinking longer and longer each time to stay awake. When
she next opened her eyes Mason was laying her in their bed and leaning down
over her.

“I need to sweep up the floor,” she
mumbled tiredly.

He gave her a sympathetic smile and
she wanted to cry for him. She hated that he had to suffer a broken wife who
was so emotionally unstable she could have a complete episode over one cup of
coffee and some broken glass.

Perching on the edge of the bed he brushed
her hair off of her face. “What if I told you I wanted you to rest for an hour?
What if I said, ‘Libby, what I
need
is for you not to get off this bed
for one hour so that I can carry out the dining room carpet and sweep the
kitchen floor’? What would you do then, baby?”

“But that’s
my
job.”

He shook his head. “I want to do
it. It’ll be my penance for getting you upset. Let me do it, Libby. And when
I’m done and you wake up in an hour, rather than swim, I want you to play for
me. Will you do that for me?”