The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 11

The Wife Who Stopped Playing Chapter 11

The car ride back to the house was silent. Not the comfortable kind of silence the kind that sits between two people who have too much to say and no idea how to say it.

Vito drove with both hands on the wheel, ten and two, his knuckles white. He didn’t look at me. Didn’t reach for my hand. Didn’t turn on the radio or make a stupid joke or try to fill the space between us with noise.

He just drove.

I watched the city lights blur past the window. The reflections slid across the glass like liquid gold. People were still out – couples holding hands, groups of friends laughing outside bars, a man walking his dog in a puffy vest. Ordinary people living ordinary lives.

I wondered what that felt like.

Not having to guess whether your husband loved you or just loved owning you.

Not having to wonder if every kind word was a strategy, every gentle touch a manipulation.

Not having to check the terms of your own marriage in a lawyer’s office like you were reading the fine print on a lease.

We pulled into the garage. Vito killed the engine. Sat there for a moment with his hands still on the

wheel.

“You were out there for twenty minutes,” he said. Voice flat. “With him.”

“I was having a conversation.”

“A conversation. With Sergio Martelli. The guy everyone thought you were gonna marry before I

came along.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Was it?” He finally turned to look at me. His eyes were dark. Unreadable. But underneath that, something flickered. Something raw.

“I heard what he said to you. ‘I’d still like to marry you.”” He quoted it back to me, word for word. His voice cracked on “marry.” “And you didn’t say no.”

“I did say no. Eventually.”

“Eventually.” He laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “Jesus Christ, Elena. You’re killing me.’

He got out of the car. Slammed the door. Walked into the house without waiting for me.

By the time I made it inside, he was already in the bedroom.

I followed. Leaned against the doorframe. Watched him pace.

He’d taken off his jacket. His bow tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck. The top buttons of his shirt were open, revealing the hollow of his throat and the edge of his collarbone. His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it.

“So,” he said, not looking at me. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Or are you just going to keep acting like I’m a stranger who happens to sleep in your bed?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He stopped pacing. Turned to face me. “Bull. Shit. Something’s been wrong for days. You’re quiet. You’re distant. You wouldn’t touch my new phone – you, who always steals my stuff to put stickers on it. You turned down jewelry. You said ‘fine’ when I told you I was going out. You never say fine. You say ‘fine’ like it’s a curse word.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Maybe I’m just tired.”

“Of what? Of me?”

The question hung in the air between us.

I didn’t answer.

He made a sound – a small, wounded sound – and turned away. Pressed the heels of his hands

against his eyes.

“I don’t know what I did,” he said. His voice was thick. “I don’t know what I did wrong. But whatever

it is, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Elena. Just tell me how to fix it.”

And that’s when I almost cracked.