“What have you been telling him? This isn’t just your business, you know? I don’t want you confiding in some stranger about us. Me. Our business.”
Fair point. I set down my fork. “I don’t want to talk about this,” I say.
“Of course you don’t, you’ve already talked about it once today with some other man.”
I slam my palm down on the granite next to me and my plate jangles. “You don’t understand.”
Adam stands. “Help me understand. Can you manage that much for your ol’ husband then?”
I turn on the stool and face him. He’s towering over me. A threat looming. “You want me to stop being depressed. You never give me reasons why. You treat me like I’m this frail, delicate person. I just want to live outside of this mess.” I wave my arm around the house. “Being here, in this house, just reminds me of the things I’m trying to forget. Maybe that makes me weak. I know I’m not proud of what I’ve turned our marriage into. But did you ever think that it was supposed to disintegrate like this? That this was the track we would have always been on even if Noel was here now?”
“You want pragmatic asshole, right?” Adam says, clearing a tick in his throat. “All of that is bullshit. Excuses for not wanting to work things out at home. Do you need the doctor to tell you that, or do you think you can take my word for it? Because I’m being a straightforward asshole and all?”
“I have to go,” I say, tilting my chin up, bringing my plate to the sink and rinsing it before putting it in the dishwasher.
“Why is it so easy for you to walk away from me?”
This is the point in arguments when people say things they don’t mean. My stomach flips as I lean against the counter. “You didn’t want to marry me in the first place. Forgive me for not wanting to put the effort into maintaining this fucked-up carnival we’re playing in.”
With that, I stride out of the kitchen and make my way to my closet in the spare room. He’s spluttering, trying to find the words to fix the blunder, but he’ll never be able to take those words back. I’ll never be able to take mine back either.
I hate that more than anything else.
I pull out a heavy, red sweatshirt, one from college, and fish my woolen socks from my dresser drawer. My dress is pooled around my feet before I remember I never shut the door. Adam is standing there, glaring at me with equal parts desire and rage.
Not lust, I think. Definitely not lust. “Where are you going?”
“Leo invited me to the cranberry bog off Peasant Street tonight. There’s lights there so it’s safe. His little sister loves the cranberry bog,” I say, facing him square on, in my panties and bra. “She died of cancer. He needs a friend to talk to. It’s not about my messed-up life tonight. It’s about his.” I smile. It’s mean. “That’s what friends do. Right?” Adam doesn’t have many friends these days either. It’s sort of a jab. He works too much. “If you’ll give me permission.”
“You’ll go and talk to him about his problems, but won’t talk to me about ours. What am I supposed to make of this?” Adam looks away from my body. “Get dressed.”
“All we do is talk. Constantly.” Then it hits me. “You think he’s getting something you’re not?”
“What does that mean?” Adam barks.
I slide the green cotton panties down my legs and unhook the mismatched bra. “Fuck me.” I swallow hard. There’s no turning back now. This will fix everything. A kiss made him happy all day. Fucking should tide him over for at least a week or two. Maybe more. “Fuck me right now. You’re my husband. No one else gets this.”
Adam steps into the guest room. Just a step. I hate it. Then another. “You don’t mean that.”
“What part?” I ask. “No one else is getting my body, Adam. Take it. Relish the fact that it’s yours for the taking.”
He presses his lips into a firm line, and I know the decision is weighing heavy on his mind. “Give and take?” Adam asks, loosening the tie around his neck. Stretching his head from one side to the other. My heart sinks. He unbuttons his crisp white shirt and untucks it from his slacks.
“Exactly,” I say, voice shaking. “Give and take.”
Give. Give. Give. He’s your husband. Autopilot. It happens with my permission. I offered it. Hand on my waist. Heat from his touch. Lips on mine. Fingers inside me. A groan. His hand on my wrist. My hand on his stiff cock. Lips on neck. Fingers on skin. Wetness. Head on pillow. Tongue on nipple. Tongue on other nipple. Lips on lips. Cock inside me. Thrust. Groan. Thrust. Lips on lips. Thrust.
“Oh, my God,” Adam rasps at my ear. “You’re so fucking tight.”
Heavy breaths. Familiar scents. Face on my neck. Cum on my stomach.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” I call out, twining my hands around his neck. Fake orgasm. Lips on lips. Whispered words. Adam leaves the room. His heat on my body remains.
I grab a tissue and wipe it off. I don’t cry. I couldn’t do that. Not when I’m supposed to be happy right now. We’ve reconnected. Isn’t this the whole purpose of all of those therapy sessions? To bring us back together. I clean up in the bathroom attached to this room and Adam pops his head in.
“Hey, ah, I’m sorry, I, that, was amazing. Are you feeling okay?”
“What? Like, is my vagina okay?” I ask, smirking.
