Baby steps

It’s taking me a lot of courage to say this, but I’m gonna say it anyway.

I don’t think I’m ever going clubbing again.

Yeah right. I know some people don’t believe these words I just spewed from my mouth, but it is the truth. And why you may ask?

Well let’s just say, a particular club night out gone wrong.

I had gone out with a couple of friends one Friday night to Club Seven, to celebrate Eddy’s birthday. Now Eddy is a very important figure in my life and not celebrating him on his day wouldn’t have ended well for me. So we went out, and since my husband is very wealthy, I’m talking billionaire wealthy, the drinks were on me. We hired some strippers for Eddy and well the rest of the guys. Us girls decided to hog the bar stand, and try on new drinks.

I can’t remember what happened else after that. I tried my best to remember. But even with help from doctors, friends and family, I couldn’t seem to remember anything else, and my husband was fucking pissed about it. And I don’t blame him. Coming home after spending weeks holed up in a country, working out business deals, to meet your wife naked in an alley is something nobody wants to do. Yes. That’s exactly what happened. After my blackout or whatever it was, I had opened my eyes to find myself naked in an unknown alley, with nothing but my phone on me.

Frightened, I dialed my husband’s line.

He came, and what followed next was a series of investigations. My friends were interviewed, and they all said the same thing. I had left the bar on my own. But why couldn’t I remember? My husband had examined me for hickeys, and I was saddened when I found out. He thinks I’ve cheated. I didn’t know, so I asked the doctor to examine me. No semen was found, no drugs either so we were at a dead end. This only made my dear husband madder and me more confused.

So we went home. I know he still has people investigating the matter, but more importantly, I just wished he would stop looking at me like I’m a walking sin.

“Are you still mad?”, I ask, closing the door with my hip. Finally, we’re alone. No more curious neighbours, or fake friends. It’s just me and my husband. I lean against the closed door, watching him.

He is bent over, examining a shoebox. The cords in his arm flexes as he pulls out some stack of papers. He is perspiring. His shirt is stuck to his skin, and when my eyes glaze over his jean clad ass, I let out a small sigh. The back of his thighs are strong and firm, and I suppress the urge to touch them. Now is not the time. He suddenly straightens, stack of papers in hand. He looks at me, brows furrowed.

“Yes”.

I blink. Well that was not the answer I was expecting.

“I’m sorry”.

I hadn’t apologized. When he had come to get me, and even throughout my stay in the hospital, I hadn’t apologized. I think this is the first time I’m apologizing to my husband. So I say it again, with more meaning.

“I’m sorry”.

He doesn’t speak, those blue orbs swirling in their irises, thoughtful.

“Say something please”, I beg him, and heaven knows, I don’t beg. I never needed to, but today’s a first.

He smiles. It’s small. “Didn’t know you knew the word”.

I stare at him dumbfounded. “Don’t. Not right now. Talk to me instead. I want to know what you think”.

“I don’t want to think!”, he yells, slamming his hand down on the dresser. I jumped. I have never seen him enraged. Mad, but not enraged. “I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep since that night, because every time I close my eyes, I see you naked in that alley!”.

My eyes water and I hold in the tears. “I’m sorry”, I whisper.

“But I will tell you what I think. I think that the money spent on investigations was nothing but a waste. Do you know why? I think you do remember, but you’re only acting dumb so that you have me all to yourself”.

My heart broke at his words. He thinks I’m playing him? Why would I do that? I don’t hold back the tears anymore. I let them flow.

“I don’t remember Kian; I swear I don’t.”

He didn’t believe me for one second. It was written all over him.

I hate this. I hate that I don’t remember. I hate that he doesn’t believe me.

He reached over, snatched a box of tissues and handed it to me.

“Here. Use it to clean those fake tears of yours”.

Angry, I slap the box out of his hands. “None of this is fake Kian! I’m not faking anything! Trust me if there was a way for me to prove that to you, I would have done it”.