Will he care?
Will he knock?
Will he pull me into his arms and reaffirm his love for me?
Will he crush his lips to mine and bed me the way a husband should his wife, the way we used to every morning and night before things changed?
He must know how I feel. My pain is often hard to hide.
Or perhaps his heart has turned colder than I realize.
The latter is confirmed when I hear his feet padding on the polished floor toward the bedroom door.
My heart sinks and I chide myself for once again giving a damn.
Straightening my nightgown, I go through the motions of compartmentalizing my pain and picking my outfit for the day. Life has to move on and as I’m beginning to realize, plans have to be put into motion. Plans that no longer involve my husband.
After showering, I slide on a pencil skirt and a loose flowing, tucked-in rose-gold blouse, apply mascara and then lipstick. Once my heels are on, I check my cell before putting it in my handbag. Making my way down the staircase, a bittersweet smile plays on my lips as I recall how my husband would take me on these very steps. How he’d hike up my skirt, tear my lace panties—if I was wearing them—and fuck me hard, and with a ferociousness that would leave me bruised for days. I didn’t mind. I craved his uncontrollable lust. His cock driving deep, teeth biting down my neck, could have me coming sometimes three times in one session. Perhaps that’s why his sudden rejection has cut to the bone. There’s no explanation, just continual dismissal.
Shawn sits at the counter drinking his coffee when I make my way into the kitchen. He doesn’t see or hear me, but runs a hand slowly over his face.
Is he exhausted?
Frustrated?
Both?
I pause, unsure of what to do. We’ve not just lost any form of physical intimacy, but we’ve become two strangers who just so happen to share a bed, and that’s only when he chooses to come home.
“Shawn,” I call, tentatively.
He immediately stiffens at the sound of my voice yet still manages to turn, his eyes sweeping over me as they did earlier in the bedroom. Does he still care, even if the moments are fleeting? It takes everything in me to hold back from touching him.
“Yes?” he asks, his gravelly voice is strained.
One last attempt.
One last attempt to save anything that can possibly be redeemed.
“Why don’t we take the rest of the week off and fly to Monaco?” His big blue eyes widen a fraction causing my nerves to spill the words. “Our anniversary is coming up. We could get an early start and… I don’t know… I guess we reacquaint ourselves.” I reach out and slide my hand along his tense shoulders. It feels like such a foreign thing to do after all this time, and I get a sense he must feel it, too. Those same big aqua-blue eyes now look at me as if I’m an intruder. But that doesn’t hurt me near as much as what he does next.
“Blythe,” he scolds, his fingers tightly curling around my wrist, removing my hand. He rests it on the counter but maintains his hold, preventing me from further touching him. It’s yet another reprimand that cuts too deep. I feel my heart splinter and the blood through my veins runs cold. He says my name and it stings. How much longer can we play this game?
“What?” I say through clenched teeth. “I can’t touch you anymore? Not even platonically?”
His eyes darken and so does my soul.
“I don’t have time for this?” He sighs and I scoff.
“For what? Us?”
Shawn goes to stand, releasing my wrist like I’m a mere annoyance.
“Why do I disgust you so much?” I ask, following him around the counter as he places his coffee mug in the sink.
“You don’t disgust me, Blythe…” he pauses before continuing under his breath, “… far from it.”
I’m confused by this. “Then how are we like this, Shawn? How can we be such strangers when we share the same bed?” I wait for his response, but when all I get is his silence, I continue, “Shawn? Why can’t you even look at me?”
He dries his hands on the hand towel and picks up his briefcase, choosing to ignore the pain in my voice. “I have to go,” he dismisses, avoiding all eye contact.
I follow him to the door and my demeanor softens. “Please,” I murmur quietly. “Can you just think about it? It could be good for us.”
To understand how the hurt feels, it’s like a thousand daggers to the heart plunging relentlessly, yet, I still haven’t left him.
But that’s all about to change, and I’m still to find out if it’s for the better or for the worse.
We met at a college football after-party. I was eighteen and he, twenty-two. Kegs of beer were an endless supply and the glow of the enormous bonfire warmed our faces. Our tipsy friends had coupled up in various dark corners, leaving me alone with the dangerously handsome man I’d known for only a heartbeat. He sensed my nervousness as I looked awkwardly between him and the happy drunks fumbling about. He made one move. One move that spun my world off its once-stable axis, and had me falling head over heels for a man I thought to be well out of my league. He reached out and took my hand, offering a reassuring squeeze, instantly putting me at ease.