away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He pulled away, grabbed his robe
and left the room. The sounds of a good, stiff drink clinked up the stairs. An
hour later he sneaked back into the room and slipped beneath the covers.
She pretended to be asleep.
~~~~~~~~
“Mr. Reynolds, how do you plead?”
“Guilty, your honour.”
Mazie closed her eyes for a full
two seconds and let that admission sink in. He was taking responsibility.
Admitting he had hurt her. Not exactly saying it was his fault, but it was the
closest he’d ever come.
The judge scanned the papers in
front of him. “Mrs. Reynolds, I understand you are willing to take your husband
back?”
Mazie stood. “Yes, your honour.”
The judge harrumphed. “Well, Mr.
Reynolds, this is your lucky day. Since this is your first offence ...” He eyed
Cullen over his glasses. “First official offence ...” He shook his head. “Time
served, two years’ probation.” He pointed at Cullen. “If I see your name cross
my desk again, there won’t be forgiveness, and there will be no bail, you
understand me?”
Cullen’s shoulders tensed and
inched toward his earlobes. With his back to her, Mazie could only imagine the
look on his face. Defiance. Anger. Fuck you, Judge.
“Yes sir. I understand.”
~~~~~~~~
The next few days passed in
relative silence. Life seemed normal — the good kind of normal. Cullen hadn’t
tried to have sex with Mazie again. Maybe he knew he couldn’t fuck her without
hurting her. That he couldn’t get off without bringing her to the brink of
death. That if he did it again, he’d land his ass back in jail.
Mazie remained on edge, walked as
if broken glass littered the house but she wasn’t allowed to let her feet bleed.
Everything made her jump, every noise, every knock at the door, every ringing
phone, every alarm on her cell that warned of his texts. But each one was
polite — the Sorry, I’ll be late , Do you mind getting me a pack of
smokes kind of polite.
His drinking continued unabated,
but he’d found the strength to rein in the terror. To control his emotions. Why
couldn’t he have done that all these years? When would the elastic waistband of
his emotional big boy pants snap? When would he be fully exposed again, the
real him, the only one he knew how to be?
Each day, sharp edges of his anger
began to scratch at her. His words started to bite, his displays of affection,
as awkward as they’d become, waned. I won’t be home after work. Have dinner
waiting started appearing on her phone. Where you at? crept back in.
One night he walked in the door,
an hour late for dinner. No text that day. No phone call. No consideration.
She pulled his plate from the
fridge and put it in the microwave, punched the EZ-cook button four times,
watched the plate spin and the timer count down from two minutes.
He brushed past her, his hair
reeking of smoke, the rest of him stinking of bourbon. And perfume.
She pinched her eyes shut. The
night he’d traipsed in thirteen years ago, three hours after the bars closed, niggled
at her. She’d confronted him in the kitchen on her way out the door for work, exhausted
from working too many hours at two different jobs. Part of the act was being
friendly with the fans, he’d always said. “If they want to give you a hug and
get a picture with the gorgeous lead singer,” he jerked his head to flick his
hair back, “then you let them. That’s how you make sure they come back.”
“Yeah? So casual hugs here and
there with more than one woman, and the result is that you reek of Chanel? Only
Chanel?”
“I don’t know what kind of perfume
it is.”
“I do. It’s my brand. The one you
buy me every Christmas.” She stood with her arms crossed, her cheeks on fire.
“And I guarantee you, it’s not mine.”
“Come on, Mazie. It’s just part of
the act.” He put his hands on her hips and wiggled them back and forth, his pelvis
against hers. “You believe me. Right,
He pulled away, grabbed his robe
and left the room. The sounds of a good, stiff drink clinked up the stairs. An
hour later he sneaked back into the room and slipped beneath the covers.
She pretended to be asleep.
~~~~~~~~
“Mr. Reynolds, how do you plead?”
“Guilty, your honour.”
Mazie closed her eyes for a full
two seconds and let that admission sink in. He was taking responsibility.
Admitting he had hurt her. Not exactly saying it was his fault, but it was the
closest he’d ever come.
The judge scanned the papers in
front of him. “Mrs. Reynolds, I understand you are willing to take your husband
back?”
Mazie stood. “Yes, your honour.”
The judge harrumphed. “Well, Mr.
Reynolds, this is your lucky day. Since this is your first offence ...” He eyed
Cullen over his glasses. “First official offence ...” He shook his head. “Time
served, two years’ probation.” He pointed at Cullen. “If I see your name cross
my desk again, there won’t be forgiveness, and there will be no bail, you
understand me?”
Cullen’s shoulders tensed and
inched toward his earlobes. With his back to her, Mazie could only imagine the
look on his face. Defiance. Anger. Fuck you, Judge.
“Yes sir. I understand.”
~~~~~~~~
The next few days passed in
relative silence. Life seemed normal — the good kind of normal. Cullen hadn’t
tried to have sex with Mazie again. Maybe he knew he couldn’t fuck her without
hurting her. That he couldn’t get off without bringing her to the brink of
death. That if he did it again, he’d land his ass back in jail.
Mazie remained on edge, walked as
if broken glass littered the house but she wasn’t allowed to let her feet bleed.
Everything made her jump, every noise, every knock at the door, every ringing
phone, every alarm on her cell that warned of his texts. But each one was
polite — the Sorry, I’ll be late , Do you mind getting me a pack of
smokes kind of polite.
His drinking continued unabated,
but he’d found the strength to rein in the terror. To control his emotions. Why
couldn’t he have done that all these years? When would the elastic waistband of
his emotional big boy pants snap? When would he be fully exposed again, the
real him, the only one he knew how to be?
Each day, sharp edges of his anger
began to scratch at her. His words started to bite, his displays of affection,
as awkward as they’d become, waned. I won’t be home after work. Have dinner
waiting started appearing on her phone. Where you at? crept back in.
One night he walked in the door,
an hour late for dinner. No text that day. No phone call. No consideration.
She pulled his plate from the
fridge and put it in the microwave, punched the EZ-cook button four times,
watched the plate spin and the timer count down from two minutes.
He brushed past her, his hair
reeking of smoke, the rest of him stinking of bourbon. And perfume.
She pinched her eyes shut. The
night he’d traipsed in thirteen years ago, three hours after the bars closed, niggled
at her. She’d confronted him in the kitchen on her way out the door for work, exhausted
from working too many hours at two different jobs. Part of the act was being
friendly with the fans, he’d always said. “If they want to give you a hug and
get a picture with the gorgeous lead singer,” he jerked his head to flick his
hair back, “then you let them. That’s how you make sure they come back.”
“Yeah? So casual hugs here and
there with more than one woman, and the result is that you reek of Chanel? Only
Chanel?”
“I don’t know what kind of perfume
it is.”
“I do. It’s my brand. The one you
buy me every Christmas.” She stood with her arms crossed, her cheeks on fire.
“And I guarantee you, it’s not mine.”
“Come on, Mazie. It’s just part of
the act.” He put his hands on her hips and wiggled them back and forth, his pelvis
against hers. “You believe me. Right,
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