Ghosts and Demons

Riley

It would be when Row is in London that I awake for the first time since the accident with a semi.

Christ. Halfway there without any effort at all, and Row is halfway around the world.

I feel the ache in my balls.

What to do? Hmmmm...

I recall the advice I was given last week.

Experiment, the Doc had said.

And when I say Doc, I mean the Gorgeous One.

She ever-so-casually asked me how things were going in the that department during our morning work call. After I spewed tea against my office wall, and suggested she look for another job, and she lectured me like I was one of Soundcrush instead of her boss, I begrudgingly gave her a quick summary of "how things were going."

Her advice was: experiment with all kinds of sexual activities--intercourse not necessarily being the endgame. Toys,  games, fantasies, she said. She said having entirely new scenarios would change the expectations, take the pressure off, and I might be surprised at how they altered my "physiological response."

In the spirit of experimentation, she sent me dozens and dozens of "ideas" by text. I couldn't help but snark back a few replies.  If Bodie ever sees that text thread he's probably going to kick my ass first and ask questions later. However, a few of the "ideas" were items I ended up ordering. They arrived while Row has been gone. I make a mental inventory. Mostly toys most appropriate for me to use on Row. But also a device for pumping me up, so to speak. And some arousal creams, and what not.

I consider.

Ach,  no. Let's just see what happens if I take matters into my own hands, so to speak.

"I guess it's just you and me, mate," I mutter to my member.

I put one hand behind my head and the other on my other head—as I think of what Row looks like naked. I can picture her vividly, as if she were here, her lithe frame straddling me. Her gray eyes darkened by lust. She's biting her bottom lip, her top one plumped and pinked from kissing me. Her thin torso yields up those gorgeous, petite but perfectly round tits. Creamy white and pebbly pink nipples. God, all of her skin perfectly porcelain. Not a tan line anywhere.

I grunt in satisfaction, imagining running my hands up her smooth thighs, grasping her hips, encouraging her to move against me. She's so small, so limber and so eager in bed. Moving her is effortless.

In a flash I can pull her down and have her underneath me and thrust inside her...and...

Aaaaaand... that's where the fantasy ends and so does my erection.

Because there is nothing flashy or thrusty about the way I can move now.

At least not pain free.

I curse a bit, rake through my hair and raise the head of my bed.

Slowly.

Every move I make so fucking slowly.

I know I should be incredibly grateful—considering my own stupidity—that I didn't put myself in a wheelchair for life. The doctors and my physical therapist are extremely pleased with my progress and optimistic about a return to full mobility. I'll most likely be able to walk with the orthopedic braces and no more than a cane in a couple more months, Blake projects. It might even be possible to return to full unaided mobility, they say. There's still hope that  more feeling will return in my lower extremities, they assure me.

But I'm growing more dismayed with the continual deadness of my feet. I can feel more around the ankle area now, but it's not enough. It's not enough to keep my balance and walk fluidly without the braces and without the walker.

Worse than that, there's the back pain. I don't talk about it much. Talking about it only causes me to focus on it. Focusing on it only makes it harder to push through it and move in all the ways I need to.

Most of the time it's manageable, if I'm very careful about the ways I move. But it's always there, and I'm never more acutely aware of it than when Rowan and I are being romantic. I want to tangle and tussle with her in all the ways we used to, but in those moments of making out, when I get a bit careless, I make one wrong movement and the pain roars to life to rebuke me.

You are not whole, it reminds me.

You are not strong, it cautions.

You are not man enough, it whispers.

You will never fuck her again. Not like he did seven times, it hisses.

Don't listen to that voice of self-doubt in your head, Priscilla warns me.

That's a bit hypocritical, don't you think, love? I shoot back.

Not at all. It's like I told you—I'm not a voice in your head, I'm a ghost—here to help you because you're mucking things up. Again. For yourself. For her. For me. And this is your last shot at happiness.

You've been having a nice chat with my Ghost of Christmas Future, is it?

No, I overheard Matt del Marco. He means what he says—he won't let you mess her about again.

In my mind, Priscilla's most disbelieving laugh echoes.

I still can't get over it. Never in my life would I have imagined! You, cocking things up with the daughter of Matt del Marco. Matt del Marco is your father-in-law! It's a treat for me...

Yes, I know what a Skid Marcs fan you were, I concede somewhat bitterly.

Mmmm, more like a Matt del Marco fangirl. Like a fine wine, that one. Better with age.

Christ, Priscilla. It's repulsive, that you fancy an old man like that. My father-in-law, mind you. Where's the loyalty, love?

Well, you love his daughter more than me, she sniffs. Plus, it's very boring being a ghost, especially when you and I hardly ever talk. I have to take my entertainment where I can get it.

If you're a ghost, show yourself, I challenge her.

I don't mean that at all. If I actually saw Priscilla, I would know for sure I'm going mad, and I would probably check myself into a psychiatric hospital. That one that Kat went to in Switzerland was quiet helpful. I think I still have their number in my favorites list...

Riley, you don't really want to see me, she says quietly. This isn't supposed to be happening at all. Because I'm not supposed to be here— waiting in the dark for you. It's not supposed to be like this. You need to understand that. I wasn't supposed to hold on. You weren't supposed to hold on. But I was so sorry for hurting you and leaving you, and I couldn't let go. And you were so full of anguish and anger, and you couldn't let go either. It's me and it's you, keeping me here, but it's not supposed to be like this. And now it's even worse. This connection, I mean. It was your accident, you see...

A thrill of fear races down my spine and stops, where the injury is.

I remember something about the accident that I had forgotten.

As my car tumbled down that canyon and came to rest in a horrible crash, and as the wheels spun and all sound quietly died away, Row was the last thing on my mind. Fragile-fierce Row. How was she going to survive this—my selfish, reckless death? In that moment I was so goddamn sorry. For everything.

Incomparable love and terrible regret flooded me.

Then there was nothing.

Then...something. A dream.

A dark dream, like floating in a waveless, endless ocean under a clouded night sky.

In the water and in the air, I felt a presence.

Priscilla's.

There was no me—no body to move I mean—but somehow I felt as if I was floating in that water. Moving toward her presence.

I know exactly how you feel, her presence seemed to communicate to me. The love. The sorrow. It's the way I felt. The way I feel.

The longer there was no me there in the dark, the more real she felt. Then she spoke again.

We can't both be here. You have to go back. You have to make things right for both of us. You have to learn to let go. I'm sorry. I think it's going to hurt...

I felt Priscilla tug at me and then I was beneath the water. Drowning, gasping for air, knowing my lungs would fill with the dark liquid.

Except they didn't. I was gasping, but I was gasping air.

She was right.

It hurt. It hurt to breathe.

I came to, in horrible pain, amid sparks and shouts and the screech of metal tearing metal. They were cutting me out.

I shake loose from the terrifying dream.I stand up, grab my walker. I turn in a large circle, more than once, looking carefully. Looking through space. Looking hard. "You're not real." I say hoarsely.

There's a long silence. Finally Priscilla says.

Okay, love. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm not real. Maybe I'm just a construct of your mind. But can I tell you one more thing? Please?

"You're not real."

This is important. Riley. Something I really want you to know.

I turn. Around and around I turn. Priscilla takes my silence for agreement and begins speaking again.

I want you to know why I loved you. I loved you for the wheels in your head and the song in your soul and the smirk on your lips and the tenderness in your touch. But Riley? I promise you...your ability to bang me like a savage didn't even rank. If Rowan del Marco is worth her salt—and she bloody well better me if she's the one you love more than me—I'm betting it doesn't rank with her, either. You can work that bit out. Please, Riley. Don't do what you're beginning to think of doing. Don't leave her. Love her with with all your heart and all your soul and the rest will work itself out. Tell your doctor about the pain. They can give you something. It's like she says...things will get better.

She can't be real, but I can't help but argue with her.

Things will not better with the same bloody narcotics that took your life, Sil. I'm never touching pain pills again. Another thing I swore on your grave, when I finally got clean.

You need pain management. And you have to stop holding on to the past. I couldn't let go. That's why I'm dead and also why I'm still here.

"You're not bloody here!" I yell.

She is silent. I go back to arguing with her in my head.

Do you know many nights I came close to dying the same way you did? I had a problem. Just like you. I won't go down that road again. Row's got addiction issues too, I think. Not too bad yet, but they run in her family. It's bad enough how much we drink, but I'm not bringing endless prescriptions of pills into our life. It will be the same fucking mess all over again. It could be me, or it could be her. Either way, one of us could end up hooked. Or worse. I won't put her through that.

Priscilla's voice argues right back. But you'll leave her, is that it? I know what you're thinking. If you can't make love to her properly, and you still aren't sure you can let go of her betrayal, and you won't make music with her because you swore on my grave, what good are you to her? That's what you're thinking. So you'll leave her and you won't have learned a thing and I'll still be stuck here.

What?

I can't go unless you are happy, love. I just...can't. I don't know why. You were happy for a time, weren't you? When you moved to America and started working in the music business. You were happy. When you stopped talking to me before...I felt myself going...fading from here. Half in, half out. But then you started up again. Not talking to me—just with your unhappiness, I mean. Worrying about that other girl—the pretty blonde that reminded you a bit of me, with her pill addiction. But she got better and you found love. You found Row. I thought you would be alright. But then you weren't happy with her. You were on again off again. So many obstacles. Her father. Her career. The baby you lost. Then worse--hating Avery. You were obsessed with vengeance. With fear. With control. You ruined your love with Row. Then you almost bloody killed yourself and ended up in the dark too. You almost died filled with the same awful regret that put me here. For one moment I almost saw you and you almost saw me. Now I'm more here than I have been in a very long time. There has to be a reason, Riley. We've got to work this all out. All this...holding on and not letting go.

Now she's really starting to scare me. Or she would be, if she were real. Which she's not.

"Fuck this," I murmur. I'll just simply refuse to go mad.

Right. Shutting this shite down once and for all.

I don't argue with her anymore. I get in the shower.

But.

Under the streaming water...I can't escape the feeling that I'm not the type of bloke to go mad. I would have done that already, wouldn't I? When I lost Sil. Or when Row cheated.

Just in case I'm not going crazy, and Priscilla is really a ghost—my conscious will not allow me to ignore her. I think about her...eighteen. No more than a child, really. Is she frozen like that? Somewhere in the dark? If she were real and stuck—that must be scary and awful. I find myself talking to her again.

I'm not going to encourage either my insanity or...a haunting...anymore, Priscilla, except to say this one last thing. If you are...real...and... if there is somewhere better for you to be than hanging around some dark corner of my soul...if there is somewhere good or peaceful or happy...somewhere light and not dark... go on, then. I...release you. I'll be alright. Go and take your share of my love with you. I mean it.

No, you don't. You don't know how to mean it. But I hope you will. For now...go do your bloody physio and talk to your therapist about your pain and play that song you wrote for Row again. I quite like that one.

Priscilla stops talking to me then, and I damn well don't resume the conversation, but I find myself doing two of three things she asks me to. I was going to PT without her prompting, obviously. I don't bring up my pain, but when I return home I play the song I wrote for Row.

The ghastly sense of past love leaves me and anticipation for Row's homecoming fills me a little more each time I play it. By the evening, I feel almost light with joy. And quite sane. Not mad at all.

Priscilla is wrong. I'm not thinking of leaving Row. I know that I should leave her, but I simply don't know how.

She texts me when she lands, and I know she will be home within the hour, depending on traffic. I light candles in the kitchen, open the wine, set the table for us to eat the dinner Linda has prepared. I light just a few of the candles in the bedroom. She might be too tired to play, but if that's the case, I will play her a lullaby and we'll sleep.

Sleep does not seem to be what is on Row's mind when she arrives. She walks in the door and makes a direct line to me, not bothering to take her jacket or her sunglasses off. She rips away my walker and hugs me so hard, she backs me up slowly by two steps. Her hands grab my ass and she practically glues her pelvis to mine. I laugh and kiss her senseless, reclaiming the lost ground, backing her up now.

She breaks the kiss, breathless. "Hi."

"Hello," I grin, looking her over. She also doesn't look much like herself. Beneath a leather jacket I've never seen, she's wearing a slightly blousy white t-shirt and long black bodycon skirt that looks more like her sister's style than hers. I peak beneath her sunglasses. "Sorry, have I've got the wrong sister?"

"Ha-ha. I ran out of clean clothes. Bridge lent me this..."

"Hmmm. I quite like you in a skirt," I compliment her. "Then again, I quite like you in everything. Or out of everything," I tease. She gives me a devilish smile in return.

"Hungry?" I ask, gesturing to the oven.

"Starving," she nestles her head into my neck and sucks.

"I take it you don't mean for Linda's enchiladas..."

"Not at all," she whispers.

"Yeah, slow been's nice, but I was married to this woman long enough to see when she needs a good go. She's definitely up for it. Must have been the change of scene—the club music and the hot bodies and the dancing.

Right, then. I'm giving it to her tonight, whether my cock is on board or not.

She's holding on tight. "I missed you so much. I hated being away from you...I really really need you to take me to bed, Riley. I don't care what we do, I just need your skin on my skin and your lips on my lips."

I rock her gently in my arms, kissing her temple, whispering in her ear. "I will take you to bed. I'll put my skin on your skin and I will love you sweetly to sleep. But first...how about my lips on your other  lips right here..." I whisper. I back her against the bar counter height bar and pat it.

She gasps. She's staring at me like she's never been my dinner in this kitchen before. She bites her lip, just as I imagined her this morning. "Are you sure you can...manage?"

"I can manage. The question is...can you manage one more day without me making you come?"

Her chest is rising and falling. She shakes her head. "No, I don't think so."

"Well, then. Drop your knickers," I suggest.

Her eyes never leave mine as she toes off her shoes, hikes up the skirt and pulls a scrap of black lace from beneath. She hands them to me, and I stuff them in my pocket.

"Up you go..." Row uses her hands to pull herself up, and it's nothing for me to give her a boost. I hike up her skirt, and plant each of her feet on bar stools as I move between her legs. Rather roughly, I tug offer her leather jacket as we kiss. Soon I've got her top and bra removed as well, giving her tits the lavish attention they deserve, despite the fact that the way I'm stooping slightly and the way she's grabbing at my head is causing sharp cracks of pain down my legs.

Eventually, I need a new position, so I pull away. I put the leather jacket back on her, grinning at the perfect picture she makes like that. She pulls up her skirt a little higher to tease me.

"Hang on, got you a little present..."

I shuffle over to the kitchen desk using the counter to steady myself. I pick up a large plain box,  and walk back around with the counter help.

"Riley, you should be using your walker..." she murmurs softly.

"I've got another aid in mind," I say. Her disapproval is drowned out by the desire as she eyes the package. Her eyes lift to mine uncertainly.

"We don't have to..." she reaches for me, drawing me gently to her as I set the box down. "I don't need anything but you, Riley."

I kiss her long and deep. "And I you, but remember what Marley said?" I walk to the kitchen table and push a chair back for me to sit in, but I don't sit yet. I move between her legs again and we snog for bit more.

"About experimenting?" Row pants.

"Yeah, I thought we agreed...we'd try."

"It's just...weird."

"Not weird. Just a little different than our typical ways, but that's the point, right?"

I've got my hands in her hair, and she's leaning backwards without realizing it, I think. She pulls me slightly off balance and I grasp the counter for support.

"Sorry," she says, reaching for me, to steady me.

I hate it when she looks at me like that. Like a child, instead of a man. I stuff down the mild flare of irritation. I open the box. I've got the offerings unpackaged and ready to go. "Pick one."

She laughs and puts a hand over her mouth. "You've got quite a selection here."

I bite her neck. "Pick one, or I'll pick for you,"

She makes a startled little noise as I nip her , but I feel the tension in her relax. She likes little love bites. She's not worried about my balance anymore as I move aside the leather jacket and bite her a few more times down the neck and shoulder. She turns her attention to the box. She chooses a rather conservative option. She giggles as I try out the settings. Then I lay it on the counter, and sit down in the chair.

"We'll have to get to that in a minute. I'm famished, darling. I really can't wait to eat any longer."

Her laugh turns to little whimpers as I set about business between her legs.

Christ, she tastes good. It's been far too long. I've fucking missed this.

In minutes I've worked her up into a promising state. When I add the vibrator to the mix, she goes absolutely rigid with pleasure. I'm just getting into using it, when she grabs my wrist, forcing me still as she comes violently and loudly.

I stand up immediately, and she kisses me without hesitation as we share her taste. Her hand is between my legs now. I've got the best hard-on I've had yet.

"Bed, now," she commands. "Keep thinking the dirtiest things you can."

I laugh as she hops down, strips completely naked and thrusts my walker at me. She twirls, shakes her ass, and strokes her own breasts as she leads me to the bedroom like the Pied Piper of Porn.

She helps me strip off my clothes. She's panting again as we stand together fully naked for the first time in a very very long time, kissing and touching one another. I ease gingerly on the bed. She straddles me, just like in my fantasy this morning, stroking me like I stroked myself. Under her touch, I'm getting firmer by the second.

"Feels good, darling. Fuck..." I murmur.

"Do you want to? Fuck me?" she murmurs, moving over me, sliding my cock along her slickness, still working me with her hand.

I want her, of course I want her, but in the back of my mind is the stinging thought: she's got it backwards, doesn't she?

She'll be fucking me.

Perhaps we'll only ever have sex like this. Her atop, doing all the work, me lying beneath her.

Limited.

Incapacitated.

Not whole.

Not strong.

Not man enough.

Never fucking her again. Not like he did.

Get the fuck out of my head, you son of a bitch.

I open my eyes, forcing Mosteller from my mind, focusing on Row's face. So full of tender concern. I lock eyes with her.

"I love you," she with a heart full of conviction as I'm going soft in her hand.

"I'm sorry," I whisper hoarsely.

"Don't be sorry. Nothing to be sorry for. Let's try this..."

She raises the head of the bed. "You can watch," she winks at me and wiggles down giving me the return treatment I gave her earlier.

Christ, her mouth is heaven.

I don't know where she learned the art, but Row has always been talented at giving head. It's a beautiful thing, to be loved by her this way. I'm murmuring encouragements and holding hair back for her as she coaxes me to fully hard.

Fuck, yes. It's happening now.

Except it doesn't. Row's attention feels incredible and she's  dedicated to the task but after awhile it's obvious to me that something feels slightly different. My brain is giving my cock the let's go signal, but my cock is not giving my brain the let's come signal.

Fuck, just stop thinking about what feels different, I tell myself. Just feel. Her mouth. Her beauty. Her love. Just feel. It'll happen.

It doesn't happen.

Eventually Row stops pleasuring me with her mouth and returns to using her hand. "I just need a...break...for a minute..." she says, as she works her jaw slightly.

I sigh. I put my hand around her wrist. "Stop."

"No, I'm good now—"

"Stop."

"Riley—" she seems exasperated now. "This is working."

This was working for a time, but it wasn't going to completion and now it's done.

"Rowan. Please." I say calmly. "Let's call this experiment for the evening, shall we?"

She begins to cry.

Christ. She has hardly cried at all since the accident. Not while I was at hospital. Not during all the long, tiresome days of helping me accomplish the most basic things. The only thing she's cried about was learning that she could play guitar again. She's really crying over my limp dick?

"It's all right. It's not you, obviously. You are gorgeous and sexy and you were bloody wonderful. It felt...wonderful..." I'm reaching for her but she's sitting at the bottom of the bed now, too far away. "Come here, darling. Let me hold you..."

She shakes her head and pulls the comforter around her. She's comes to the side of the bed and drops down on the floor--on her knees, the bulky linens pooling all around her like an old-fashioned ball gown.

The way she's kneeling, crying with her head bowed, twists my gut. Everything in her body language is bleeding regret, in the same way she looked for months after she cheated on me.

"It's not alright...I just wanted things back...the way the were, for one day. I wanted us to be on solid ground. I just really...needed you to feel our connection...like we used to have...we really needed that back...before what happens next."

Now she's scaring me slightly. She nearly hyperventilating.

"Rowan, calm down and tell me...what are you talking about?"

"I have to tell you something, and you're going to be so angry."

Yes, I already felt that. She's done something. That's what the tears are for. Guilt.

I pull sheet up over me, suddenly furious that I can't leap from the bed and gather my own goddamn pants.

"What happened in London, Rowan? What did you do? Was it drugs? Or was it worse?" I say coldly.

Her head snaps up, her eyes firing with hurt. "I wasn't going to tell you. For exactly this reason. Because I love you, but I hate you when you treat me this way."

"I hate it when you lie," I say. I gesture around to our messy bed. "This is a lie, just like what you used to do, even before you broke your vows. You would do something you know I wouldn't like, and you would try to erase it with sex. That's not what sex is for. It isn't for patching up broken down love. It's the physical expression of a love that's flourishing. Which isn't happening between us, obviously."

Her face crimps in hurt. "What are you saying?" She asks. "That this problem we have in bed isn't because of your spinal cord injury? Are you saying we aren't working?"

"Does it seem like we are bloody fucking working!?!?" I yell at her. "Your on your knees sobbing, afraid to admit whatever it is you did, and I'm already furious about it before I even know what it is!!!"

"Don't yell at me!" she says, between sobs. "I didn't do anything wrong! It's not my fault!!!"

It takes everything in me to hold back the angry words I want to spew. "Alright," I say in measured tones I don't feel. "I'm sorry for yelling. Please. Just tell me what fucking happened in London."

"Cheddar got arrested."

That's not at all what I thought she was going to say.

"What? What the bloody fuck for?"

"Assault."

"Who the hell did he fight?"

"It wasn't just him. It was Dev and the other guys, too. But Cheddar's mask got pulled off and the victim identified him. Everyone in the London club scene associates Cheddar with Dev...so..."

"Goddammit, I need to talk to Dev..." I'm throwing the covers off, snapping at Row to hand me my pants. "This is what you were afraid to tell me? Darling, we really have to work on our communication. You're right, this is totally not your fault. I'm sorry if I make you feel as though you can't tell me things—"

She's not helping me with my pants. She's still crying on her knees with the comforter billowing around her. I pull my pants toward me with an outstreched heel and pull them on.

"I'm so sorry, but I need to call Dev—"

"No, there's more."

She reaches for my hand and puts it to her left temple. There's a little hard patch there, beneath her hair. I'm utterly confused.

"What's that, love?"

"It's medical glue. I got a scalp injury. He shoved me and I hit my head..."

Ahhhh. We'll perhaps I'm not so irritated with Dev after all. "The man they beat up, you mean? It was retaliation for shoving you?" I rise, grabbing my phone and shining the flashlight at her head. "Did you go to hospital? Are you sure you don't have a concussion?"

"I'm fine. Dev's doctor friend treated me. I'm alright. Really, I am."

I kiss her head. "I'm so sorry this happened, love. I will be having a word with AJ. He's getting altogether too lax. Some drunken bastard flailing around in a club shouldn't be able to get close enough to shove you, even accidentally."

"It's not AJ's fault."

"You always say that."

"I was in the bathroom. You know how I sometimes go in the men's bathroom when the line is too long—" she's crying again. "I don't know why I didn't use the panic button. I panicked and I forgot. That's pretty ironic, isn't it?" she whispers. The tears are streaming from her eyes.

Suddenly I feel ill. Slowly and with not a small amount of discomfort, I drop to my knees in front of her, taking her head in my hands. "This man...it wasn't an accident? He put his hands on you? Intentionally?"

She nods. "He backed me against the wall. He kissed me. I grabbed at his crotch and squeezed to make him stop, and that's when he shoved me into the stalls..."

My blood boils with rage. Some motherfucking asshole assaulted my wife. Christ, what an absolute arrogant swine I am. Row has been traumatized enough in this life. Now she's been attacked again, and I'm here accusing her of lies and betrayal instead of listening to her truth.

I draw her into my arms, but she doesn't respond. She seems limp. "Darling, you're safe now, but you must tell me —are you truly alright?"

"No," she says. "Because there's one more thing I have to tell you..."

My heart is pounding. I'm imagining the worst. That the assault didn't end there. Surely to god he didn't—no. Even Rowan is not that strong. If he'd violated her, she wouldn't be this calm. She wouldn't have wanted this evening that we've had. "Tell me. You can tell me anything."

"It was Aidan Mosteller. And technically I started the fight in the bathroom. I punched him, for saying something crude. He's threatening to file a suit against me. And Dev."

The rage I'm feeling all drains away. My heart slows down as if ice fills my veins. I put Rowan away from.

"Of course he is," I say with as much civility as possible.

She rises.

"I didn't know he was there. At the club, or in the bathroom. I swear, Riley. I never want to see him . Not ever again, really, but I know it can't be helped because of the show. But if I'd known he was there last night, I would have left immediately. It wasn't my fault."

She's holding out her hands to help me up. I refuse her help. I feel myself sinking until I'm sitting on my haunches.

Aidan Mosteller is not just in my head. Or in our bed. He's in our life—so fucking entrenched in it. How in the hell did I think this was all going to be okay? How did I think I was going to manage to work with the man that fucked my wife, as if it didn't happen? And now this? I want to fucking kill him. And there's also a part of me that wants to shake Row for opening the door—and her legs—to this man who is continuing to tear at us.

"It was most certainly your fault, Rowan. If you hadn't fucked him last year, he wouldn't feel empowered to force trysts upon you in club bathrooms, would he?" It doesn't even feel like me saying it, but it sounds like me.

She says nothing for a long moment. "I can understand why you are angry. I am so sorry for this, but I'm not going to let you punish me for something that's not my fault." She holds out one hand—the other clutching the comforter around her. "Do you want help up?" she says calmly.

"No," I say quietly. "Just...go."

I don't really want to say more hateful things to her. I don't trust myself right now.

"Good-night," she says quietly, and exits the room.

Like Rowan, I find myself weeping on my knees. Unlike her, there's no way for me to pick myself up off the floor.