A Husband's Watch. Karen Templeton
Her words faded into a silence that positively screamed between them.
“Didn’t expect you awake this early,” she said, as much to shatter that silence as anything else. “Sun’s not even up yet. Neither are the rest of the kids, thank goodness.”
She sensed him inching toward the refrigerator, barefoot as usual even though it was none too warm this early in the morning. Usually Darryl propelled himself through space like he could never get where he was going fast enough; today, however, he moved cautiously, as if he was trying to sneak past the pain. Sympathy twanged inside her—this was a man who rarely got sick, even when everybody else in the house was like to die from some crud or other. And everybody knows pain’s all the worse when you’re not used to it.
One hip propping open the door, he pulled out a carton of orange juice—he never had been a coffee-first-thing-in-the-morning kind of person. In the glow from the open fridge, she could see he hadn’t bothered combing his thick hair, that he looked to be wearing the same T-shirt he’d had on yesterday. That the waistband snap to his jeans was still undone.
“You need help doing up your pants?”
He stilled for a second, then twisted off the cap to the carton one-handed, poured the juice into a glass. “No.”
She swallowed. “Soon as I finish with Nicky, I can fix you some breakfast—”
“I’m not hungry.”
Faith took in a deep breath, trying to break the bands constricting her chest. “You get any sleep?”
“Not a whole lot, no. But thanks for asking.”
“Darryl, I—”
“There’s nothing to say, Faith,” he said, not looking at her. “Like you said, I was the one who brought up the subject.” He set the juice back in the fridge and let the door slam shut, making Nicky jump. The baby stopped nursing for a second, then latched back on, his blue eyes wide and trusting. Now standing at the window, Darryl sipped the juice, then made a face. “This our regular stuff?”
“No, they got a new brand in, I thought I’d try it—”
“Is there somebody else?” he said quietly.
“What?”
He turned, his expression flat. “I said, is there somebody else?”
She caught the laugh a split second before it escaped. “Of course not! What on earth put that idea into your head?”
“I’d be a fool not to ask, wouldn’t I?”
The baby done with his feed, Faith shifted him to sit up, fingering his fluffy curls as he let out a trucker-size belch, then gleefully slapped the table in front of them. “No, Darryl, there’s nobody else.” A rueful smile pulled at her mouth. “When on earth would I have had time?”
He smirked. “Still. I don’t know as I much like being thought of as a habit you can’t break.”
“It’s not like that—”
“Isn’t it? Oh, you said it prettier, all that stuff about us being like a pair of trees that have grown together, but the upshot’s the same. So.” He downed the rest of the juice. “You want out?”
“No!”
“Why?” He banged the glass onto the counter, the sound reverberating through the semidarkness. “Why would you want to stay if you’re not sure what you feel for me anymore?”
“Stop twisting my words!” she said in a low voice. “I said I loved you, what more do you want?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a little honesty?”
“I am being honest! As honest as I know how, at least. For heaven’s sake, if I didn’t feel anything for you, do you think I’d still be sharing your bed?”
She was throwing him scraps, and she knew it. Just like the hard set to his mouth told her he knew it, too. “Thought that was just the hormones talking.”
“Maybe it is,” she retorted, exhausted and scared and frustrated, with him, with herself, with everything that was going on. “And maybe habit and hormones is the best most people can hope for after twelve years, I don’t know.”
“And that’s enough for you?” he said, the bitterness in his voice lancing through her. “’Cause I’m here to tell you, it sure as hell isn’t enough for me.”
Faith got up to set the baby in his play yard, hanging on to the side and watching him pick up what she knew was the first of many toys to be jettisoned onto the kitchen floor. “I know this is going to sound lame,” she said, blinking back tears, “but this isn’t any picnic for me, either. Especially knowing how much distress this is causing you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I may be messed up, Darryl,” she said quietly, “but I’m not stupid.”
The sun peeked over the horizon, flooding the kitchen with softly pearled light. “So…what now?” he said. “We just pretend everything’s okay, is that it?”
Faith looked over at him, her heart cracking at the confusion swimming in his eyes. “What choice do we have? For one thing, we’ve got five kids who for sure don’t need another crisis to deal with on top of everything else. And for another, you really want our parents to know about this?”
After a moment, Darryl snagged that old jacket she’d ripped up to accommodate his cast off the pegboard by the back door, awkwardly shrugging into it. She couldn’t tell if the pain contorting his features was due more to his bruised body or their conversation. “I’m going down to the garage,” he said, turning toward the back door.
“What? Why? There’s hardly anything left!”
His eyes touched hers, his voice like steel. “Oh, I’m pretty sure underneath the wreckage, there’s more left than you might think. Sooner I can get it cleared away, sooner I can start rebuilding.”
Chapter 3
Somebody or other was cheerfully belting out “Jingle Bell Rock” as Faith pushed her cart alongside the meat bins in the Homeland, keeping an eye peeled for the Reduced for Quick Sale stickers. There was something almost anesthetizing about the upbeat music, the swags of silver and red tinsel draped between the aisles, the rows of tightly plastic-wrapped chicken parts and pork chops and steaks, the quiet purposefulness of the other Monday morning shoppers. With the three oldest in school, she only had Sierra and Nicky in the cart. Which was more than enough. To keep them quiet, she’d snatched a bag of animal crackers off the shelf and practically thrown it at them, not even caring—too much—that they’d ruin their lunch. Not even caring—too much—that she’d just bought herself a one-way ticket to Bad Mama Hell.
Soon as she got out of the one for Bad Wives, where basically she’d lived for the past three days. Cramming a small handful of the crackers down her own gullet (Lord, she felt like she had this gaping hole inside of her that just would not get filled up) she pounced on a chuck roast—one of the few things she could actually cook—marked down forty percent, wedging it into the cart someplace where hopefully Sierra wouldn’t grind her Barbie sneaker into it.
Now that the Truth had moved in—and theirs was far too small a house for something that big and ugly and stinky—every conversation between her and Darryl had become so guarded and polite Faith was ready to tear her hair out. Given a choice, habit and hormones wasn’t looking so bad. And heaven knew this was no time for her to be going off the deep end. Even if Darryl seemed hell-bent on driving her there himself.
Honestly! Why was all this stuff coming to the surface now?
Because, chickie, it was bound to eventually, wasn’t it?
She shoved more animal crackers into her mouth, thinking at this