Jonah knew he shouldn’t feel guilty for being caught kissing his wife. But he did. He felt like a snake. She had to know, had to understand that he was married, that he loved her mother, that he needed to keep things status-quo with her… His reasoning made him feel slimy.
He reached for the scotch. He considered it for a very long moment. He wanted something to calm his nerves, but he remembered the last poker night and put the scotch back down slowly. He needed to be on his guard. What if he said something, or what if he did something that gave him away? He stared at the bottle. Maybe just one. And he’d nurse it. Yes. Just one for the evening and he’d make it last.
Carefully he poured three fingers and replaced the bottle to its ranks among the other fine bottles of liquor. He stood at the sideboard and let his mind wander back to that poker night. How he’d promised to see her before he went to bed. But he’d gotten so drunk that by the time all the guests had left and Caleb had crashed on the couch, Nolan had had to help him upstairs and into bed.
He hadn’t been in to see her. And she hadn’t crept in to his room either. He’d spent much of the night struggling to hold himself awake. He’d locked the bedroom door after Nolan had left. And he’d been afraid. He hoped he’d had enough liquor to render him unable to perform if she did come for him. He thought about suicide. A lot. He pondered it daily since that awful morning a little over a week ago.
And he’d risen around dawn, made a light breakfast for himself and his very hung-over baby brother and Viola had had half a cantaloupe. And then, to his enormous relief, she’d gone to the mall with friends. He’d dealt with Grey, refused him the money, and seemed to hold his breath until his wife and daughters came home from their resort trip.
He’d been so relieved to see his wife, and so guilty. He almost wasn’t sure how to conduct himself around her. He’d betrayed her and he’d wanted to confess everything; he’d never lied to his wife, not about anything. But she’d reached up and kissed him on his cheek and whispered ‘I missed you so much!’ and he’d folded her up in his arms, buried his face in her neck and held onto her the way a drowning man clings to his life-raft.
And every day since, he’d tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. Tried to convince himself that he’d dreamt it or imagined it or that there’d been some big misunderstanding. But as much as his mind tried to sterilize the events of that weekend, as much as he was able to downplay it and bury it and compartmentalize that horrible event in his mind, his body refused to buy-into the illusion.
His body knew what had passed between himself and Viola and could not be persuaded to participate in the wholesome charade. Because being drugged was one thing, maybe he’d eventually be able to come to terms with how he’d behaved while under the influence of whatever she’d used on him, but how he’d reacted after that was unforgivable. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself for kissing her in the kitchen.
Thinking about it now made his head throb and he needed to sit down. To make things worse, he hadn’t been able to respond to Velvet the way a husband should. She hadn’t noticed yet. But she was bound to. He loved her, but his guilt over his infidelity was putting a serious damper on his libido… with her. It seemed only to ignite his desire for Viola.
Fuck.
Thank Christ Grey’d up and married that little Catholic girl. The sudden elopement had distracted Velvet so thoroughly that he had been able to subsist without her asking too many concerned questions, without her prying too far into why he was working late or always tired or seemed overly strained.
Sitting in his chair Jonah removed his glasses and dragged a hand over his face. He squeezed his eyes shut and entertained the notion of what his son would do to him if he ever found out. He laughed shortly; a sick, heavy sound. Grey would murder him. Jonah believed it. For hurting his mother and sister, Grey would beat him to a bloody pulp and then put him out of his misery by ending his life. He almost wished he had the balls to confess.
The doorbell sounded and Jonah pulled his glasses back up to his face. He took another sip of scotch. Then he stood and crossed toward the front door, scotch in hand, a pleasant smile pasted on, a calm and gentle demeanor draped over the tortured, roiling misery he was living.
“I’ll get it!” He called cheerily to the rest of the house.
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