It’s quiet while I dress. We don’t look at each other. He picks up the empty condom wrapper from the floor and tosses it into the trash can beside his bed.
Now we’re facing each other. My arms are crossed over my chest and he’s looking at me like he isn’t sure if the last fifteen minutes actually happened. I’m looking at him like I wish it could happen again.
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then he just gives his head a quick shake and steps forward, grabs my face and kisses me again. It’s a rough kiss, like he isn’t finished with me. I kiss him back with just as much intensity. After a minute of the kiss, he starts to walk me backward toward the stairs. We break for air and he just laughs, pressing his lips into my hair.
We make it up two steps before I realize I haven’t looked in a mirror. I just had sex with this man and I’m about to have to go smile at his parents. I frantically comb my fingers through my hair and straighten out my dress. “How do I look?”
Graham smiles. “Like you just had sex.”
I try to shove him in the chest, but he’s faster than me. He grabs my hands and turns us until my back is against the wall of the stairwell. He straightens out a few strands of hair and then wipes his thumbs under my eyes. “There,” he says. “You look beautiful. And innocent, like you just took a typical tour of the house.” He kisses me again and I know he probably means for it to be short and sweet, but I grab his head and pull him closer. I can’t get enough of the taste of him. I just want to be back at my apartment, in my bed with him, kissing him. I don’t want to have to go upstairs and pretend I want pie when all I want is Graham.
“Quinn,” he whispers, grabbing my wrists and pushing them against the wall. “How fast do you think you can eat a slice of pie?”
It’s good to know our priorities are aligned. “Pretty damn fast.”
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
Now
Despite all the Thursday nights that Graham has returned home smelling like beer, I’ve never actually seen him drunk. I think he chooses not to drink more than one or two beers at a time because he’s still so full of guilt over losing his best friend, Tanner, all those years ago. The feeling of being drunk probably reminds him of his devastation. Much like how sex reminds me of my devastation.
I wonder what he’s devastated about tonight?
This is the first time he’s ever had to be escorted home by a coworker on a Thursday night. I watch from the window as Graham stumbles toward the front door, one arm thrown haphazardly around a guy who is struggling to get him to the house.
I move to the front door and unlock it. As soon as I open it, Graham looks up and smiles widely at me. “Quinn!”
He waves toward me; turning his head to the guy he’s with. “Quinn, this is my good friend Morris. He’s my good friend.”
Morris nods apologetically.
“Thanks for getting him home,” I say. I reach out and pull Graham from him, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “Where is his car?”
Morris throws a thumb over his shoulder, just as Graham’s car pulls into the driveway. Another of Graham’s coworkers steps out of the car. I recognize him from Graham’s office. I think his name is Bradley.
Bradley walks toward the front door while Graham puts both arms around me, placing even more of his weight on me. Bradley hands me the keys and laughs.
“First time we could get him to drink more than two,” he says, nudging his head toward Graham. “He’s good at a lot of things, but the man can’t hold his alcohol.”
Morris laughs. “Lightweight.” They both wave goodbye and walk toward Morris’s car. I step into the house with Graham and close the front door.
“I was gonna take a cab,” Graham mutters. He releases me and walks toward the living room, falling onto the sofa. I would laugh and find this humorous if I weren’t so worried that the reason he decided to drink too much tonight might have something to do with how upset he was after holding his new nephew. Or maybe it’s his feelings about our marriage as a whole that he wanted to numb for a while.
I walk to the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When I take it back to him in the living room, he’s sitting up on the couch. I hand him the water, noticing how different his eyes look. He’s smiling at me as he takes a sip. He hasn’t looked this happy or content in a very long time. Seeing him drunk makes me realize just how sad he looks now when he’s sober. I didn’t notice his sadness consumed him even more than it used to. I probably didn’t notice because sadness is like a spiderweb. You don’t see it until you’re caught up in it, and then you have to claw at yourself to try to break free.
I wonder how long Graham has been trying to break free. I stopped trying years ago. I just let the web consume me.
“Quinn,” Graham says, letting his head fall back against the couch. “You are so fucking beautiful.” His eyes scroll down my body and then stop at my hand. He wraps his fingers around my wrist and pulls me to him. I’m stiff. I don’t give in to the pull. I wish he were drunk enough that he would pass out on the couch. Instead, he’s just drunk enough to forget he hasn’t initiated sex since that night he slept in the guest room. He’s just drunk enough to pretend we haven’t been struggling as much as we have.
Graham leans forward and grabs me by my waist, pulling me down onto the couch next to him. His kiss is inebriated and fluid as he pushes me onto my back. My arms are above my head and his tongue is in my mouth and he tastes so good that I forget to be turned off by him for a moment. That moment turns into two and soon he has my T-shirt pushed up around my waist and his pants undone. Every time I open my eyes and look at him, he’s looking back at me with eyes so different from my own. So far from the despondence I’ve permanently acquired.
The lack of sadness in him is intriguing enough for me to let him have me, but not intriguing enough for me to respond to him with as much need as he’s taking me.
In the beginning of our marriage, we used to have sex almost daily, but Thursdays were the day I looked forward to the most. It was one of my favorite nights of the week. I’d put on lingerie and wait for him in the bedroom. Sometimes I would throw on one of his T-shirts and wait for him in the kitchen. It really didn’t matter what I was wearing. He’d walk in the door and I’d suddenly not be wearing it anymore.
We’ve had so much sex in our marriage, I know every inch of his body. I know every sound he makes and what those sounds mean. I know that he likes to be on top the most, but he’s never minded when I wanted to take over. I know he likes to keep his eyes open. I know that he loves to kiss during sex. I know that he likes it in the mornings but prefers it late at night. I know everything there is to know about him sexually.
Yet in the last two months . . . we haven’t had sex at all. The closest we’ve come until now is when he made out with me in the bathroom at his parents’ house.
He hasn’t initiated it since then and neither have I. And we haven’t talked about the last time we had sex since it happened. I haven’t had to keep up with my ovulation cycle since then and honestly it’s been a big relief. After finally going a couple of months without tracking my cycle, I realize how much I would prefer never having sex again. That way, every month when my period comes, it would be completely expected and not at all devastating.
I try to reconcile my need to avoid sex with my need for Graham. Just because I don’t desire sex doesn’t mean I don’t desire him. I’ve just forced it to be a different kind of desire now. An emotional one. It’s my physical desires that never end well. I desire his touch, but if I allow it, it leads to sex. I desire his kiss, but if I kiss him too much, it leads to sex. I desire his flirtatious side, but if I enjoy it too much, it leads to sex.
I want so much to enjoy my husband without the one thing I know he needs the most and the one thing I want the least. But he makes so many sacrifices for me; I know I should sometimes do the same for him. I just wish sex wasn’t a sacrifice for me.
But it is. And
it’s one I decide to make for him tonight. It’s been too long, and he’s been way too patient.
I lift one leg over the back of the couch and lower one to the floor, just as he pushes into me. His warm breath rolls down my throat as he thrusts into me repeatedly.
Today is the thirteenth.
What is fourteen days from today?
“Quinn,” he whispers, his lips barely touching mine. I keep my eyes closed and my body limp, allowing him to use me to fuck the drunkenness out of himself. “Kiss me, Quinn.”
I open my mouth but keep my eyes closed. My arms are resting loosely above my head and I’m counting on my fingers how many days it’s been since I last had a period. Am I even ovulating? I’m almost finished counting when Graham grabs my right hand and wraps it around his neck. He buries his face into my hair while gripping one of my legs, wrapping it around his waist.
I’m not.
I’m five days past ovulation.
I sigh heavily; disappointed that there won’t even be a chance this leads to anything. It’s difficult enough bringing myself to make love at all anymore, so the fact that this time doesn’t even count fills me with regret. Why couldn’t this have happened last week, instead?
Graham pauses above me. I wait for his release, but nothing about him tenses. He just pulls his face away from my hair and looks down at me. His eyebrows are drawn together and he shakes his head, but then drops his face to my neck again, thrusting against me. “Can’t you at least pretend you still want me? Sometimes I feel like I’m making love to a corpse.”
His own words make him pause.
Tears are falling down my cheeks when he pulls out of me with regret.
His breath is hot against my neck, but this time I hate the way it feels. The way it smells just like the beer that gave him the uninhibited nerve to say those words to me. “Get off me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I press my hands against his chest, ignoring the immediate and intense regret in his voice. “Get the fuck off me.”
He rolls onto his side, grabbing my shoulder, attempting to roll me toward him. “Quinn, I didn’t mean it. I’m drunk, I’m sorry . . .”
I push off the couch and practically run out of the living room without entertaining his apologies. I go straight to the shower and wash him out of me while I let the water wash away my tears.
“Can’t you at least pretend you still want me?”
I squeeze my eyes shut as the mortification rolls through me.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m making love to a corpse.”
I swipe angrily at my tears. Of course he feels like he’s making love to a corpse. It’s because he is. I haven’t felt alive inside in years. I’ve slowly been rotting away, and that rot is now eating at my marriage to the point that I can no longer hide it.
And Graham can no longer stand it.
When I finish in the shower, I expect to find him in our bed, but he isn’t there. He’s probably so drunk; he just passed out on the sofa. As angry as I am at him for saying what he said, I also feel enough compassion to check on him and make sure he’s okay.
When I walk through the dark kitchen toward the living room, I don’t even see him standing at the counter until I pass him and he grabs my arm. I gasp from the unexpectedness of it.
I look up at him, ready to yell at him, but I can’t. It’s hard to yell at someone for speaking their truth. The moon is casting just enough light into the windows and I can see the sadness has returned to his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls me to him and holds me.
No . . . he clings to me.
The back of my T-shirt is clenched into two solid fists as he tightens his grip around me. I can feel his regret for allowing those words to slip from his mouth, but he doesn’t tell me he’s sorry again. He just holds me in silence because he knows at this point, an apology is futile. Apologies are good for admitting regret, but they do very little in removing the truth from the actions that caused the regret.
I allow him to hold me until my hurt feelings put a wedge between us. I pull away and look down at my feet for a moment, wondering if I want to say anything to him. Wondering if he’s going to say anything to me. When the room remains silent, I turn and walk to our bedroom. He follows me, but all we do is crawl into bed, turn our backs toward each other and avoid the inevitable.
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
Then
I ate the slice of pie in five bites.
Graham’s parents seemed a little confused by our hasty exit. He told his mother we had tickets to a fireworks show and we needed to go before we missed the grand finale. I was relieved she didn’t catch the metaphorical part of his lie.
We do very little speaking on the way home. Graham says he likes to drive with the windows down at night. He turns the music up and grabs my hand, holding it all the way back to my place.
When we reach my apartment, I open the door and make it halfway across the living room before I realize he hasn’t followed me inside. I turn around and he’s leaning against the frame of the door like he has no intention of coming in.
There’s a look of concern in his eye, so I walk back to the door. “Are you okay?”
He nods, but his nod is unconvincing. His eyes flitter around the room and then lock on mine with way too much seriousness. I was getting used to the playful, sarcastic side of Graham. Now the intense, serious side has reappeared.
Graham pushes off the door and runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe this is . . . too much. Too fast.”
Heat immediately rises to my cheeks, but not the good kind of heat. It’s the kind when you get so angry, your chest burns. “Are you kidding me? You’re the one who forced me to meet your parents before I even knew your last name.” I press a hand to my forehead, completely blown away that he decides to back down now. After he fucks me. I laugh incredulously at my own stupidity. “This is unreal.”
I step back to close the door, but he steps forward and pushes it open, pulling me to him by my waist. “No,” he says, shaking his head adamantly. “No.” He kisses me, but pulls back before I would even have the chance to deny him. “It’s just . . . God, I feel like I can’t even find words right now.” His head falls back like he can’t figure out how to process his confusion. He releases me and steps out into the hallway. He starts pacing back and forth while he gathers his thoughts. He looks just as torn as he did the first time I saw him. He was pacing then, too, outside of Ethan’s door.
Graham takes a step toward me, gripping the doorframe. “We’ve spent one day together, Quinn. One. It’s been perfect and fun and you are so beautiful. I want to pick you up and carry you to your bed and stay inside you all night and tomorrow and the next day and it’s . . .” He runs a hand through his unruly hair and then grips the back of his neck. “It’s making my head swim and I feel like if I don’t back off now, I’m gonna be real disappointed when I find out you don’t feel the same way.”
I take at least ten seconds to catch up to everything he just said. My mouth opens and before I can tell him he’s right, that it’s too soon and too fast, I say, “I know what you mean. It’s terrifying.”
He steps closer. “It is.”
“Have you ever felt like this before? This fast?”
“Never. Not even close.”
“Me neither.”
He slips his hand against my neck and slides his fingers through my hair. His other hand presses against my lower back as he pulls me to him. He asks the question in a whisper against my lips. “Do you want me to leave?”
I answer him with a kiss.
Everything that happens next isn’t questioned by either of us. There’s no second-guessing as he kicks my door shut. No worrying if this is too fast when we tear away each other’s clothes. Neither of us hesitates on the way to my bedroom.
And for the next hour, the only question he asks me is, “Do you want to be on top now?”
He only needs my answer once, but I
say yes at least five times before we’re finished.
Now he’s lying on his back and I’m wrapped around him like there’s not two feet of mattress on either side of us. My legs are intertwined with his and my hand is tracing circles over his chest. We’ve been mostly quiet since we finished, but not because we don’t have anything to say. I think we’re just reflecting on what life was like two days ago compared to what it’s like now.
It’s a lot to take in.
Graham trails his fingers up and down my arm. His lips meet the top of my head in a quick kiss. “Did Ethan ever try to get you back?”
“Yeah, he tried for a few weeks.” I think it goes without saying that he wasn’t successful. “What about Sasha?”
“Yep,” he says. “She was relentless. She called me three times a day for a month. My voice mail stayed full.”
“You should have changed your number.”
“I couldn’t. It’s the only form of contact you had for me.”
His admission makes me smile. “I probably never would have called you,” I admit. “I kept your number on my wall because I liked how it made me feel. But I didn’t think it was a good idea, given how we met.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
I slide on top of him and his concerned expression is won over by a smile. “At this point I don’t really care how we met. I only care that we met.”
Graham kisses the corner of my mouth, threading our hands together. “I actually thought you took Ethan back and that’s why you never called me.”
“There’s no way I would have taken him back. Especially after he tried to blame the whole affair on Sasha. He painted her out to be some kind of temptress who seduced him. He actually called her a whore once. That was the last time I spoke to him.”
Graham shakes his head. “Sasha isn’t a whore. She’s a relatively good person who sometimes makes terrible and selfish decisions.” He rolls me onto my back and begins to run a lazy finger over my stomach in circles. “I’m sure they did it because they thought they wouldn’t get caught.”
All Your Perfects Page 11
