Chapter Thirty-Seven
A foot pokes me hard. "Get up, ye bloody stupid man. I have words for you, and they willnae be comforting ones, ye cacan, since your behavior does not warrant kindness. That sweet lass loves you. And what did you do? Throw her out with the rubbish." Mrs. Darroch issues a long string of Gaelic curses. "You're like a son to me, but I could batter you myself right now."
This is a dream, isn't it? A nightmare. My housekeeper wouldn't dare to speak to me that way.
Oh aye, of course she would.
I crack one lid open to peer up at Mrs. Darroch. "Good morning to you too."
My voice is rough, most likely because my throat is as dry as the Sahara Desert, my mouth too. Every muscle in my body aches from the slightest movement. Aye, that happens when a person falls asleep on the floor in the sitting room. Well, it's what happened when I did that. I remember slumping to the floor with my back against the chair. The rest is hazy, though not because I got drunk. I didn't do that. No, I was stone-cold sober when I rolled onto the floor on my back and lay here until I fell asleep. The numbness I'd experienced last night held on until after I dozed off, but I don't feel it making a resurgence now.
Numbness might be preferable to the other option—feeling the full brunt of what I've done.
Ye deserve the pain, ye gòrach pìos de cac. Aye, only a stupid piece of shit would behave the way I did yesterday. What have I done? I drove my wife away, broke her heart, acted like I don't care what happens to her. Robot Rory, that's me.
"Aye, go on and curse at yourself," Mrs. Darroch says. "Donnae expect me to kiss your cheek and tell ye it's all right, not this time."
No, I don't expect that. She's not likely to call me mo luran either.
Pushing up into a sitting position, I yawn and rub my neck. Though I had dozed intermittently all night, I feel nothing close to rested. Emery had warned me that if I didn't stop acting like a bastard, she would do whatever is necessary to protect herself. Of course she left me. We both knew from the start that's how this would end.
But she said she needs time, not that she wants a divorce.
Sometime between collapsing on the floor and waking up this morning, I'd realized Emery is giving me one last chance. Needing time doesn't mean she will never speak to me again, but I know my apologies have worn thin. To get her back, I'll need to do more than say I'm sorry.
I have no idea how to win back my wife. Never tried to keep a woman who wanted to leave me, not until today.
Mrs. Darroch kicks me between my shoulder blades. "Well? Are ye going over to Lachlan and Erica's house to beg that lovely lass to take you back? Or would ye rather sit there feeling sorry for yourself? That's not the Rory MacTaggart I know."
No one knows who I am deep down. No one except my wife. Even I didn't understand until Emery showed me.
I scramble to my feet and whirl around, ready to bolt for the Mercedes.
Mrs. Darroch holds up a hand, eying me with a pained expression. "Ye might want to shower, shave, and put on clothes that don't smell like ye rolled in the garden right after Tavish spread the fertilizer."
Why would I smell bad? I do recall sweating as I lay on the floor last night. Cold sweat, but I suppose even that turns into a rank smell after a while.
I rush upstairs to get myself ready to see Emery. Then I race out to the car and roar down the driveway, not caring that the Mercedes jounces over potholes with so much force that my head would smack into the ceiling if not for the seat belt pinning me down. Once I get out on the main road, I slow down to obey the speed limit. I want to drive a hundred miles an hour, but getting myself killed won't help me win my wife's heart again. I arrive at Lachlan and Erica's house alive and well. No, that's not true. I feel like I might vomit, and I'm alive only in that my heart still beats and my lungs still function.
I rap on the door twice. Then I wipe my clammy palms on my trousers.
The door flies open. Emery looks at me, her cheeks flushed—with excitement, I think. Or maybe that's what I desperately want it to be.
I take a breath. "Please come home. I love you."
Her mouth falls open, but she doesn't speak.
Maybe I shouldn't have spoken those words in a flat tone. Didn't mean to do that. But I'm…terrified that my wife will never forgive me.
"Told ye," Lachlan shouts from somewhere inside the house. "He doesn't waste time."
"Quiet," Erica chastises.
Emery shoos me away. "Outside. Please."
I shuffle backward, my brows tightening, and keep backing up until Emery shuts the door and stops us a wee ways from the house.
"That's it?" she says.