The porcelain plate squealed against the glossy mahogany as Cathleen pushed her chair back, its legs protesting as much as the raging anger building in her chest. Not pausing to look at the faces stopped mid-chew, her fury was stoked by their conjectural muttering about her purported illness. The thought alone-the foolishness of believing she was pregnant-caused a gut reaction she was unable to fully process.
Outside, everything was unlike the world she knew; it was Xavier's haven, a place she had never ventured into. As she marched across the lawn covered in dew, the sheer loveliness of it took her by surprise and clashed with her frustration. Lush shades of green and colorful blossoms surrounded her like a vibrant work of art, showcasing Xavier's hidden softness.
Her fingertips trailing over the beautiful petals of a rosebush, she murmured, "Damn him." The softness, an unwanted respite from the storm inside, calmed her jangled nerves. Here there was quiet, no critical looks, no crude comments, and most of all, no Xavier, with his snarky looks and his hands that enticed pleasure from her hesitant body.
Like thorns among roses, Cathleen's thoughts became entangled. "He's really annoying," she says. It was a battleground of lust and hate in her imagination. How could she be so totally hateful of someone and yet long for the pleasure he brought her? It was a twisted game, played with clenched fists and gritted teeth.
Pulling a single rose with purpose, Cathleen held it to her nose, the sting of a thorn a stark reminder of her reality. It was heady and seductive, and for a brief while, it brought her peace. She exhaled a breath she had forgotten she was holding, the aroma enveloping her like a blanket and calming the clamor of her mind.
"I followed you out here, so we can talk." With a hammering of her heart against her ribs, the peace of the garden broke. The voice behind her had a weight she wasn't ready to bear and was too familiar. The elderly man's remarks were like a frigid wind piercing the pleasant air, his presence like a shadow over the brilliant flowers.
Chat? She sprang onto the swinging chair, its rhythm out of time with her pounding heart, and said, "There's nothing to say."
Next to her stood the elderly man, a steady figure of aging wisdom. "You hate him; that much is obvious," he said, his eyes penetrating. "But what I don't get is, why are you having sex with someone you hate?"
His question made her stiffen physically and her mind race. How could he know? Had Xavier boasted about their twisted intimacy? The thought sickened her. She bit back a retort, feeling suddenly exposed as if her skin had been peeled back to reveal the raw, chaotic mess beneath.
"I hate your son," she said, the words sour on her palate. "I hurt so much. I hate him."
When the elderly man retorted, "And yet, you enjoy what he does to you," Cathleen felt the world spin on its axis.
Her calm eroding, she snarled, "No, I don't." Acknowledging what she had battled to suppress seemed like a betrayal. The notion that her hatred was just a covering over an uncontrollable need was intolerable.
"No, I don't," she hissed, her composure slipping. The admission felt like a betrayal, voicing aloud what she'd fought to ignore. She couldn't stomach the idea that her hatred was a mere curtain, veiling a desire she couldn't control.
"Child, hate is supposed to repel, not draw you into a lover's arms," he observed, calm as the eye of a storm. "Before breakfast, you were entwined. Does that sound like repulsion to you?"
Red in the face, Cathleen's throat was writhing with a silent scream. Xavier's triumph was having his father see them dance sensually. Her disobedience became a show, and her private struggle became public.
Cathleen's face burned crimson, a silent scream clawing at her throat. This was Xavier's victory-to have his father witness their carnal dance. Her private war became public, and her defiance turned into a spectacle.
"Does the whole damn house need to know?" She spat, her pride stung, and her secret lay bare.
"Perhaps they should," the old man mused, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "After all, it's quite the performance you two give."
The smell of flowers and the thickening of the air brought back memories of the beauty of the garden and the ugly that lay within her own heart.
With her voice-a razor-edged whisper that sliced through the morning calm-she said, "Father, I want a divorce," her words hanging in the air, rebellious and desperate.
Low laughter from the elderly guy appeared to reverberate off the garden walls. "Do you need a divorce because he's cheating on you or because you can't stand him?" His eyes were shrewd, clinically analyzing her anguish. "Because, Cathy, I know my son; those days of cheating are long gone. That girl and he haven't spent much time together. You know that it has been you for a while now as well." He looked at her nonstop, daring her to disagree. "Why, then, do you want to divorce him? Does he irritate you? Is that enough reason? For that alone, Cathy, a person cannot file for divorce."
Reluctant, she answered slowly. With her fingertips buried in the swing's smooth wood, Cathleen whispered, "I don't want him close to me," as though she were securing herself against the storm building inside of her.
"Why, then?" The elderly man pushed unrelentingly.
Taut as a wire, silence hung between them.
"Are you that scared of falling in love with your husband, Cathy? Because that is normal. You love him but hate to admit that you have fallen in love with him." His words struck with the precision of a well-aimed arrow, finding the chink in her armor.
"And trust me, once all of us are gone, you won't even tell him you hate him. The whole house will be filled with 'Xavier, please!'" Though it was clear that he was being playful, it simply made her fury run hotter.
Feeling mortified and furious, Cathleen reddened. Shocked by his candor, she cried, "Father!"
He smiled at her outburst, a knowing curve on his lips that spoke volumes. "What? I know what sex is, Cathleen Knight. It's how I made your husband, after all. Listen, if you want to divorce your husband, I will allow you, but the reason has to be valid. I don't want to hear that he's annoying. That shows me you're in love but scared to admit it. Give me something valid, and I will grant it for you. My son listens to me every time, and he will do anything for me."
The old man left her wallowing in her own disorganized thoughts as he got up from the swing chair with those farewell comments, moving slowly but deliberately. Returning inside the house, he retreated until he was invisible.
When Cathleen was by herself, her thoughts were a maelstrom of contradictory feelings, and her breath came in short, jerky gasps. Nails digging into her palms, she clenched her fists, the agony tying her down and preventing total collapse. The smell of the roses was strong and cloying; it reminded her of the passion that engulfed her in spite of her strong denials and the tranquility she had been denied.
She yearned for the chains that held her to Xavier, the icy, merciless man who kindled a fire she was unable to put out, but she also desired liberation from this stifling cage of desire and hate. And it was in the silence of the garden that Cathleen struggled with the intolerable reality that love and hate were two sides of the same tarnished coin that whirled endlessly in her heart.