Foolishly Falling for You

25

Lance

I look up at my door. I've been standing here for 20 minutes. Its like something is stopping me. My hand won't wrap around the knob. The door opens suddenly. Mrs. Hellman, the maid, ushers me inside, as if she heard me, felt me outside. Her voice is muffled.

Anita descends at the sound of the chaos the house in an uproar. Her eyes widen. There is paint under her nails, and her night dress is falling off her shoulders.

She looks at me.

"I thought you were shot." She says softly.

"I was." I am moving toward her, but I can't feel my steps, like I'm walking on air. "Did you miss me?"

She scoffs, but doesn't move. "Not even a little bit."

I smile despite myself. I am surrounding with the scent I had only been able to get a hint of from letters. The scent of home. I'm home.

I stop, finally standing in front of her. Her breasts heave slowly, as if her breathing were labored. I reach up, carefully. Anita flinches back. I pause and touch her cheek. "You may hate me for this," I murmur, wrapping my hand around her waist, hesitantly closing the gap between us.

Confusion swims in her dark eyes. As if she cannot fathom what I'm doing. I kick myself once more. My lips hover over hers, before I connect them, her soft lips against mine, as I dip her gently, my hands on her back, holding her up, keeping her balance. She doesn't push me away immediately, which is good, I suppose.

Anita is still for a moment, our lips slotted together. And then she kisses me back. And there we are. In the middle of this home we made together, the door wide open, a bullet in my leg, my lips finally against hers, as if they were always meant to be there.

As if she'd been right all along and we were fated, and I'd spent my life fighting against what was inevitable—and god does it feel good to give in to fate's will.

Like the struggle is over.

It's natural. Our lips hunger after one another and all at once I know she has not completely lost her feelings for me. They are there, and against my lips, warm and sweet, like hot chocolate.

For weeks all I had was imagination, but she's here in the flesh, her flesh against mine sweet and supple. I'm pushed away—she pushes me away, roughly, her soft fingertips shaking as she pressed them against her lips.

Those lips.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" She demands.

I open my mouth to speak, but I'm not sure what to say. I'm kissing my wife hello? She won't appreciate that I can tell by the way her face is warm and her eyes are cut, like knives, and she's shaking and I can't tell if that's rage or maybe it's disgust? Above all she just seems shocked.

I step back, wincing a bit. Being shot is...probably the least fun I've had, and considering I've never been one for festivities that speaks volumes.

Anita noticed my wince and turns around, putting her hands behind her back. "You must be in shock from nearly perishing. I'll let it slide—"

"You have never kissed me to kiss me," I recite. She paused and glanced back at me.

"What?"

"In your letter your wrote that I have never kissed you to kiss you. Now I have." I walk past her, heading into my study.

Until I recover I'm exempt from the battlefront, though, who knows how long it will be before I'm back at full strength? Though I was only gone for about a month, my home seems...foreign to me. It's new and somewhat scary. My fingers brush my desk and sit behind it, shifting in my seat, opening my ledger.

My door opens, but I don't mind it.

"They never said where you got shot."

I glance up. There she is. She brushes her hand down the hair at the nape of her neck nervously. I smile softly and stand, pulling at my pants a bit.

She squeaks in surprise covering her eyes.

I chuckle. "You can look. I'm not flashing you anything of value."

Anita peeks through her fingers and for a moment I just watch her. I've been wondering if perhaps I just miss the way things were. I am a stickler for things staying the same

But watching those brown eyes peek from behind her fingers curiously...I think these feelings that are emerging are real.

She walks up to me, brushing the scar on my hip. I shudder. I want to kiss her again. I shouldn't.

"It must've hurt." She mumbles. I nod softly.

"It wasn't pleasant," I shrug. Her fingers press harder against it. And harder still, until her fingers are drenched in my blood.

She doesn't look up at me.

I think there is something specific Anita is angry at me for. Her anger has reached biblical levels, like the God of the Old Testament and I find it hard to believe that this has come about only because I had not loved her.

"Why are you doing that?" I ask her gently, trying not to startle her.

"I don't know." She whispers back.

My eyes rake over her. "You're even more beautiful than I remember. You can do what you want. I've hurt you more than this."

Anita's eyes widen, and she steps back, putting her hand around her arm, coating it in my blood. "I'm sorry."

I shrug. "It's alright. I can handle it." I reach out, but she doesn't pull away. The air between us is so tense I could cut it with a knife. I rest my palm on her cheek.

I told her I would give her a divorce if she's asks. I pray she doesn't ask.

"Join me for dinner."