Текст книги "Bend"

Автор книги: Alessandra Torre

Соавторы: Ella James,K. Bromberg
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 41 страниц)

Chapter Six

My head lolls forward, my forehead against my captor’s shoulder as his arms continue to hold and guide me. My body still simmers, still burns for more, but I don’t know how much more I can handle. I’m exhausted: physically, mentally, sexually. For a girl used to one orgasm at a time, my body can’t come any more.

I think the men realize this, but they don’t relent as they chase their own releases.

Time lapses and positions change.

Murmured words are spoken from my captor.

Fingers grip my hips.

Grunts and the sound of flesh hitting flesh.

Moans of release.

Sleep comes without thought.

The smell of peppermint awakes me way too soon.

I’m allowed to use the facilities.

Never alone.

Drink of water offered.

Refastened to bed for another round to begin.

On my back.

This time just Marco.

Still silent.

Presence still dominating the room.

The only connection is where our bodies join.

First him.

Then my captor.

Pleading with them to stop.

Can’t take anymore.

Saying Anderson’s name over and over.

Focusing on the peppermint.

Not the continuous onslaught of sensation.

Feeling like a rag doll.

But the orgasms still come.

Drowning in the unwelcome pleasure.

Body traitorous.

Mind escaping.

Drinking more water.

Wishing for the chocolate covered strawberries.

Head becoming fuzzy. Just like walking back to the hotel.

Darkness closing in.

Feeling free. Weightless, cradled.

Peppermint again.

Cool Air. Bright lights.

The ding of an elevator.

“My girlfriend.” My captor’s voice. A soft, knowing chuckle. “Silly American pride made her think she could handle our vino.” The warmth of a kiss pressed to my forehead. Polite laughter. Murmured good lucks.

The ding of the elevator.

Sinking into softness.

Cocooned in blankets.

“Ora sei libero,” murmured against my ear.

Blackness.

Chapter Seven

I shift restlessly in the bed, my head groggy and body aching. I roll over onto my stomach and feel a crackling over my chest. My mind snaps awake with awareness and I bolt up in the bed with a groan. The light hits my eyes and I raise an arm to shield them from its harsh rays. My heart pounds and once my eyes can adjust, they dart frantically around the room.

My hotel room.

I immediately grab the bedding and hold it to my chest in a ridiculous form of protection from the silence and the unknown. It takes me a second to catch my breath, to even out my pulse, and to really believe that I’m here.

Alone.

My mind rifles over everything, memories and sensations crashing together like a demolition derby. I immediately curl into myself—knees to chest—arms protective around them. And if I didn’t feel the ache in my limbs, the tenderness between my thighs, the wax dried on my chest, and the bites of pain along my back, I’d swear it was all a dream. The abduction, being fucked every which way imaginable, and then nothing until waking up here in my bed in my hotel room.

I choke back at the bile that rises in my throat when those images materialize into actuality. When I realize that what I’d hoped was a dream is actually reality. My body protests but I’m off the bed in a heartbeat and running into the bathroom. I can’t turn the shower on quick enough, can’t wait to rid my body of the reminders that still brand me: the feel of his fingers, his scent mixed with mine, the dried wax, the salt on my skin. Mentally scattered, I step into the tiled enclosure without thought. The shock of cold jolts my mind to the present, my voice crying out and echoing over the tiles is a disconcerting sound.

Why didn’t I yell for help yesterday when I was being raped and held against my will, but I cry out now because of something as menial as a cold shower?

The question circles in my mind, my body sagging against the chilled wall behind me, my conscience trying to disengage from the facts. The guilt. The doubts. The truths.

Why didn’t I fight harder, resist more? Did I allow everything to happen? Is this on me?

The temperature of the water heats in an instant. Cold to hot. Frigid to inviting. Was that me yesterday? Resistant and unwilling, then accepting and compliant on a turn of a dime.

I choke back the bile as the thought hits me. As I question myself and what I should or shouldn’t have done. Of the things I found pleasure in.

“Oh God.” The words tumbling from my mouth are like a repeated mantra as I stand mid-stream and let the scalding water burn lines down my skin. I grab the bar of soap with trembling hands and begin to scrub my body with vigor. The steam suffocates the small bathroom but is no match for the weight smothering my soul.

I reduce the bar to a sliver and immediately open another package of the cheap hotel soap and begin anew until my skin is pink, raw, and abraded. But it’s not enough. I’m still dirty, still tarnished—inside and out. I take my fingers and lather them with soap and slide them between my legs and inside of me, trying to wash every trace of him away as best as I can. I move in a frenzy. My swollen, torn skin stings when the soap hits it, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t seem to cleanse the claim he staked.

Tears fall. My body shivers. I open my mouth to let the scalding water fill it and burn my palate. I can’t seem to erase the taste of his kiss or the feeling of his dick sliding over my tongue. I start to gag at the thought, water spraying everywhere as I choke and cough and attempt to draw in air.

And I don’t know how long I stand there, the hot water burning welts on my skin, but I don’t care. I welcome the forced focus on the pain, the cleansing of my flesh, because it’s easier to concentrate on that rather than the doubts and questions and thoughts that overwhelm my mind.

The ones I’m afraid to look at closer, find answers to.

I stumble out of the shower after some time. I go through the haphazard mechanics of sliding on the hotel provided robe and pull it as tight as I can around me. I’m freezing. The muggy Italian weather permeates the room, but I’m so very cold. I walk the short distance to the bed, crawl back into it, teeth chattering and body exhausted.

But it’s now that I’m physically cleansed—that my eyes are closed and body is sinking into the mattress—that I can hear the cars on the street below and the sound of the vacuum in another room nearby. My throat constricts momentarily.

Is that where they had me? Held me against my will just a few rooms down from this one? I try to process the possibilities. I have no idea, and the panic hits me full force again, the thought an unexpected blindside. Was I really being held so close to here? Could I have screamed and stopped the course of emotional destruction I now find myself on. My heart thunders and hands tremble.

I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself to focus on my surroundings. Everything seems the same as it did yesterday … or the day before yesterday. I fixate on that. On the normalcy of everything, hoping my mind can shut down for a few moments. I have no idea how much time has passed but it all seems the same, and yet every single thing in me has shifted, been forever changed.

I finally allow my mind to go there, to try and process what the hell happened: the whys, the what-fors, the answers for some reason I know I’ll never find. I reach down out of habit to twist my bracelet, my small form of comfort amidst this maelstrom and touch bare skin. I look down to my wrist, thoughts warring when I find my favorite piece of jewelry gone.

The anxiety returns as my mind tries to recall if I had it on last night. If I lost it during everything that happened. I urge my mind to fire, to break through the fuzzy memories, but the furthest I can recall is waking up bound and blindfolded.

I start to get up, want to look for it, needing that reminder of my family—my boys—to hold on to right now, but I stop when my eyes catch a glimpse of the faint red lines ringing my wrists. I pull them in close to my chest and rub them, my mind losing focus on what I was going to do. After a moment lost in thought, I hold them out and stare at them again. The funny thing is I know that when the marks fade, I’ll still feel them—somehow, someway—because what was done to me will be etched in my soul forever.

The question is, is it a nightmare or a memory?

I think of a kidnapper I trusted in some inexplicable, screwed-up way, who tried to protect me, praised me, showed me an unexpected and sporadic tenderness. How does someone wrap their head around that? Kidnapping, drugging, and restraints are in no way consensual, so how did he make me feel like it was my choice?

My thoughts flicker to Marco, the person who said nothing but whose presence owned the room with his mere silence. His cold demeanor and lack of tactility from his place at the end of the bed such a stark contrast to my kidnapper’s. The mysterious man who sat there watching without so much as a word, but who took something from me I’ve never given anybody else.

And then I think of Anderson. The sob catches in my throat as I focus on the betrayal and infidelity until the guilt wreaks havoc in my psyche. I scramble off the bed to the dresser where my cell phone lies and grab it like a life line, not understanding why this wasn’t my first thought when I woke up. There are ten texts from him asking if I’m alright, to call him back, that he’s going into more meetings. My hands grip it tightly, knuckles turning white as the tears return and course down my cheeks. I welcome the feeling, the shedding of emotions that weigh heavy.

Do I tell him? Do I go home and act like this never happened? Carry on life as usual all the while I’m reeling inside with … what? What exactly am I feeling?

Relieved.

Confused.

Sated.

“Oh God,” I whisper my mantra into the room. Memories stain my mind and unease reigns in my soul. One hand grips my phone—the platinum of my wedding ring clicking against it—while the other lifts involuntarily to cover my lips. I sag onto the bed and succumb to the onslaught of emotions I’m not quite sure how to handle.

I wasn’t harmed. I was put back in my hotel room. Is anyone going to really believe I was abducted, raped, and released physically uninjured? I blow out a breath, my fingers on my lips now beginning to tremble. I’m in a foreign country. Alone. I’ve just washed all traces of them from me without thought. If I went to the authorities, would they really believe me?

Indecision wars as time passes, the discomfort with each movement a subtle reminder of everything. Shadows shift across the room as the day wages on.

I cry when my cell rings. The sound seems so foreign in my echo chamber of thoughts. I fumble the phone momentarily, my hand sore from unconsciously gripping it all this time, and look down to see who’s calling.

Anderson.

I stare wide-eyed at his picture on the screen for what seems like forever but is really only two rings. The rush of blood in my ears drowns out the ringtone as I swallow over the lump in my throat. I know it’s only seconds that pass, but it feels like hours that I stare at the screen. Indecision wars. And then once I choose to answer, I can’t get the phone to my ear quick enough.

“Hello?” I’m already sobbing the words out, breath hitching, desperation echoing in my voice.

“Lil? Lil, what’s wrong?” And it’s his voice—concern, comfort, everything—that undoes me. Unravels me. Hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. I can’t catch my breath fast enough, can’t speak, because I’m overwhelmed by the truths I’m finally ready to face. To accept.

This man is my everything.

He has been for so long, how in the hell could I think of wanting anyone else? Sure sex might be a little boring sometimes, it might be predictable or scheduled to minimize the off chance of being interrupted by the boys, but is that really on him? Is the rut we’ve fallen into all his fault?

I’ve become complacent. I’ve taken his place beside me for granted. Aren’t I just as much to blame for this as he is? Haven’t I stopped putting our marriage first just as he has too?

“Lil, answer me! You’re scaring the shit out of me!” The urgency and fear in his voice comes through the connection loud and clear, jolting me from my thoughts. I can visualize him pacing in front of his desk, one hand on the phone, the other shoving through his hair.

“I’m okay,” I manage. “I’m okay.” I suck in a breath and will myself to calm down because I can’t answer the questions he’s going to ask, and the more composed I am, the less insistent he’ll be for a response.

“What’s going on?” His voice softens some but concern is still prominent.

“I just—I just miss you.” I hiccup the words, biting my knuckles to prevent another sob from falling out as the die is cast.

I can’t tell him.

I know I’m sealing my fate to Hell by lying, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t shatter that innate male instinct he has to protect me. I’m okay. I’m unharmed. The damage done to me is far less than what it would do to him. He would never look at me the same. His empathy—one of the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place—would lead him to coddle and handle me with kid gloves. The fact that everything happened—he’d look at it as a failure as a man, as a husband to protect me—would gnaw at him until he self-destructed.

Do I destroy the man I love to assuage my own guilt?

“Hun, you okay? Why are you crying?”

His words break through my thoughts. The tone of his voice almost shatters my resolve. The confession is on my tongue, but I close my eyes and force a swallow. Internalize my own pain to prevent his.

“Nothing. I just got sick and … and I can’t wait to come home. I miss you, the boys … home.” I press my thumb over the speaker on the phone so he can’t hear the telling sound of my hitching breath.

“Are you sure, Lil? You don’t sound good.” I’m silent. I don’t trust my voice just yet. “I’m flying out there.”

“No!” The words are out of my mouth, his declaration causing mine. A desperate plea. My epiphany so simple yet so daunting all at the same time. He can’t come see me because I need today and the next to compose myself, to absorb everything that happened, heal some of the physical marks, figure how to cope with the emotional reminders. To allow me the time to accept this experience has changed me and figure out the words to tell him I need a little more out of our sex life: experimenting, dominance, variation. To be able to express our marriage or him being enough for me isn’t the problem, no, but my need for him to give me something more in the bedroom is.

The answer I need to figure out though is, will that admission hurt him as much as me telling him about the rape? Blindside him when he thought we were happy and I’m far from it? Make him feel inadequate?

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to change my flight to tomorrow sometime and come home early.” I unfist my hands gripping the comforter and hold my breath waiting for his response.

“Lil, I don’t like—”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I stumble over the words, but I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure him or me. “I’ve already looked at flights … I was just picking up the phone to call you and tell you.”

One lie upon another.

What a tangled web we weave.

“Lil …” His voice trails off, the unasked question falling into its silence.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and wait for the questions, the inkling that he knows what happened—guilt screaming loud like my own personal tell-tale heart.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I should have told work to go to Hell. I should be there with you, taking care of you.” I can hear the regret, the evidence that he’s beating himself up over choosing his career over us. My God, I can’t imagine what he’d be like if he really knew what happened.

“Ander—”

“Lil …” He blows out a long breath. “We need to … we’ll talk when you get home, okay? Text me your flight info when you change it and … get some rest, okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line disconnects but I hold the phone to my ear for I don’t know how long, my decision warring against my rationality. And the only thing that breaks the endless spiral of guilt is when the words float through my mind like a distant memory.

Ora sei libero.

I can hear his voice say them, feel his breath heat my lips, but can’t remember anything else he said. I lower the phone from my ear and type the words in. My hands shake and I misspell them a few times but finally Google gives me the answer I am looking for.

I blink my eyes a couple of times and shake my head in what has to be misunderstanding of the words, their meaning.

You are now free.

Chapter Eight

“What’s brought all of this on?” The look of confusion on Anderson’s face worries me. Is he going to tell me no? Again? Reject me and my even-keeled plea?

You are now free.

I hiccup back the guilt—a heavy presence wanting to tell the truth—and lower my eyes to stare at my hands fiddling in my lap. Thoughts flash through my mind of earlier. The relief I felt seeing Anderson at the airport. The unfettered love that coursed through me when he wrapped his arms around me. The calm that came over me mixed with the feeling of safety, comfort, acceptance, loyalty with just the smell of his cologne and security of his arms. How I cried like a baby in the middle of the terminal as he held me, whispering reassurances to calm the outpouring of emotions he didn’t understand.

Driving home. Rapid-fire chat about what the other has been doing. And I tell him everything … everything but what I want to tell him the most. Apologies from him. How he screwed up, should have told work to take a hike, and put me first, put us first. How he’s thought about his priorities and where he’s gone wrong. How being all alone for a week—with nothing but your own thoughts—will do that to you.

I accept his apologies and then make my own—for the same reasons and for ones he’ll never have a clue about. The tears fall. Hope renews and murmured promises are made for the changes that need to be made.

And then we come home to a lonely house. My boys won’t be back from my mom’s for another day. Panic becomes hysteria; the thoughts I had those first few minutes after I woke up blindfolded flood back with a vengeance. I start to ramble, tell Anderson we need to get the boys now. Right now. I need to see them, kiss them, inhale their little boy scent as I hold them tight.

I begin to cry. Think of what I could have lost. Anderson calms me down, tells me travel arrangements are already made for tomorrow and too late to cancel. That we need to enjoy the one night we have together for our anniversary. Make the most of it. Start proving everything we just said to each other in the car.

I calm myself and stare at him for a moment before taking a deep breath to say what it feels has taken me a lifetime to confess. I ask that he doesn’t speak until I finish. I tell him I love him more than anything. I express to him that in losing the us that we once were, we also lost that spark in the bedroom. The want to please the other, the desire to be spontaneous, try new things, step outside of the box.

He nods his head at me, granting my request for silence as I gather my last thoughts together. The feelings evoked from the hotel room flood back tenfold and crowd the room around us, giving me the courage I need to finish what I need to say. We sit like this for some time, no words exchanged but our eyes speaking volumes: willingness and trust. Acceptance and understanding. But for some reason, the silence we sit in doesn’t seem so lonely anymore. It’s filled with a spark of what’s been missing for some time.

And so I add fuel to the spark, hoping it catches fire.

You are now free.

Instead of hinting at things I want as I have in the past, I flat out tell him. New positions, toys, anal, sex-swings, light bondage. Nothing earth-shattering to many these days but life changing for me. I say each sentence, pay particular attention to each word, and watch his reactions. I reassure that I love him, that I’m happy, that he’s more than enough, but that with age, with confidence, I want more. I need more.

And I want to find that more in him, with him.

I exhale loudly into the silence I’ve asked for. My nerves hum and I jostle my knee as we continue to stare at each other, his silence a slow torture to me. I need him to respond, need him to tell me that I’m not asking for too much. That he can give this to me.

But he doesn’t say a word but rather stands up and disappears from my sight. I bite my lip to fight the tears that threaten and the predicted rejection that lodges in my throat. It doesn’t matter how many times he rebuffs me, each time is just as devastating as the first. I squeeze my eyes, the gamut of emotions overtaking me as I hold everything in: Anderson’s dismissal after our promises earlier, the guilt and shame riding a close second.

The bed shifts and Anderson places his hand on my thigh, squeezing it when I refuse to open my eyes. “Lil?” There is a gentleness to his tone that pulls on so many things within me that I open my eyes to meet his. He reaches out and frames my face—his thumb brushing away the lone tear I couldn’t contain—and the tenderness in his touch almost makes me lose my hold on the reminder of them.

He repeats his question again, pulling me from my thoughts. “What brought all this on now? Is it because of these?”

He bends over to pick something off the floor beside the bed and I’m surprised to see the box from my closet. I stare at him as he takes the lid from it and sets the container between us. My eyes flicker back and forth, trying to gauge the expression on his face juxtaposed to the quiet ache that the sight of some of the toys create.

Because now I know just how much they can enhance my pleasure.

My cheeks stain red as I stare at them and silently, guiltily recalling those sensations while Anderson watches me—the weight of his stare as he waits for an answer flusters me.

“Yes. No. Yes …” I blow out an exasperated breath and look up from where I am fiddling with my fingers to meet the clear brown of his eyes. “I just …” My voice trails off for the first time, losing my confidence. I take a moment and when I look down and see the invisible lines on my wrists, they give me what I need to be honest. “This time apart has made me realize how much I love you, but that I’ve been unhappy, resentful … that for some time, I’ve been jealous of the old ‘us’ and I don’t want to be that way anymore. That’s a horrible place to be. We’ve let life get in the way … put everything else first, and I think this—discovering new things together—will make us find that trust in one another, rekindle what we used to have.” I shrug, tears welling in my eyes. “I don’t know. At first I thought the toys might help … but now ... All I know, all I care about is that I miss … us.”

Anderson gives me a measured nod followed by a full blown smirk. The one that fifteen years ago captured my heart when he walked past me in his football uniform during lunch in the quad.

“After this week, us being apart because of work, once again … I realized I miss us too,” he says with a nod of his head. He reaches in the box and moves items around with an obvious unease, but at least he’s looking. He quiets for a moment before looking up and meeting my eyes. “I’ve been stubborn. I’ve been so wrapped up thinking with my ego and not my dick that I’ve completely missed the whole point.” I suppress the burgeoning hope I feel, afraid to believe too quickly that Anderson has finally heard me. “Without you here, I realized that it’s lonely as hell … and that I need to stop and listen to you sometimes, really hear the words you’re saying. And you’ve been saying that these toys don’t mean that I’m not enough, but rather you just want a little more variety.”

I close my eyes, the tears leaking out because he finally gets it. I hiccup back a sob as relief finally finds its place within me.

With eyes steadfast on mine, he leans in and closes the distance between us. “You know what I think?” he says, an eyebrow raising and desire darkening in his eyes.

“Hmm?” I can’t speak. It’s been forever since I have seen that cocky look on his face and in a sense, he just gave me my answer without saying a word.

“I think that we should start with this.” Anderson holds up a Lelo vibrator from the box and I groan out softly at the thought. “Well then, it’s settled. I’m going to go grab a quick shower, and when I come back into the bedroom, you better be on the bed. Naked.” He presses a kiss against my lips. “And ready to get fucked.”

I startle my head back to look at him, the Anderson from fifteen years ago looking back at me. “So, you’ll …”

“Five minutes.” It’s all he says as he stands up and starts to walk from the room, my pulse quickening, and the tingling that’s been gone for so long when it comes to Anderson rushes back like a flash flood. My eyes track him as he pulls his shirt off on his way toward the bathroom. Disbelief and desire surging within me.

He passes through the doorway, stops, and turns around. “Hey, you never told me, did you get my anniversary present?”

My fingers still on my blouse where they are unbuttoning, and the chocolate covered strawberries flash through my head along with the unopened card I couldn’t bring myself to read because of the guilt. “Yes, thank you,” I gush, a little too fervently, before controlling my emotions so he doesn’t know I’m lying. “I forgot when you called to tell you … they were so satisfying. Just what I needed.”

He chokes out a cough, covering his mouth to physically stifle the violence of it.

“Hun, are you okay?” I begin to scoot off the end of the bed to help him but he just holds his hand up to stop me.

After a moment, he recovers and angles his head to the side, staring at me with confusion etching his features. “Just what you needed?” The inquiry in his voice has me explaining further.

“Yeah. The chocolate covered strawberries … so delicious.”

“I didn’t send you … they … those were courtesy of the hotel for our anniversary.” Anderson stumbles over the words, bewilderment etching his features.

Now it’s my turn to be confused. I shift my eyes back and forth as I try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Huh …”

“Nothing else came to the room?”

“No … was it … I wasn’t there much. Maybe …” I don’t finish my thought, worried my excuses may tell too much and that maybe something was delivered while I was being held against my will.

“Hmpf,” he says with a nonchalant shrug that contradicts the beseeching look in his eyes. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he just stares at me a bit longer before shaking his head in an amused defeat.

“What was it?” Now I’m curious. His conflicting posture and demeanor have me wanting to know what I’m going to miss out on.

“No worries.” He smirks. “It … it definitely wasn’t chocolate covered strawberries.” He chuckles with a shake of his head.

I go to ask for more of an explanation but the look in his eyes stop me as he stalks towards me in a predatory manner “I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you. Make sure I’m just what you need.” He leans down and presses a kiss to my mouth, tongue delving between my lips to dance intimately with mine. And just as abruptly as he started the kiss, he turns and heads back in to the bathroom, throwing, “Five minutes and counting,” over his shoulder.

I stare at the now empty doorway, my heart swollen with love, and my conscience a little lighter. Wow. I’m kind of in a state of disbelief. Over his apologies, his revelations, his acceptance of wanting more.

I pull my shirt over my head and unfasten my bra as I digest it all. I flop back on the bed and laugh aloud. Our tenth wedding anniversary. Who would have thought that not being together might have been the best thing to help us find each other again. Completely fucked up, but incredibly true.

I close my eyes for a moment. Images I never saw but can’t erase run through my mind. I startle when the phone on the bed rings. It’s Anderson’s, and I never pick it up. I usually just look at it and then tell him who called so that he knows.

I reach out for it and sit up when I see the phone number. The Italian country code. My mind immediately thinks the hotel is calling because they found whatever gift Anderson sent me.

“Hello?”

“Ciao. This is the Mauro from Hotel Mulino di Firenze.”

“Hi, yes. What can I do for you?” I ask, toeing off my shoes as I wait for the response.

“You recently stayed with us in our presidential suite, si?”

“Yes but not in the—”

“We found a bracelet under the bed when the room was cleaned that we think belongs to you.”

“Bracelet?” Relief flows through me. I completely forgot about my bracelet, my mind so overwhelmed with processing the last seventy-two hours. But now that I’m reminded, I’m relieved they found it. Now I don’t have to worry about having to explain to Anderson that I lost it. “Thank you so much … but … uh … I was in room two hundred something, not in the Presidential suite?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I must have called the wrong number then. Let me—”

“I did lose a bracelet. Just, I didn’t have a suite,” I quickly correct him, thinking the language difference might be the problem in understanding, desperate to get my bracelet back.

“Scuzi … let me check.” The line is silent for a moment, filled only with the click of a keyboard. “No, I’m sorry. The bracelet was most definitely found in the suite and it does have this phone number as the occupant …”

My pulse begins to race as adrenaline starts to surge and awareness begins to break through the haze.

I hear more typing. “… ah yes, here it is. This is the correct number for Marco, si?”

“Yes,” I whisper into my husband’s telephone. Marco’s telephone. The hotel clerk’s voice now a distant sound in my ear.

My mind fires to process.

Understand the magnitude of what has happened.

Accept that fact that he’s already given me everything I just asked him for.

Already given me just what I needed.

I guess I received my anniversary gift from Anderson after all.