Relapse

By L.M. Pruitt

I met Ezra Booker when we were five. I fell in love with him when we were twelve. I married him when we were twenty.

He left me when we were thirty.

Now, five years later, he's come home--this time, according to him, to stay.

I don't believe him.

He wants two weeks to change my mind. Two weeks to convince me to love him again.

I can last two weeks.

Maybe.

Then again... one more time wouldn't hurt....

• Language: English
• Publisher: SP Press
• Release date: Mar 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393999584

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Ihated sunrises.

The hate intensified when I was fighting off the beginnings of a hangover—my fault—or when I was sexually frustrated—his fault. Add in an atmospheric, wispy predawn mist, birdsong, and the faint hint of wisteria from my next-door neighbor’s oversized shrub and I wanted a fight as much as I wanted to take a shower and sleep for the next five years.

So when I rounded the back corner of the house I’d lived in my entire life and found him sitting on the small stoop outside my kitchen, I wasn’t in the best of moods.

Late night, Ed? He took a long drag from the cigarette dangling loosely between slender, almost elegant fingers, flicking the ash neatly in the coffee can I kept on the stoop for exactly that purpose. His hands were the first things I’d noticed about him—at least when we were older and I started noticing those kinds of things—and there were nights when, after I’d drank myself a few sips away from a coma, I imagined I could still feel them. Or early morning?

Instead of answering, I stalked down the small path, digging through my purse for my keys as I climbed the short flight of stairs. He didn’t move out of my way—not that I’d expected him to do so. Ezra Booker moved for no one except himself.

It’d taken me far too many years to learn that particular lesson but I’d learned it well.

I’m guessing late night. I felt more than saw him turn toward me—or, more specifically, toward my legs. His gaze was heavy enough to be almost a physical thing and I fought back a shiver at a memory of what that look used to mean. You may be a rebel but I don’t think even you would head down to breakfast at Mel’s in a leather miniskirt and fuck-me heels.

And you know this because...? I let the question hang in the air, sending up a silent prayer of thanks as my fingertips finally brushed my keys. Yanking them out of my purse, I jammed one blindly in the lock, cursing when it wasn’t the right one. I froze when he stood, closing his hand over mine and stilling my admittedly shaking hands.

I know this because I know those shoes. He pulled my hand away from the lock, running his thumb over the various keys until he found the right one, lifting our joined hands and sliding the key into place in one smooth motion. He curved his body around mine, all that long, deceptively lean muscle instantly warming my chilled skin. His next words, spoken in a lazy, murmured drawl, ruffled the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck, sparking all sorts of inappropriate thoughts. And the only time you wore them was when you wanted me to fuck you until neither of us could see or think or breathe.

Before I could think of a response, he twisted our hands and unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping away. After you, Duckie.

The nickname from childhood—his, mine, ours—broke through the sexual fog I’d let consume me for the last few minutes. Shoving past him, I strode through the kitchen, each step as loud as a gunshot on the wood floor. Passing into the main living space, I tossed my purse on the coffee table before bending double, doing my best to massage some of the ache out of my calves. I glanced up to find him staring at me—or, more specifically, down my shirt at my breasts. Straightening, I snapped out, Stop.

No. His smile might have been sunny but there were steel undercurrents in his voice. At least not at any point in this lifetime.

What do you want? Why are you here? Because I refused to believe it was for me. He’d made it crystal, heartbreakingly clear before he left Black Lake that nothing in this town—not even me—was enough to keep him here. I doubted his opinion had changed at any time in the last five years. Whatever it is, make it quick because I’m tired and I’d like to get a few hours of sleep before I have to start planning for the rest of the week.

I’d ask how the business was doing but Mom likes to drop hints every time she sends me a box of snickerdoodles.

I should have known she was doing that. I happily made every type of cookie or cupcake or pastry item under the sun but not snickerdoodles. Not for five years. The sole exception was Dianne Booker because I thought they were for her. Dragging a hand through my hair, I said, Again, what do you want? Because we both know you don’t really care about the business.

Harsh but given my previous actions, understandable.

Don’t.

Don’t what? He took a step forward, less than a foot between us. It was too much distance. It wasn’t enough. Care? Sorry, Duckie, can’t.

Is that what you tell your groupies? That you can’t help caring about them? I shrugged out of my cardigan, tossing it the direction of the sofa and fisting my hands on my hips. I bet it works, doesn’t it? Especially when you’ve just finished a set and your voice is raspy, the way it is when—.

When I’m fucking you and doing my best not to come before you do? He took another step forward and I instinctively started to move backward, hesitating thanks to the shoes. He used the two seconds of distraction to wrap an arm around my waist and pull me against him, shifting us until my back was pressed to the wall and he was pressed against me. This close, the silver flecks in his gray eyes were more obvious, as were the silver threads in his nearly jet black hair. And then you’d go wide-eyed and you’d bite your lower lip and I’d know you were there and—.

Stop. Even to my own ears my voice sounded weak. Needy. Before, all he’d have to do was look at me and I’d be a trembling mess of needs and wants. I thought I’d outgrown it. I’d thought I’d gotten him out of my system. Lord knew I’d cried enough tears and drank enough whiskey and fucked enough men who weren’t him to do the job. And yet here I was, minutes away from giving him whatever he wanted, the way I always did. Tell me what you want and then do me the courtesy of getting the fuck out of my house.

And out of my life.

Again.

You. He slipped his free hand between us, tugging the chain I’d tucked under my shirt free, the set of rings I’d never been able to stop wearing glinting in the faint early morning light. I want my wife back, Edith Booker.

CHAPTER ONE

"W hat?" If I’d had the breath to laugh, I would have. As it was, I was struggling to pull enough air into my lungs to simply stay upright. I’m sorry, did you just say—.

You know what I said, so I’m not going to repeat myself. He pushed away, the chain sliding from his fingers as he put necessary distance between us. You’re still my wife, Ed.

Because you never stayed in one city long enough for me to send you the divorce papers.  A partial truth and we both knew it but it was better than admitting to the full truth. Bracing myself against the wall, I pulled one leg up and started wiggling off the caged heels I’d chosen to wear last night in a moment of weakness. If you’d had the decency to stay gone another two years, I could have filed for divorce on the grounds of abandonment and won with no effort at all.

Let’s not act as if you’ve been sitting here alone with your knitting and your cats, grieving over my absence. He watched as I pulled off the other shoe, smirking when I winced against the cramping in my arches. Who was it last night? John McNalty? He’s been trying to get in your pants since seventh grade.

John has been married for two years—he and his husband took over the bookstore from Mr. Piester when he decided to move to the Keys. I let all those lovely little bombs of information detonate one after the other before dropping the final one. And I don’t know who it was. I don’t bother with names.

Really. He lifted one brow. How un-Edith like. I wonder what your parents think.

Like you give a damn what anybody thinks. Even me. Pushing the thought away, I said, I won’t lie and say this has been fun but I’m tired and I’d like to get some sleep.

Go ahead. He dropped down on the sofa, toeing off his shoes before propping his socked feet on the coffee table. He picked up the book I’d left there, flipping it open to the first page. I’ll just read until I’m tired and then I’ll join you.

You’re not staying here.

Where’d you think I was going to stay? With my mother? He laughed and shook his head. I love my mother and she loves me but we haven’t lived with each other in over fifteen years. Dianne is too used to living alone.

I don’t care where you stay but you aren’t staying here. I could hear the faint whiff of hysteria in my voice and knew if I could, so could he. He’d always picked up on my moods, sometimes even before I did. I took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before exhaling slowly. I’m serious, Ezra. I don’t want you here.

And while normally I don’t have a problem giving you what you want, I’m sorry to say I have to disappoint you this time. He closed the book and set it on the cushion next to him with the sort of precise, almost mechanical motion he always used when he was struggling to control his temper. You’re my wife. This is our home. I’m staying here.

"No, this is my home. You haven’t stepped foot in here in five years. It isn’t yours anymore. I took another deep breath, willing myself to calm down. And neither am I."

There are papers which say otherwise, at least concerning the latter. He stood, tucking his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. You’re still my wife and this is still our home and I’m here because I want both of those things to remain that way.

Then maybe you shouldn’t have left.

Maybe I shouldn’t have and maybe I’ve regretted it every day since I did but it doesn’t change the fact I’m here now and I’m staying. He shifted his stance wider, lifting his chin and meeting my gaze without flinching. I’m staying, Edith, and we’re going to work this out. Because I love you and you love me even though right now you’re mad as hell at me and—.

I’m not mad. I scrubbed my hands over my face, unconcerned with smearing my makeup. I haven’t been mad for years.

Then what are you?

Done. Suddenly exhausted, I let my arms fall to my sides. You want to stay here, fine. Use the sofa. There’s linens and towels in the hall closet. Stay out of my office.

Striding past him, I climbed the stairs to my room, part of me wondering if he would be stupid enough to follow me and what exactly I would do if he did. Even though he didn’t, I still locked my bedroom door before peeling off my clothes, tossing them on the floor as I made my way to my bed. Crawling on the mattress, I pulled the duvet over my head and closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep.

[]

Thirty years earlier

I was nervous, although I was too young to know the word for what I was feeling. At five, ‘nervous’ is a butterflies in the stomach, Christmas morning, birthday kind of feeling. Later, when I was older—much, much older—I’d wonder if my five-year old self had known that day was the day which would end up setting the course for the rest of my life.

But right then, I was only concerned with making sure my hair stayed absolutely perfect.

I wasn’t a pretty child or so I’d been told often enough by my older sister to think it had to be true and if I looked at us in the mirror the proof was there. So was the resemblance—dark eyes, turned up noses (fairy noses, our father called them), dark hair with the faintest sheen of red—but the differences, what made her pretty and me ordinary, were more obvious.

Gloria was as tan as one of the almonds she loved to eat while I was almost ghost-white. Her teeth were perfectly straight whereas my front teeth overlapped my lower teeth the tiniest bit—just enough to be not perfect. She was the perfect height for people to call her ‘delicate’ while the same people talked about how it was obvious I was going to be tall, even though I hadn’t even started kindergarten.

The only place where Gloria got the short end of the stick was our hair.

It was true it was the same color but hers was stick straight, something she whined and wailed about for hours even as she worked to change it. Saturday nights were devoted to watching our mother patiently and meticulously set Gloria’s hair in rollers only for all the careful curls to completely disappear before the end of church service on Sunday. She’d begged our parents for a perm for Christmas, for her birthday, for a reward for good grades, for a back-to-school present but they held firm. In their mind, if God had wanted Gloria to have curly hair, He would have given it to her, the way He did me.

Because even if nobody would ever call me ‘pretty’, they always said my hair was beautiful.

So on the first day of kindergarten, I stood in the corner of the room in neatly pressed jeans, my shirt—blue, my favorite color—tucked in, my blue and white Chuck Taylor’s so pristine they almost sparkled and watched all the other kids run around yelling and laughing and playing.

I knew them, of course. Everybody knew everybody in Black Lake. My mother liked to say you could sneeze in your bedroom at midnight with the door closed and the shades drawn and the next day five people would ask you about your cold. My father could tell you everything about everybody but since he was the pastor of the largest church that was to be expected. Gloria knew the latest gossip almost as soon as it happened, if not sooner. So I knew all the other kids in my classroom.

But I didn’t know them because nobody ever wanted to play with the pastor’s kid.

So I suppose I stood alone in the corner for two reasons.

Mrs. Park, who Gloria said was older than dirt but didn’t really look much older than our grandmother, rose from her chair behind her desk and clapped her hands. I think I was the only one paying attention when she said, Alright, children, it’s seven twenty-five. In five minutes—.

She broke off as the door opened and a tall, slim woman who looked like one of the models on the cover of the magazines littering the floor of Gloria’s room stepped in, one hand firmly clasping that of a boy with hair even darker than mine. The woman glanced around, her face lighting up when she saw Mrs. Park. Hello! I’m so happy to meet you although I’m sure you’re absolutely sick of parents at this point.

Her voice was thick and rich, like the molasses Mama used to make gingerbread, and somehow comforting, even though she didn’t sound like anyone else I’d ever heard in my life. She walked over to the desk, tugging the little boy behind her, who didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm. The instant she started talking to Mrs. Park, the room descended into yelling and screaming again. The boy slipped out of her grip, disappearing in the crowd.

I was so fascinated with the woman, who didn’t look like any of the other parents I’d seen that morning, that I didn’t realize the boy was next to me until he said, Why are you standing here by yourself?

His voice was almost like hers but not quite—maple syrup, not molasses—and when I turned to look at him, I found him staring at me with the same curiosity I’d shown his mother and now him. We studied each other for long minutes. He spoke first. Well?

Because. His eyes weren’t like mine or Gloria’s or Mama’s or even Daddy’s, which were bluest blue. When I went home that day and looked in my box of crayons to try and find the one which matched his eyes, the closest I found was gray but that wasn’t really right. Later, when we were older, they’d remind me of fog and smoke. Right then, I just knew they were the most interesting thing I’d ever seen. I don’t have any friends.

Why not? If he knew it was rude to ask personal questions—and I’d been told time and time again it was rude—he didn’t care. He tucked his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. You’re pretty. Pretty girls always have friends.

Before I could wrap my mind around the fact he’d called me pretty, his mother bustled over, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. Trust you to find a pretty girl, Ezra. Resting a hand on his shoulder, she smiled at me and said, What’s your name, sweetheart?

Struck with a sudden bout of shyness, I ducked my chin toward my chest and murmured, Edith Brown, ma’am.

Oh, what a nice, old-fashioned name. Even though I couldn’t see her face, not really, somehow I knew she was smiling and when I looked up at her through my lashes, I saw she was studying me with the same intensity as her son. Ezra, it turns out Edith is going to be your desk buddy. That’s nice, isn’t it?

Yes. His smile, when it came, was quick and bright like a lightning burst or a firecracker and I couldn’t help but return it. I’ll be fine, Mom.

You always are. She kissed the top of his head and then, to my undying surprise, leaned over and kissed the top of mine. I’ll see you after school, my baby. Have a good first day—you too, Edith.

Before I could stutter out a ‘thank you’, she breezed out of the room, sending Mrs. Park a little finger wave as she passed her. The older woman stared after her for a moment before clapping her hands together and raising her voice. Okay, boys and girls! Let’s get started!

CHAPTER TWO

Iwoke up three hours later, craving coffee, biscuits and gravy, and a hot shower—not necessarily in that order, but still. Instead, I rolled to my back, staring at the ceiling and wondering how I was going to get any of those things without having to deal with Ezra, because I knew he was somewhere in the house. Now that I was fully sober, I was aware of the way all the hairs on my body seemed to stand on end, the way my heart beat just a little faster than normal. Someone might have said it was the residual effects of the hangover.

But I knew better.

Even when we were kids, I’d known when he was close, the same way he’d known when I was unhappy or sad. If I believed in things like psychic connections, I would have sworn we had one and I knew I wasn’t the only one to think so. It was why teachers had never tried to separate us in the classroom or why even when I’d tried to date another boy and he’d tried to date another girl it didn’t work out. We were a package deal in both the best and worst meanings of the phrase.

So I knew without needing to check he was still downstairs, probably sprawled half on and half off the couch, one foot sticking out from under the sheet he would have taken from the hall closet. He might be sleeping or he might be reading or watching television or checking his phone. He wouldn’t have ventured into the kitchen or my office—the latter because I’d told him specifically to stay out and the former because what he knew about cooking could fit in the palm of a toddler’s hand. I was willing to bet the only reason he hadn’t starved to death in the last five years was because of fast food and microwave meals.

Not that I cared either way about his health.

I rolled over and snorted into the pillow, my father’s voice echoing in my head, reminding me lying to myself was no better than lying to someone else. Sitting up, I shoved my hair out of my face, dragging my fingers through the tangled length before pulling it up in a tight bun. The steam from the shower would completely wipe out the effort I’d gone to last night to straighten it but at least the bun would ensure the mess was simply wavy as opposed to Shirley Temple on steroids.

Fifteen minutes later, I was scrubbed as clean as it was possible to be, my entire body tingling from the exfoliating scrub and my overzealousness in trying to erase any evidence of last night’s failed attempt at exorcising the sexual memory of my husband. Wrapping a towel around myself, I used a second to wipe the condensation from the bathroom mirror, dropping it on the floor and bracing my hands on the counter, leaning into study my face. Normally I wouldn’t care how I looked on a Monday morning when I was going to spend the majority of the day holed up doing paperwork and scheduling and prep for the rest of the week.

Normally, I didn’t have to worry about Ezra lurking in the shadows, making offhand comments about how tired I looked and wouldn’t it be a good idea to take a nap and how it wouldn’t hurt if he laid down with me and—.

Stop. I closed my eyes, pulling in a long, slow breath, holding it for exactly ten seconds before exhaling. I repeated the process four more times, until the knot in my stomach loosened and my heart stopped hammering and my throat wasn’t bone dry. Opening my eyes, I gave myself a hard look. You’re thirty-five years old. You’re an adult. You can handle this.

That would be a more convincing statement if you weren’t talking to yourself.

The bedroom door was locked. I turned to face Ezra, crossing my arms over my chest and scowling, even though I knew it would have no effect on him. And where’s your shirt?

My shirt is downstairs and I know the door was locked. I had to search damn near the entire house before I found one of your bobby pins so I could pick the lock. He met my scowl with narrowed eyes and a frown. You look tired.

Because I am tired. I crossed the room, pausing in front of him and waiting for him to move out of the doorway. When he didn’t, I sighed and said, Ezra. I know you’re not big on social cues—.

That’s a lie. I understand social cues. He flashed me a grin. I just don’t give two fucks about them.

Which amounts to the same thing. Stop interrupting me. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to remember the exact thread of the conversation and not surprised I couldn’t. It wasn’t the lack of sleep or caffeine. It was him. And the way he watched me, his gaze steady and sure, told me he knew exactly what he was doing. Squaring my shoulders, I said, I need to get dressed. Which means you need to leave.

Not to be rude but there isn’t anything on you I haven’t seen before. He arched one brow, a shade or two lighter than his hair and shades darker than his skin. If his eyes were the color of fog and mist and his hair the impossible black of midnight, his skin was the soft glow of candlelight. Unless you’ve changed more than your hair in the last five years.

I haven’t changed my hair. I reflexively started to lift a hand only to drop my arm to my side when the upward movement caused the towel to loosen and creep downward. Ass.

No, you haven’t changed your ass, either. I always told you it was a crime for you to wear a short skirt if only for the sheer number of people you’d tempt into sinning. He reached out, tracing his fingers over the hem of the towel, close enough I felt the heat from his skin but not his touch. Do you still have that skirt you wore to the first big show? The one in New Orleans?

Even as an image of the skirt—and the memory of how he’d pinned me against the dressing room wall before shoving it up to my hips and fucking me so hard I screamed—flashed through my mind, I shook my head. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Sure you don’t, Ed. Now he did touch me, a single finger pressed to my collarbone and the faint scar of an old bite mark. What time are you supposed to meet my mom for lunch?

I didn’t ask how he knew about my weekly lunch with Dianne. I could only assume he’d gotten the information from the same place where he’d gotten the snickerdoodles. As much as I wanted to be angry with her for sharing any part of my life with him, I couldn’t be. After all, she was his mother and she’d continued believing in our marriage long after I’d given up the faith. Dianne was a romantic down to her bones.

Loving Ezra had turned me into a realist.

Noon. You’re not invited. I pushed past him, ignoring his pained and entirely for show grunt. He had six inches and at least thirty pounds on me. The only way I could hurt him was if I attacked his ego and even that was debatable. You’re also not invited to watch me dress. Get out.

We need to talk about the rooming situation, Duckie. He trailed after me, flopping on his stomach on the bed, looking like nothing so much as a giant cat lounging on the all-white bedding. The couch is fine for a night but it’s not going to do for much more.

Then you should probably start searching for an apartment. You can do that downstairs. While I’m getting dressed. I threw open the closet door, grabbing a shirt and pair of jeans blindly. Glancing over my shoulder at him, I said, I’m serious, Ezra. You gave up the right to this level of intimacy five years ago.

The presence of a marriage license and the lack of divorce papers says otherwise.

And what about the fact you fucking left? I whirled to face him, hurling the clothes toward the cushioned window seat. I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm down, to say the next words in a calm, collected voice. I’d already given him too much emotion. Giving him more would be the same as loading bullets in a gun. You left, Ezra. Not for a week or a month. Five years. You walked out. You gave everything up.

I gave up this town and struggling to get my music out. I didn’t give up you. He sat up, his face shifting into solemn lines. I’d never give up you, Edith. Never.

Except you did. Despite my resolve, my voice cracked and I closed my eyes, pressing my lips together and drawing in a deep breath. When I exhaled and opened my eyes, I was composed enough to say, You did give me up, Ezra. And so I moved on. My life doesn’t revolve around you anymore and you don’t have a place in it. The sooner you realize that, the easier this will be for both of us.

That was a good speech, Duckie. A damn good one. I almost believed you. He slid off the bed, shoving his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. But I know you. And even if you don’t realize you’re lying to yourself, I do. Before I could respond, he crossed the room to the door. I’ll call Mom and tell her I’m joining you for lunch. It’ll give her time to have a solid breakdown and put herself back together so she can yell at me for being an asshole without crying.

She hasn’t seen you in five years. She’s going to cry even though she calls you an asshole.

He paused at the door, half turning to face me. You don’t look as if you shed any tears this morning.

I used them all up years ago. I offered him a half-hearted shrug. I don’t have anything left for you.

Oh, Duckie. He shook his head and chuckled. You don’t know how much I’m going to enjoy proving you wrong.

[]

THIRTY YEARS EARLIER

"What are you doing?"

I peeked up through my lashes although somehow I already knew who was talking to me. Coloring.

Why? Ezra sat down across from me, folding his legs underneath him and resting his hands on his knees. He didn’t wiggle or fidget or move around the way the other kids did. He just sat there. Why aren’t you playing?

Because I like to color. I set the yellow crayon aside and picked up the blue one, lifting my gaze to his. And because I don’t want to get my clothes dirty.

Why do you care if you get your clothes dirty?

Because if I do, I’ll get in trouble. Maybe. Now that I thought about it, I didn’t really know. You couldn’t get your church clothes dirty but it was okay if play clothes were dirty. School wasn’t as important as church but it