Page 14 of Always Meant To Be
God, I’m so weak. I feel like I’m one of those heroines in the books I read, who always give in to the hero like an idiot.
And yet, that’s me, an idiot.
“That right there,fratello, is a sign you’re working too much,” Antonio says as he places his arm over my shoulder, making me look at him. He gives me a wink before looking back at his brother.
I guess he doesn’t know how our marriage is…
Irritation builds inside, and I mutter, “Just like the last four years of our marriage,” underneath my breath, not able to keep it in as bitterness overtakes me. Antonio chuckles.
Romeo shakes his head subtly at his brother, not realizing I’ve caught him. He ignores my jab and utters, “Antonio, get your arm off my wife.” He looks at me. “Breakfast before work now.”
I blink. Wait…he wants to have breakfast with me? Seriously, after not being here for four years?
Even after our wedding, he was gone before I woke—sore, I might add—and nowhere to be seen, even while all our family waited for us. He didn’t even take me to his home; he had Leonardo do it, and funny enough, my sister was also gone that morning, and I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
I look at him, furrowing my brows, expecting him to shout, “Psych!” but he doesn’t. He raises a brow at me, and I blink again. Did someone hit him on the head or something? I usually have to talk his ear off to get him to even speak to me.
This…this is not normal.
I’ll make him dinner and wait for him to come home, I’ll talk to him, make conversation, but get hardly anything back in return until he relents when he realizes I won’t shut up, and tells me about his day and starts to ask about mine, before I get too excited and detail my whole day with the kids, like yesterday, when Arnold nearly set the science lab on fire, placing his Bunsen burner to close to the sweater he’d taken off and left on the table.
When Rome finally gives in and speaks to me, he makes me feel like his queen; he makes me feel wanted, even loved, but that’s just my delusional thoughts.
I may have Stockholm Syndrome, I diagnosed myself three years ago when I started feeling something for him.
Clearing my throat, I admit, “I usually eat at school.”
His eyes flash with anger, confusing me, and he growls, “Not today, you’re not. The chef’s made eggs benedict, your favorite.”
I scoff silently as everything inside me dies a little bit, just like it has since we’ve been married, because he’s now just proven he’s not given any thought to me over the years.
God, I’m such an idiot. He hasn’t even questioned the scars on my back since that first night.
When in the hell will I learn?
After he took my virginity, so gently, I might add, I unintentionally allowed a part of my heart to become his, and then over the years, with the little things he’d do for me like building me a library by taking two guest rooms, knocking the wall down, and making it a room of dreams for book nerds like myself.
The little touches and sweet words when we're intimate got to me as well.
Over the last four years, I’ve fallen for him, and sometimes I don’t understand why. If we’re out, he acts like I’m dirt on his shoe, especially if my sister is around, yet if we’re in our own home and it’s just us, I’m his queen.
And right now, he’s just broken my heart more.
Clearing my throat, I give Antonio a tight smile, then rasp to my husband without looking at him, “I, uh, I’ll just have an apple at work. I’ve got a few more tests to mark before my students come in.”
I can instantly feel the tension surrounding us, mainly because Antonio has his heavy arm over my shoulder, and he stiffens against me. He clearly did not expect me to decline his brother.
“Having breakfast with your husband too hard for you, El? Rather be at school, would you?” Romeo asks with accusation and a bite, and I look at him sharply.
For four years, I have tried to become the wife he wants, the wife everyone says he needs.
Sweet, docile, quiet.
But right now, my anger is taking over.
How dare he accuse me of something when he doesn’t know me after being married for so long? He doesn’t evenwantto know me!
Straightening my shoulders, I look him in the eye. I snap, “Actually, I’d rather eat at school than go into anaphylactic shock.” His body tenses, and I continue snidely, “You know, because I’m allergic to hollandaise sauce.”