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Through His Eyes
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The moment I saw her walk through the door of Forbidden Ink, I knew she was the one. With her wide hips, thick thighs, and perfect breasts, she’s every man’s wet dream.
Add to that her dark, soulful eyes, pouty lips, and a body covered in gorgeous art, and I knew I needed to make her mine.
She’s a walking contradiction of sass and strength and determination, hidden by insecurity and self-doubt. She’s everything I could ever want or need, but she doesn’t see what I see.
I want to take away her pain. To be the one to make her laugh, to make all her dreams come true. I need to prove to her that I’m not him, that no matter what, I’ll be right there beside her. Loving her.
If only she could see herself through my eyes, she would understand we were made for each other.
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Sitting on my terrace, in a comfy lounge chair I purchased when Rick first bought us this place, I hold a glass of red wine in my hand—one that I have yet to take a sip of. I want to. I look forward to my nightly glass of wine. I buy my favorite brand in bulk and have it delivered to the condo. But for the last several weeks, I haven’t been able to drink it. I still pour it and bring it out here like I’ve been doing every night for the last four years. Only once I go back inside, I pour the crimson liquid down the sink and rinse the glass out. I think, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I believe if I continue to pour it every night, eventually I’ll be able to drink it. I’ve put it in my head, if I pretend like my life isn’t about to change—well, technically, already has changed—then it won’t. As if I can will my life to go back to what it was only a few short months ago. And that says a lot since I hated my life the way it was.
Drinking my nightly wine isn’t just about drinking, though. It’s about finding comfort in my nightly routine. It makes me feel like I have the tiniest semblance of control in a situation that, in reality, is completely out of my control. I can handle my current life. I know what to expect. It’s routine and dependable. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. Now, though, not being able to drink wine means my routine is about to be shaken up, and I’m scared of what the future holds. It’s easier to fight the monster you know than to take on the one you’ve never seen.
As I stare down at the hustle and bustle of the city, from the forty-seventh floor, I try to focus on what’s in front of me and not what’s inside of me. The problem is, from this high up, and this late at night, there’s not really much of a view to focus on. Down below, I spot several flashes of lights from the cabs and bikes that make their way to their destinations. Tiny dots of people litter the sidewalks, but they’re too small for me to see their features. I wonder how many of them are couples, holding hands and kissing, in love. My heart knots at the thought, and without thinking, I bring the wine to my lips. The liquid has only barely wet my tongue before I’m spitting it back into the glass and setting it down.
My eyes glide upward. The sky is clear tonight, so it should be filled with beautiful stars twinkling above. But with the bright lights that make up New York City, it’s difficult to spot a single star. What I would give to be back in Piermont, in my old apartment in North Carolina I shared with my brothers, staring up at the sky and counting the hundreds of stars that wink down at me.
My cell phone vibrates on the table. When I see it’s my sister-in-law, Celeste, I hit ignore. I’ve been pushing everyone away for years. I know I have. But I don’t know what to do, how to handle the situation I’ve found myself in. Once upon a time, I dreamt of being right here, in this moment: married to the love of my life, living in the most beautiful city in the world, in a gorgeous home. Pregnant with my husband’s baby. Looking toward our future. How ironic is it, when my dreams finally come true, nothing is the way it’s supposed to be.
I’m married, but my husband doesn’t love me—and if I’m honest, I don’t love him either. How do you love a man who hates every part of you? It’s hard, trust me, I’ve tried. Over and over again. And through trying, I’ve lost a large piece of myself I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to find. When I look into the mirror, I’m not even sure who I see anymore, and that scares the crap out of me, because I wasn’t always this way. I was strong and determined and full of life, and now… I’m not. I’m weak, and I hate that I know it, yet choose not to do anything about it. It makes me feel even weaker.
I might live in a beautiful city, but it’s one I no longer get to experience because I’m stuck in this suffocating ivory tower, going through the motions but not actually living. Where I live is beautiful. The furniture, the paintings, everything expensive and top of the line, but it’s not a home. It’s simply a dwelling. A place to eat and sleep. And I can’t imagine what it will feel like to raise a baby here.