Yeah. All the fucking above and I hate myself for feeling this way.
I blow out a harsh breath, shoulders drooping from the day and from what’s left of the night. The staircase may as well be Mount Everest. I poke my head into the kids’ rooms. Each of them sleeps peacefully. It’s hard to protect them from how we’re falling apart because if we’re not treading in freezing, silent water, we’re thrashing in hot springs, screaming the house down. I can’t believe this is us. We said we’d ride for each other till the wheels fell off. Lately our marriage feels like a blowout, both of us grabbing at the wheel, tires screeching, spinning out of control, every day narrowly avoiding a cataclysmic crash.
When I check our bedroom it’s empty. I know she’s in the nursery. My shoes have concrete soles when I take the few steps to the room at the end of the hall we’d used as a home office before we needed it for the baby. I’d suggested we store the nursery furniture until we figured out what to do with it. We need to repaint, move the desk and printer back. Wipe away all traces of what we hoped this room would be, but Yasmen would flip if I even suggested it. I stand in the door to the room, watching her, preternaturally still in the rocker, like she left her body behind and is elsewhere. A carousel lamp we bought after Deja’s first ultrasound sits on the table, slowly turning, spreading light and throwing shadows on the walls.
“Babe.” Fatigue makes the endearment gravelly on my lips. “It’s late. Come to bed.”
I honestly can’t blame her for choosing any place other than that cold stretch of mattress in our bedroom. In the king-sized bed our bodies don’t have to touch,don’ttouch anymore, but it feels like it’s not big enough for the two of us and the ghosts who hog the covers.
She doesn’t turn her head to look at me, her gaze remaining fixed on the wall. My heart seizes in my chest every time I see the cursive writing—Yasmen’s handwriting—a cheerful baby blue against the dark gray paint we selected for Henry’s nursery.
I know the plans I have for you…to give you hope and a future.
Deja and Kassim each had a nursery rhyme for their wall, but Yasmen saw this verse on a greeting card somewhere, Jeremiah 29:11, and wanted to use it for Henry’s.
“Do you ever think about him?” Yasmen asks, still not looking at me, her voice frighteningly steady.
I lean against the wall and cross my arms over my chest, a flimsy guard for a broken heart I haven’t figured out how to articulate.
“Of course I do.”
“You never talk about him.” Accusation steels her soft words. “You’ve never cried for him.”
I have no defense for that because she’s right. As much as it hurt to lose Henry, as much as the pain sawed my insides, no tears ever fell. Not even at his funeral with a casket so tiny it broke me in half to think of him inside. No tears. No cracks. At first I convinced myself I was being strong for everyone else, but then I realized Icouldn’tcry. As acutely as I hurt inside, my inability to express it made me feel like a robot. Like a monster.
And that’s how Yasmen looks at me now when she finally turns her head to meet my eyes. Like I’m some kind of android who couldn’t possibly empathize with her human pain.
She twists her fingers in the silky fabric of her nightgown. Not nightgown.Negligee.Something I haven’t seen in a long time. No, never. A negligee I’veneverseen. Is it new? Did shebuysomething new? A sexy, new thing? For her? For me? For us? Skimpy and barely covering her generous curves, the silk clings to the swell of her hips and strains at her breasts. She rises, abandoning the rocker and crossing the room to stand in front of me. I will myself to stay on the wall, not pounce on her the way my instincts demand. The carousel lamp casts soft lambent light across her body, touching the gentle slope of her shoulders beneath tiny straps, caressing the full roundness of her breasts and the nipples peaking beneath the silk.
I want to fuck her.
Fast. Right here. So hard and deep we’d dent the wall. I’d come quickly because it’s been too long. And then we’d stumble to the bed and do it again. Slow. Savoring each other because I almost forgot the taste and sound of her pleasure. It would take all night to remind me. It’s like she can read my thoughts. Promise shimmers like gold dust in her night-dark eyes. She steps so close I smell the scented oil she adds to her bath and runs through her hair. She pushes my arms down and stands flush against me, body to body. Her breasts pressed to my chest. She tips up on her toes, holds my stare, and angles her mouth to capture mine. First the top lip between hers, and then the bottom. Deliberately, she slips her tongue inside, wrenching a groan from me. This is our ritual, this kiss. A gentle sucking. A slow, licking hunger. I love kissing her. Always have. Not as a prelude to sex. Not with her. Just the act of tasting, touching her lips, loving her one stroke and one breath at a time.
“Fuck me, Si,” she gasps into my mouth, the words wreathed in mint and boldness.
Her body is fuller since the last pregnancy. Her breasts rounder, heavier. I test the weight of them in my hands and thumb her nipples reverently.
“Jesus, baby. Yes.”
Those are the only words I can manage because this is all I’ve wanted and haven’t been able to make myself ask for. Not when she’s been so sad. Not when the world has been on fire and every ship sinking. I knew sex couldn’t be the most important thing. Her getting better, feeling better—that was paramount. But I was wrong because this feels urgent. The scrape of her teeth across my lip—essential. The sweep of her tongue inside my mouth—necessary. Every breath feels like a gasp before dying and my heart races, speeds to catch up with the desperation of her hands caressing my chest, of her fingers, sure and steady at my zipper. I drag the silky gown up her thigh, envisioning the firm naked legs wrapped around my waist. I hesitate, knowing where I want to touch her, but still unsure that she wants it. It’s been so long and this is the first time she’s been interested in sex.
“Yes,” she breathes, scattering kisses over my jaw, sucking at my neck. “Touch me there.”
I slip my fingers over her and then inside. I pause. I know how she feels when she wants this. She’s wet and slippery and slick when she wants me. And suddenly, the heat drains away. The new negligee. The way she is freshly waxed and smooth between her legs. Even the mint of her breath at midnight. It all feels calculated. Deliberate, not desperate. Wrong, not raw.
She pulls back just the smallest bit to study my face in the dim light, a frown pulling between her brows. “Come on.”
“Why?” I demand, even though I know. I dread her answer, have avoided this conversation, but knew we’d have to have it. One more fight.
“Why?” She laughs, and it’s breathless, nervous. She looks down at the floor, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. “I want another baby.”
“No.” The word torpedoes from me, startling us both. Her wide eyes meet mine. “No more babies.”
No more losses. No more death. No more risk. No more grief.
“Yasmen, the doctor said—”
“What?” She inserts another inch, two between us, her frown morphing to scorn. “That it’s a risk? That I might—”