I woke up in the hospital at 7 a.m., Aaron holding my hand, looking exhausted, like he’d been there all night. He got up to pour me a glass of water. “Why do you do this to yourself when I’m not around? You know you have a sensitive stomach. You’re going to kill
yourself!” He sounded genuinely concerned. It was laughable. I’d barely eaten or slept for a week while searching for him, losing five pounds in the process. I’d been terrified, picturing him kidnapped, hurt, or worse. My pillow was soaked with tears every night.
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Meanwhile, he was gallivanting around Chicago, kissing other girls. “Cat got your tongue?”
Aaron grinned, pinching my cheek. “You know
I’m going to have to punish you for this.” “Come on, let’s get some food in you.” “Your
loving husband made you some porridge. Didn’t sleep a wink.” He acted like nothing had
happened, helping me sit up and feeding me
spoonful by spoonful. Several times, I almost asked him: “Aaron, aren’t you tired of acting?”
Or, “Aaron, I heard everything on the yacht. If
you don’t want to get married, we can call it off. We haven’t even gotten the license yet.”
But I bit my tongue. I wanted to know why, after
all this time, he would do this to me. Was I
really so unworthy of love just because I’d loved
someone else before him?
“Hey, why are you crying?” Aaron set down the bowl and frantically wiped my tears. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. Okay?” I looked down,
closing my eyes, and he pulled me into a hug. He stroked my back, starting his explanation.
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