From an early age, Theodore had been privy to the futility of walking on broken glass with bare feet. Yet, despite himself he’d chosen to do so with Hallie in order to avoid any further confrontation. He’d elected to be dutiful and quiet – hoping that the cracks would smooth themselves over without much of his input. There wasn’t nearly enough left in the metaphorical tank for him to rise to a fight. His truest desire was to disappear, perhaps to bed, with his wife and hide there amongst the covers and the cushions until the world came knocking and refused to accept that they would deign to receive it in their own time. But of course, a certain number of hurdles would need to be jumped before that could even be considered.
For a man that loathed small talk, he’d certainly tried to conduct it – albeit with a certain level of failure. Nevertheless, Theodore endeavoured to make polite conversation with the stranger who wore his ring on her finger. He noted, guiltily, that it was ring, singular. He hadn’t ever proposed to her. He’d merely gone on grumpily with the farce of a wedding which had been a glorious day but not one he wanted to repeat in the same manner. He had hoped earlier on in the year that he could have perhaps made it up to her and he’d cast a critical eye over many of the jewellers he came across or made a special effort to visit in search of the perfect ring for his wife – or, err, perhaps fiancée eventually… then wife again. The likelihood of that actually happening in light of recent events, however, seemed small – miniscule, non-existent.
Theodore winced as the sound of the prosthetic hitting the tiled floor reached his ears. He averted his eyes from Hallie as the shame began to decorate his cheeks scarlet and he rose from his chair, picking up the plates from the table. He set them down on the counter and crossed to the fridge, taking the two ramekins of tiramisu out to set them down on the side. He bit his lip briefly, his eyes closing for a fluttering, fleeting second, before he turned and made his way to the back door, his hands pausing to pick up his cigarettes from the countertop before reaching the door which he abruptly wrenched open.
Lighting one of the cigarettes, Theodore took a moment to gather his thoughts. He could feel Hallie’s eyes glaring a hole in the back of his head and as he took the first drag he found that he didn’t have the words that would soothe her. He couldn’t smile and call her ‘blondie’ like she wanted him to. He wanted to, also, but he couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t erase the guilt he felt with a couple of words and a chuckle or two.
“That night…I should’ve killed Henry,” Theodore began carefully, smoke drifting at its leisure out of his nostrils and from his mouth. “Should’ve turned everything on its head and tortured him. Hindsight gives you the benefit of a posthumous plan – posthumous to the events, of course. I know exactly what I should’ve done and how I should’ve done it. I know how I should’ve made him suffer – made him rue the day his mother had ever taken a second, passing glance at his father, should’ve made him regret his own birth. But I didn’t. I focused on you and I tried to save you and I dunno what I expected… gratitude maybe.”
Theodore turned the cigarette in his fingers, admiring the smouldering end before bringing its opposite to his lips. He flicked away the ash growing on the end after exhaling another chest-full of smoke and he turned his eyes absently in Hallie’s direction, ignoring the way his heart continued to twinge after her half-declaration of love. Something within him told him he should abandon his next gambit, wash his mouth out with wine and kiss her until neither of them could think straight for lack of oxygen. Something told him he should abandon all plans of telling her the truth, take her upstairs and make good on his desire to hide away permanently. He couldn’t, though.
“I could’ve left you there, if I had been anymore callous and self-serving. I could’ve walked away and waited until you turned up dead so I could go off, be a part of my family again and marry someone with a vault of gold who I’d upgrade when she started to go grey. Then I’d grow old and wrinkled and bitter and hopefully I’d die with a nice, young thing straddling my waist. That was my plan in life and you interrupted that. So Henry, thanks to my father, was my way out of this sham but, as we can both see, I didn’t take the golden ticket and Merlin… I don’t regret it, either.
I thought that perhaps I would. After the way you screamed blue murder at me… maybe… I hoped that I’d perhaps go crawling back to daddy and get him to sort out my problems like he’d hoped to do. Then I’d be a wealthy widower with everything to gain. But I didn’t want that. Instead I came home… here and I tried to put the pieces back together. My jigsaw was missing bits, though, so I busied myself with the usual things … Firewhisky, Firewhisky, Firewhisky … and tried to fix up the house. It’s mostly done now. A few paintings need to be restored for the hall but other than that, my life’s been peachy keen.”
Theodore flicked the cigarette out into the plant pot by the door and closed it behind him as he stepped back into the kitchen properly. After taking a mouthful of wine he crossed the room to retrieve the tiramisu and two spoons. He put them down on the table and sighed before endeavouring to continue, sliding into his seat.
“So I now find myself wracked with this impassable crisis of conscious because I did this stupid thing in your eyes – I made the call that saved your life. I’d do it again, too. I do believe I mentioned that. So really, it should be me who’s pissed off here,” a smirk started to creep onto his lips despite himself, “because I wanted to die at ninety - much to the emotional turmoil of my eighteen-year-old seventh wife and you ruined it, blondie. You ruined it because I’m so, bloody in love with you that I can hardly sleep. So there. You’re not the only one who came out injured. I don’t want seven wives. I want one. I want you. Are we clear? Now shut up and eat your bloody dessert before I throw it at you.”
Theo wasn’t one to waste tiramisu.