A tear slides down my cheek. I sniff, wiping my face. I’m more exhausted than sad, tired from an emotional day. I wish I’d never made eye contact with Finn in the hallway while simultaneously craving more of our last kiss. I remember how deep inside me he was this weekend. I’ve never thought seriously about other men before Finn. Nathan could satisfy me blindfolded with his hands behind his back. He knows my body. He’s had me on my stomach, on my back. He’s had me half-asleep, outdoors, in my childhood bedroom. In silence, and in chaos. He has not, though, had me recently.
I take Ginger out, but I don’t walk her. It’s especially cold tonight, and I don’t want to run into Nathan on the street like a couple of strangers. Back upstairs, I change out of my work clothes, shuddering as I pull on my flannel pajamas. Even though it’s still several days to the twenty-first, I break our tradition and switch on the heater. I’ve had as much cold as I can take.
I take my soup to the couch and turn on a documentary about Scientology. My mind wanders, though. When he comes home, what will I say? What will he? After the past few months, he doesn’t have as much right to be angry as he thinks he does. How do I explain that to him without feeling like a hypocrite? This afternoon’s adrenaline from seeing him with another woman has worn off, and the threat of confrontation makes my stomach churn. Growing up, the smallest things turned into the rowdiest fights. My dad tripping over a vacuum cord would end in my mom throwing dishes. Andrew fought that way with Shana, Bell’s unpredictable mom, before she left him. Why shouldn’t my story be the same? Nathan doesn’t raise his voice at me or take his anger out on inanimate objects. Would he, if we really fought? I don’t even have to wonder. He’s miles from my father.
I hear his key in the door and then his voice. “There’s my girl,” he coos to Ginger. “Did mama take you out already?”
I change the channel to a sitcom and ignore him. At the heart of it, I’m sad Nathan would rather be alone than here, fixing our marriage. But on the surface, I’m angry. About this afternoon. About tonight. I feel as though I’ve been chasing him down for weeks. I want him to come to me, but I’m tired of the charade. Since nothing else seems to work on him, I decide to try forcing his hand by acting like a five-year-old.
“Well, unless you were wading in the tub, I guess you’ve been outside.” Ginger’s tags clink as he scratches her neck. “Soggy paws,” he says to me. “Dead giveaway.”
As if on cue, a laugh track sounds on the TV. Everybody Loves Raymond. When the grass outside is wet, Ginger tracks mud through the foyer. Nathan’s mentioned it before, and he usually gets the mop out. It only seems to happen after I’ve walked her. It’s not like Ginger understands wet grass means a dirty floor, so I guess it’s my fault. “Sorry.”
He stands there another second petting Ginger. “For what?”
I don’t answer, and I don’t look at him. I feel him watching me, though. “New coat?” he asks.
I finally glance over at him. He’s in his suit, and his face is flushed, either from the beer or the cold weather.
He nods back into the entryway. “I haven’t seen that one before today.”
I swallow. I didn’t mean to bring the Burberry coat home. I forgot to return it to Finn’s. I’m not sure how I can explain a thousand-dollar item of clothing without it showing up on our bank statement. I’m not sure I have to, either.
“I’ll take it back,” I say, turning to the TV again.
“Why? It’s nice.”
I change the channel again. I’ve never been a fan of Raymond.
“You ate?” Nathan asks, noticing my soup container on the coffee table.
“Yours is in the kitchen.”
Nathan gets his soup and the sandwich I bought to make up for his missed lunch. He sits in the loveseat by the couch. “Was that Going Clear you had on?”
I switch back to the documentary. At least it’ll give me something to focus on. I try to listen to the words, but I can’t. I don’t have to look at Nathan to sense his every move, to know what he’s doing. He eats some soup. It’s been sitting out, and I should put it on the stove and heat it for him, but fuck it. He takes three more spoonfuls and then has some of his sandwich.
“I had a cigarette on the way home,” he says.
The abruptness of his confession is enough to get me to look at him. Nathan used to smoke. Not a lot, but now and then. One of his few flaws. I didn’t like it, but I knew it wouldn’t last. He was healthy in every other way.
“That’s why I smell,” he continues. “It’s also why my suit smelled after visiting my dad in the hospital. And why I wasn’t out front of Brooklyn Bowl when I said I’d be. I went around the corner to take a few drags. It’s the stress. I’m sorry.”
On the TV, David Miscavige pontificates in grainy footage. I actually open my mouth and attempt to speak. I’d like to tell Nathan it isn’t the smell that bothers me. It’s his health. It’s what it says about his state of mind that he’d smoke while his dad is dying of stage-five lung cancer.
He’s that anxious.
Nathan sets his soup on the coffee table and leans his elbows on his knees. “All right. The silent treatment. I get it, and I deserve it. You’re pissed.”
I shrug, because I sense this plan is working and will lead to what I want—an actual, honest conversation.
“No?” he asks. “Then how come you broke our tradition by turning on the heat?”
“I get cold. At night. By myself.”
He has the decency to frown. He scoots over on the loveseat. Our knees brush. “Not much for words tonight, are you?”
I look up at him. He’s stifling a smile. When I realize he’s teasing me, my façade cracks. It feels like progress. Maybe it’s relief, or stress, or anger, but whatever I’m feeling makes my eyes water.
He puts a hand on the curve of my neck and squeezes. “You crying, Pea?”
The old endearment squeezes a tear from me. It wasn’t long ago I feared he’d never call me it again. “No.”
“Good. You know I turn to mush when you cry.”
Something in my chest gives, and I shed a few silent tears. My blubbering has always made him soft, and I’m glad that hasn’t changed. “I hate that nickname,” I say.
“I know. I won’t call you that anymore.”
I wipe my face. “Never stop calling me that.”
“This has been tough for you, I know. I didn’t mean for things to get this far, but the longer I hold my feelings in, the harder they are to get out. And figure out.” He rubs my shoulder. “But this afternoon—something broke through. The fact that you’ve been so confused, you thought I could cheat . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry I got so mad, but try to understand where I was coming from—”
I shoot up. His hand catches under the collar of my nightshirt before he jerks it back. It’s possible he picked the worst thing to say to me tonight, when I’ve been attempting to figure out what’s going on in his head for months. “Try to understand where I’m coming from,” I say.
“Okay.”
I shut my mouth, startled. I hadn’t expected that response, but why shouldn’t I? Nathan and I don’t typically talk over each other, even in an argument.
Standing above him, we’re toe to toe, bare feet versus dress shoes. He looks up at me, unbuttoned, his collar open, his tie loose and sagging. “I’m lonely,” I tell him. “You’ve made me feel small. Unimportant. In my own home.”
He glances at the ground and back up. “I know. I mean, I don’t really know, Sadie. I’ve tried not to think too hard about it.”
“Why? Why are you pretending not to care?”
He shakes his head. “Because when I care, it hurts. It hurts me to know I’ve hurt you. I . . .”
He stops talking. I’ve lost him. His eyes are fixed on my chest, so I look down. When I stood, my button opened, exposing my breast. Nathan stares as if he hasn’t seen more of my own body than I have.
“Nate?”
With one hand, he undoes another button. The hair on my arms prickles as his fingertip grazes the space between my breasts. He stops and looks at me. The heat in his eyes is sudden but raw. He’s asking permission. Nothing is resolved. Through it all—my anger, my confusion, my heartbreak—one thing has remained the same. My body craves his touch. Limiting his affection has only made my desire stronger.
I want this. He knows it.
He lifts the hem of my shirt to expose my stomach, but doesn’t take it off. My favorite plaid pajama bottoms, which were once technically Nathan’s, are several sizes too big and droop to my hipbones. My cotton gray underwear covers more than should be legal. My eyes feel puffy, and I haven’t shaved my legs since yesterday, but Nathan sticks one finger in the elastic and slides the flannel over my hips like it’s fine lace. My breath snags as his knuckle trails down my upper thigh. He pulls on my pants until they drop to my feet.
He takes my waist, pulls me to him, and presses his face to my stomach. He breathes so hotly on the fabric, I feel it on my skin. “I’m hungry, Sadie.”
“I’ve never denied you.”
Pushing my top up under my armpits, he commands, “Take it.”
I’m not sure why I can’t just remove it, but I don’t ask. I hold the shirt up. My body trembles like a teenager’s.