by Megan Walker
I try to hide my dismay. “Will do,” I say.
Maggie doesn’t say anything else, just sweeps back out of the infirmary. I look around at the cheap cot and the cabinet full of things about as helpful to actual medical issues as Tic Tacs. A group of belly dancers walks by the door outside, their gold-chain apparel jingling, and a guy in peasant clothes follows after, leading a horse that drops a steaming load right outside my door.
Two weeks, I tell myself with a sigh. A little extra cash, which we need. I can do this.
Then I step over the pile of horse crap and go to pick up my corset.
Two
Gabby
When I get home from the ren faire—still wearing my corset—I’m glad to have the night off. I’m still working shifts at the hospital on top of the ones at the faire, but at least I’m off from school for the summer. I’m almost finished with my RN, after which I will have to pick up even more shifts to pay back my monstrous student loans.
It’s still worth it. I may be working long hours, but I love my job, and I’m good at it. And I’ve yet to lose this job over a rogue microwave fire (which I now know is not the real reason Will fired me all those years ago at the bookstore. But still.) I’m also making enough that Will has plenty of time to work on his next novel, only picking up side work consulting on scripts when he absolutely has to.
Uncomfortable medieval-wear aside, my life is pretty great. I mean, yeah, we’ve been having sex less often lately. Like, significantly less often. And maybe that’s starting to worry me a bit. But, really, that’s a thing that happens to couples, right? Life is busy and stressful and tiring, and wild bouts of passion take a backseat to spending the rare date night falling asleep at ten PM while watching House Hunters: International.
But I’m definitely excited to show my wonderful, sexy boyfriend how amazing my boobs look in this outfit. Maybe this ridiculous garb is just the kickstart we need to remember how much we can’t keep our hands off each other.
When I open the door, he’s sitting in the living room in a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, scowling at his laptop.
“What did it do to you?” I ask.
“Hmm?” Will says absently. The glazed-over look he gets when he works is pretty adorable. As is the way his blond hair curls in this mussed bed-head way. “Oh. I went to critique group today, and they complained that they can’t tell how my character is feeling in this scene. But it says right there. ‘He felt unsure.’”
I’m about as comfortable making suggestions of how to fix Will’s book as I am wearing a corset. “Maybe you should add more words to get your point across.”
Will raises an eyebrow at his laptop. “‘I am confused,’ he said unsurely.”
“Maybe he’s hesitant,” I add.
He finally cracks a smile, which forms that dimple in his left cheek that I love so much. “‘I hesitate to tell you how unsure I am,’ he said confusedly.”
“There,” I tell him. “I’m sure that will fix it.”
“I should actually make that change and resubmit it. I’m sure that would be the best use of my critique partners’ time.”
“Could be good for a laugh.”
Will finally looks up at me, and his raised eyebrow rises yet higher. “Hey. Nice . . . costume?”
I put a hand to my chest in mock offense. Mostly, though, I’m just trying to draw his eye there, and it seems to work. “You mean you don’t like my new look?”
“I’d like to get you out of it,” he says with a smile, and my heart flutters eagerly. I’m also hoping it’s easier to get out of this corset than into it—I have a feeling I’m going to need the girl at the costume shop to tie me in every morning before work, like she did today.
I tug at the ends of the laces invitingly, but he’s already looking back at his computer and not making any move to help me. Which is disappointing, though I try not to show it.
Corset still on (in case he decides at any moment he needs to free me from it and ravish me), I sit down on our other couch, the one that is missing all of its cushions. It’s not the most comfortable piece of furniture and wasn’t all that attractive even before it became reduced to a thinly-covered bed of metal springs, but it’s endearing in its own way.
“They’re really making you work in that?” Will asks. “That seems a little demeaning.”
“Oh, it gets better,” I tell him. “My official title is Healer Wench.”
“Dear god. Are you sure you want to do this job?”
I shrug. “It pays decently, and all I have to do is apply a few bandages and tell people to drink more water. Plus, we can use the money.”
Will looks over at the counter, where the mail has piled up. “We got a notice from the landlord. It’s time to renew our lease, and the rent is going up again.”
Great. We’ve been having a hard time making it as is. “Do you think we should look for a new place?” I ask. “It might be that or cut back on our Fong’s delivery, and you know which I prefer.”
“I don’t disagree with you,” Will says. He loves Fong’s almost as much as I do, and I like to think it’s not just because that’s where we had our first real make-out session (much to the chagrin of our waiter.) “But I doubt there’s anything better available now than last time we looked.”
“There was that one place a few blocks from here. It cost less and wasn’t terrible.”
Will looks at me skeptically. “You mean the place that was definitely a meth palace?”
“Yeah, that one,” I say. “The prostitute out front seemed very nice. Maybe I could be friends with her. Convince her to take night classes.”
“I’m pretty sure she works nights,” Will says, but at least he’s smiling again now.
“I don’t know. She seemed like she was working days when she quoted you her rates.”
Will groans. “Yes. I remember. And that’s precisely why I don’t think we should move there.”
I shrug. “We can stay. I can always pick up a few extra shifts.”
“You’re working too much as it is. Especially since you’ve been sick.”
“I was barely sick,” I say, even though that sinus infection I had a few weeks ago hurt like an army of ants had crawled up my nose and were working on colonizing my brain. “And the antibiotics worked great. I’m fine now.”
Will looks unconvinced. “You should be able to get sick without worrying about being evicted. Really, I should get a job.”
I press my lips together. This is the reason I hate it when we have this conversation. Will needs space to work on his writing. I don’t want him to get a job. “Do you think?” I say. “Because we’ll be okay. We can reduce our Fong’s delivery to one night a week. And I’m sure there are other places we can cut back.”
Will looks dubious. “You know I appreciate you giving me time to write. But with my novel not selling—”
“Yet,” I say. “Your novel hasn’t sold yet. But you’re working on another one.”
“Slowly.”
“Yeah, well. It takes time.”
I hate the defeat in his eyes. I know he’s discouraged. We were both so excited when he signed on with a good agent in New York, but it turns out that even good agents sometimes don’t sell the first book in the first year. Or the second.
“It’ll be okay,” I say. “I don’t want you to give up on your dream.”
Will frowns. “I know. But I hate making you work so much just so I can not sell books. And meanwhile, we have rent we can’t really afford and a couch with no cushions—”
“Hey.” I throw my arm around the back of Cushionless Couch like she might be offended. That takes more coordination than I have, given that the back is so high without any cushions. So my arm ends up awkwardly sticking in the air like I’m giving some sort of cheer. “Cushionless Couch has character.”
“Like Bertrude the coffee maker?”
“Don’t say bad things about Bertrude. She might hear you and start farting old coffee grounds again.” I pause. “I did mean to get new cushions for this couch. And never babysit our neighbor’s terrier again.” I left that demon dog alone for ten minutes while I took a shower, and when I came back, the room looked like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man had exploded.
“Where would you even get new cushions?” Will asks. “Buy a couch at Goodwill and leave the couch part behind?”
“Maybe,” I say, stretching out and trying not to wince as one of the springs digs into my hip. “But there’s something comforting about lying beneath the high walls on three sides of a cushionless couch. Like a coffin, but one you could easily roll out of.”
Will laughs. “I have so many questions about that statement I don’t even know where to begin.”
At least he’s laughing about it. Though his laughter fades into another groan and he looks over at me wearily again. “I forgot to tell you Sean called. He wants to get together for a barbecue.”
Yikes. Will and his brother Sean haven’t really talked to each other much over the last few years, and I know part of that is because Will doesn’t get along with Sean’s girlfriend, Audra. I’m pretty sure another large part is because Will is still embarrassed about the time he set me up with Sean, back when Will was still engaged to Sarah. Sean made a big show of kissing me in front of Will—without mentioning to either of us that he’d gotten back together with Audra a few days previous.
I don’t think Will has ever really gotten over it.
“That could be . . . fun,” I say.
Will gives me a look that screams oh really. He sighs and rubs at his forehead. “Last time I saw him and Audra, Audra called you a slut.”
“What?”
“She was talking to Sean in the kitchen, and I don’t think she realized anyone heard it, but I sure as hell did. And left before I said something a lot worse back.” He glares at the far wall.
I cringe. The last time he saw them was about six months ago, but I don’t blame him for not mentioning this to me before now. He tries to avoid even talking about his family—and by extension, Audra—and it’s always been clear that she’s not my biggest fan. But. “She knows that I wasn’t aware they were back together when he kissed me, right?”
“Well, apparently she’s told my mom about how obsessed you were with Sean and how you threw yourself at him, so I’m guessing that’s what Sean told her.” He sounds pretty pissed about this, and honestly, I’m not much happier.
For one thing, it’s been years since that date with Sean. I’m clearly not the one with the obsession problem here. And I threw myself at him? Seriously?
I’m not all that close to Will’s parents, mainly because Will isn’t all that close to Will’s parents. They’re pretty self-centered and absorbed in their own lives, and my brand of awkwardness in uncomfortable social situations doesn’t mesh with their brand of long pauses and general lack of humor. But I don’t love that his parents have been thinking of me as some hussy who settled for Will because I couldn’t get Sean. When really, I only went out with Sean in the first place to try to convince myself I wasn’t in love with Will, who was engaged at the time.
Though I’m not sure how great that version makes me sound, either.
“Okay,” I say, toying with the frayed edges of a tear in Cushionless Couch’s upholstery. “That makes me less thrilled about hanging out with them.” Will nods, like this is the end of the conversation, but I know that it shouldn’t be. “But he’s still your brother. And you guys used to be close, right?”
“Yeah, well,” Will says. “Things change.”
I hold in a sigh. I feel kind of bad for getting in the middle of things between Sean and Will, though objectively I know it’s Will’s fault I ended up there in the first place—my reasons for going out with Sean aside, it was Will who started the whole thing. I wouldn’t have even known he had a brother if Will hadn’t made such a big deal about how I needed to go on a blind date with Sean, how we’d be “perfect for each other.”
I wasn’t the only one trying to hide my feelings.
Things may have worked out for Will and me (and Sean and Audra, I suppose), but I still wish Will and Sean’s relationship hadn’t been collateral damage. “You can’t hate him forever just for kissing me,” I say.
“Not hate,” Will say, narrowing his eyes. “That’s too strong a word. I feel . . . dislike. Discomfort. Irritation, maybe. And definitely resentment.”
“I don’t know what your critique group is talking about,” I tell him. “You’re clearly a master at describing emotion.”
“‘I am annoyed at this uncomfortable awkwardness,’ he said irritably,” Will says. “Not at you, though. At me. And at Sean.”
“We only kissed that one time,” I remind him. I pause. “Well, twice. And I spent the whole time trying not to imagine I was kissing you. If it helps, you’re a much better kisser than your brother.” There’s a sentence I never thought I would have cause to say. High School Gabby is actually kind of proud.
“Thanks,” Will says dryly. He runs a hand through his hair, mussing the curls even more. “I’m really not upset with you. I’m mad at myself for being stupid and making it weird. And not breaking up with Sarah when I should have and asking you out myself. And pissed at Sean for being such a jerk to you.”
“I’m over it,” I tell him. And I am. I was pretty much over it by the time the big bruise on my face healed from when I ran away from Sean and right into a giant statue of Ganesh. And definitely by the time Will and I got together.
“Yeah, but I’m not,” Will says.
“You told your mom the truth, right?” We may not see them often, but I definitely don’t want Audra’s (or really, Sean’s) version of what happened to be at the forefront of their minds every time we do have one of our already socially painful interactions.
“I may have told her that you had absolutely no interest in Sean, which was also a lie.”
“I prefer that one.”
“I also told him no barbecue.”
“Really?” I say. Truth-stretching and slander aside . . . “I mean, it would have been free food.”
“If we want a barbecue, we could ask Ben and Wyatt to throw us one. Or we can tell your brother we want to come over for dinner. You know he and Jenna wouldn’t mind.”
He’s right, but that’s not the point. We sit in silence for a little bit, and probably he’s lost in his thoughts about his brother and family, or maybe his novel. And I can’t help but notice that despite his comment earlier about my corset, he hasn’t gotten up or even set aside his laptop to invite me onto his lap. I try not to take it personally; talking about his family or our rent problems isn’t particularly conducive to being in the mood for sexy times. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get in the mood. I flip over on Cushionless Couch and prop myself up on my elbows, squeezing my boobs in his direction.
Will doesn’t seem to notice. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “I think I’m going to get started on dinner.”
I’m about to tell him we’ll order in Fong’s so that he can focus on getting me out of my corset, but then remember I’d said we’d cut back on ordering in.
Stupid money. Stupid Sean. Stupid life.
Stupid me, I add before I realize it.
Because it’s not like our lives have ever been incredibly smooth and easy. We’ve always lacked in the money and career-stability department—my nursing job somehow being the one exception. Because that’s not exactly new, it’s hard for me to believe that it’s really Sean or our rent or Will’s critique group that account for his recent lack of interest in our sex life. Maybe this isn’t just a normal couples thing. I don’t want to believe it’s because of the weight I’ve gained—only ten pounds in the three years we’ve been together, an
d Will says he can’t even tell, but I can’t help but think that’s a lie. A kind lie, but still.
I’m not sure what else the problem could be besides me.
Three
Gabby
I’m still unsettled as I drive to work the next day. Which is crazy. Just because Will didn’t follow up on his comments about getting me out of my corset, and fell asleep early, and once again we didn’t have sex . . . It doesn’t mean anything about us.
Right?
I ease my grip on the steering wheel, inch up further on the slow-moving freeway. My car makes a rattling noise, which it does pretty much all the time now. I’ve had this same car since I started college, and now I’m pretty sure it’s being held together with duct tape and pride. Not my pride, but its own indomitable will to prove my judgmental sister Dana wrong by not becoming “a dormant pile of metal only fit for housing raccoons.”
I should get it checked out, but that, too, requires money we don’t really have, and I don’t want to stress Will out more.
Because that’s what it is, I’m sure. He’s stressed about finances, and his book not selling—yet—and I’m stressed about finances and a job that requires a corset and basic knowledge of faux-medieval language. And all that makes us sort of out of sync right now.
The Hyundai makes a little whine.
Although it has been going on like this for a while now. The thing with Will, not the whine. We’ve been together for three years, and I hear all the time about peoples’ sex lives getting stuck in a rut. It doesn’t feel that way to me, but that doesn’t mean Will isn’t feeling . . . stuck.
The idea that he might feel stuck with me is what makes my heart twist.
I sigh, switching lanes even though I know it’s futile. Sure enough, the lane I left is now moving—and I, sadly, am not. My phone rings.
My brother’s pic pops up, and I answer on speaker.
“Hey, Felix,” I say, though occasionally it’s Ty calling from my brother’s phone with a burning need to tell me about his latest Super Smash Brothers game—which I pretend to know anything at all about.
