Covet

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  She’s lying in bed reading a book and she looks up when I open the door. “That was fast,” she says, smiling. “Are you done already?”

  “No. I’ll work later.” I lock the door to ensure there are no interruptions. She’s wearing lingerie—I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s the kind I like: short, black, and low-cut, with thin straps. I strip off my shirt and unbutton my jeans as I walk toward the bed.

  When I reach her I take the book out of her hands and lay it on the nightstand. I kick off my jeans and ease in next to her, leaning over to move one of the thin straps aside. I kiss her collarbone and work my way up her neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume.

  “You smell so good,” I say.

  She places her hands on my chest and runs her fingers lightly over my skin, leaving sparks trailing in their wake. Claire has always been able to turn me on with a touch of her hand and tonight is no exception. The first kiss I place on her lips is gentle, but when she opens her mouth to me I deepen it, taking my time. Gone is the frantic feeling of earlier today, because this time I’m not stopping until we’re done.

  I grab the hem of her nightgown and pull the whole thing over her head. The site of Claire stripped down to her lacy black underwear almost sends me over the edge. I have no intention of turning off the lamp because I want to see every bit of this. She sighs when I rub her nipples. They harden instantly and I groan, loving the way they feel under my fingertips. I replace my fingers with my mouth and circle each nipple with my tongue. When I start to suck, Claire runs her hands through my hair and tells me how good it feels.

  I kiss my way down, past her stomach. Kneeling between her legs, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down and throwing them on the floor. I look at her—laid out before me—and wonder how I was able to stand not being with her for so long.

  I put my hand between her legs and stroke her. Her eyes are half lidded and her lips are parted as she draws in increasingly ragged breaths. I love watching Claire when she’s turned on, and all of her inhibitions are gone. I push her legs farther apart and use my mouth and my tongue. When I told her I’d forgotten what she tastes like, this is what I really meant.

  Claire moans softly and repeatedly, and that’s a sound I love hearing her make. Always have. I can tell she’s close, very close, so I keep stroking and licking and I don’t stop until she comes.

  When the aftershocks have subsided she pulls me up toward her and removes my boxer shorts. I’m dying for Claire to touch me, but I’d rather be inside of her, so I roll onto my back and pull her on top of me. She straddles me and guides me inside. We rock together and it feels incredible, and when I come I say her name over and over. I’m still inside her when she stretches out on top of me. I wrap my arms around her and we lay still, catching our breath.

  “I never stopped wanting you, Claire,” I whisper. “Never.”

  I hold her in my arms and as soon as I’m able, I make love to her again, just because I can. Afterward, when I’m certain that she’s fallen asleep, I slip out of bed and finish my reports. Jim has sent three increasingly angry e-mails, asking where they are. I’ll get an earful on Monday, but I really don’t care.

  Fuck you, Jim. I still win.

  62

  claire

  Chris and I tuck the kids into bed one night a few weeks later, and reconvene on the couch to watch TV. It’s Sunday and he worked most of the day, but he took a break to go to Josh’s soccer game and he stopped early enough so we could take the kids out for dinner. He seems happier, even with his stressful workload and the large amount of time he has to spend away from home. Even without

  the antidepressants. Instead of shutting me out he answers my questions when I ask about work. He shares with me how frustrated he is.

  We’re watching the end of a CSI rerun when the local news interrupts programming with a special report. I watch the BREAKING NEWS banner flashing at the top of the screen and feel a prickle of unease because whatever we’re about to learn is significant enough to disrupt prime-time programming.

  The news anchor begins speaking and I lean forward a bit, listening as he reports that two police officers have been shot during a routine traffic stop. The station cuts to live footage, which shows flashing lights, police cars, fire trucks, and barricades. “Can you tell where that is?” Chris asks. I don’t answer him because I’m searching the faces of the police officers who are trying to maintain order and hold back the onlookers. The anxiety increases a bit when I realize that Daniel isn’t one of the officers I can identify in the crowd.

  It can’t be him. There’s no way it’s him.

  But it might be him. I don’t know if he’s on duty tonight, but this is the shift he works. I fight the urge to slip out of the room, send him a text. I might not be able to see him anymore, but that doesn’t mean I stopped caring about his well-being. The news report ends with a promise from the anchor to keep viewers updated as more information becomes available.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Chris says.

  “No,” I say. My worry increases. You’re being foolish, I tell myself. Daniel wouldn’t have anyone in his police car. He patrols alone. But Daniel told me once that a routine traffic stop is one of the most dangerous things a police officer faces. “You never know what the person behind the wheel is thinking,” he said. “What they’re going to do. If they’re armed.”

  CSI comes back on, but I’m no longer paying attention. The nightly news will start in a few minutes and then I’ll know more. I’ll know that Daniel is safe.

  The shooting is the first story the nightly news covers. For five minutes they repeat the same information they’ve already given viewers, but then Daniel’s name suddenly flashes on the screen and I stand up so fast that my knee hits the coffee table and sends my glass of water flying.

  “Claire!” Chris says. “What is it?”

  I scramble for the remote control and turn up the volume. The anchor reports that Daniel Rush and Justin Chambers, the reserve officer riding along with him, have been transported to the hospital. Their conditions are unknown.

  I sit down on the very edge of the couch, feeling panicked. I can’t answer Chris. It’s as if the wind has been knocked right out of me, and I can’t speak.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says.

  My heart is pounding and I have that awful feeling, the kind where the adrenaline makes your whole body vibrate with anxiety. “I know one of those officers. He’s a friend of mine.”

  His forehead creases in confusion. “Which one?”

  Hysteria bubbles up inside me. I feel it building and want to shout, “The ridiculously good-looking one!” but I take a deep breath and say, “Daniel Rush.”

  Chris ponders this for a moment. “I don’t understand. How do you know him?”

  “I did a freelance assignment for the police department.”

  “But you said you were friends with him. What do you mean?”

  I thought breaking things off with Daniel would mean that I’d never have this conversation with Chris. But suddenly I want to have this conversation. Need to have it. Daniel’s life could be hanging in the balance, and I’m not going to downplay our friendship, even if I have to pay for it. “We got to know each other pretty well,” I say.

  “How well?”

  I can almost see the lightbulb flickering above Chris’s head.

  He stands up and takes a step back, exhaling in one fast breath. “Jesus, Claire. Are you trying to tell me you were having an affair with this guy? Because if you are, just say it.”

  I shake my head. “I never slept with him. I never did anything like that with him.”

  “Well, what did you do?” Chris asks, appearing only slightly relieved.

  “We talked,” I say. “We texted. We went to lunch, to dinner. We spent time together.”

  “How much
time?” Chris’s face is flushed and he’s getting louder by the second. “And why didn’t you ever tell me about him?”

  “When would you have had time to listen?” I ask, my voice also getting louder. “Do you know how many times I stood outside your office door waiting for you to come out and talk to me? Or laid there in bed wondering if you were going to join me? Put your arms around me and let me know in some small way that you still cared? There was always something more important to you than me.” I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “He was there when you weren’t.”

  “I thought you would wait for me. You’re my wife. I thought you of all people would understand.” Chris’s shoulders slump and he runs a hand through his hair. “I feel like I don’t know you at all. How am I supposed to trust you now, Claire?”

  If Chris only knew how many times I longed for Daniel to hold me in his arms, and how many times I resisted the physical pull of him. But that won’t help anything now. He won’t want to hear any of it.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Chris. That was never my intent. But Daniel could be dying right now, and I will not be okay if that happens. He was important to me. I need to know that he’s all right.”

  Chris walks away and moments later I hear the office door slam.

  I relocate to the bedroom and watch news coverage continually, flipping between all the stations, desperate for an update on Daniel’s condition. I feel powerless. There’s no one I can call, and I have a better understanding of how Daniel must have felt when I was in the hospital. I keep the bedroom door closed because I don’t want to be bothered, but it doesn’t matter because Chris never comes upstairs. Additional details trickle in and I gasp in horror when I learn that Daniel—and the reserve officer who rushed to his aid—both sustained gunshot wounds to the head.

  My thoughts race and images of Daniel flash before my eyes like a slide show that’s moving too fast toward an outcome I can’t even contemplate.

  63

  chris

  I walk into the kitchen to grab a bottle of whiskey and a glass from the cupboard. Claire has gone upstairs, which is a good thing because I really don’t feel like talking right now. I take the bottle into the office and pour myself a drink, hoping it will numb me but knowing the only thing I’m likely to achieve is a hangover.

  I feel like I’ve been blindsided. To find out that some guy spent time with my wife, had some kind of relationship with her—no matter how platonic she says it was—hurts more than I ever imagined it would.

  I can’t stop picturing them together. Talking and doing whatever it was that they did.

  I want to know, but I don’t.

  I should be grateful she didn’t sleep with him, but I’m not. I feel as if we’ve taken one giant step backward.

  And I’m too pissed off to listen to the voice inside my head that’s saying it’s mostly my fault.

  After spending a restless night on the couch I finally walk upstairs to our bedroom. Claire has fallen asleep with the TV on, but I don’t bother shutting it off. Once I’m out of the shower and dressed I look in on the kids and then I get in my car and drive to the airport.

  64

  claire

  I don’t remember what time I finally fell asleep, and when I wake up at 6:00 A.M. the TV is still on. Chris’s side of the bed is empty and hasn’t been slept in. When I go to the bathroom I see his damp towel on the floor and smell the faint traces of his cologne, and when I check the garage I discover that he’s already left for the airport.

  I watch the morning news as I make breakfast for the kids. The newscasters recycle the same information that I already learned last night before I dozed off: that Daniel and the reserve officer were flown by Life Flight helicopter to the University of Kansas Hospital and taken directly to surgery. They’re both in critical condition. The shooter—whom Daniel pulled over for running a red light—was strung out on drugs and wanted for a parole violation. He took his own life at the scene.

  Elisa follows me home after we put the kids on the bus. “I’ve been watching the news coverage. You must be so worried,” she says.

  “I am. I called the hospital, but they won’t give me any information. He’s in the ICU, so I can’t go there. I’ll have to wait until he’s transferred to a regular room. If he’s transferred.” I blink away tears.

  Elisa nods and hands me a Kleenex from the box on the counter, and I dab at my eyes.

  “I had it out with Chris last night, too. I told him about Daniel. He didn’t take it very well, shattered trust and all that.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I deserved it. We were just finding our way back to each other, Elisa. It’s my fault. All of it.”

  “Not all of it, Claire. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “I still care for Daniel. I can’t just shut that off.”

  “Of course not. There are lots of people pulling for him right now. For both officers. People that don’t even know them. It’s tragic when something like this happens. Give Chris some time. He’ll come around.”

  I know she’s right, and that Chris needs time to process everything. I send him a text. Are you okay?

  He answers an hour later. I’m fine.

  Fine. A word that means the opposite if there ever was one.

  I spend most of the day on mundane chores, leaving the TV on and refreshing the browser on my laptop every fifteen minutes. A little before 3:00 P.M. the BREAKING NEWS banner flashes at the top of the TV, and I hold my breath. I start crying when they announce that the reserve officer has died.

  And I feel horribly guilty for being relieved that it wasn’t Daniel.

  65

  claire

  “Mom?”

  I struggle to open my eyes.

  Josh is standing beside my bed, dressed in his pajamas. “Aren’t we supposed to be up by now?” he asks.

  The clock on the nightstand reads 7:34. I was still awake at 3:00 this morning, despite my repeated attempts to fall asleep. I tried everything: reading, watching a boring TV show, lying in the dark trying to empty my mind. Nothing worked. I hate not knowing how Daniel is doing, and Chris is responding to my texts with short, terse replies. The tension, the anxiety of it all, keeps building and I feel constantly on edge, mind whirring with possibilities, none of them positive. Finally, at a little before 4:00 A.M., when I couldn’t take it anymore, I took a dose of Benadryl, which worked very well. Too well, it seems.

  My heart races when I realize how late we’re running, and I fling back the covers. “Go get dressed, Josh. I’m going to wake up your sister.”

  “Okay,” he says, hurrying off to do what I asked.

  I rouse a sleepy Jordan from her bed and tell her to get ready, then hurry to the kitchen to make breakfast. Cereal bars, bananas, and juice are all we have time for this morning.

  Josh sits down at the table and starts eating while Jordan wanders in, sharing none of her brother’s sense of urgency.

  “Come on, Jordan,” I say. “Pick up the pace a little, okay?”

  My eyes burn, my head pounds, and my feet feel like cement blocks as we walk to the corner, reaching it a scant fifteen seconds before the big yellow bus pulls up. Elisa and Travis are the only ones there and I’m grateful that Julia and Bridget are absent this morning. In the vague recesses of my mind I remember that Julia is still in rehab and that Bridget’s house is now empty.

  “How are you doing today?” Elisa asks.

  I take comfort in her soothing tone and sympathetic expression. “I’m okay,” I say. “Just really tired. Chris still isn’t really talking to me. We’re communicating mostly through texts.”

  “Do you want some company? I can skip yoga.”

  “No,” I say. “Thanks. I think I’ll go back to bed.”

  She squeezes my hand. “Okay.”

  When I return
home I drop a slice of bread in the toaster and when it pops up I spread a thin layer of peanut butter on it. I don’t want to eat it, don’t know if I can eat it, but I have no choice so I do. I gag on the third bite and hold it down by sheer will, then finish the rest. There are dirty dishes in the sink and fingerprints cover every inch of the granite countertops, but I leave everything the way it is. I’ll pull myself—and the house—together later. Chris will be flying home tonight, which means we’ll have to give Oscar-worthy performances if we hope to get through dinner without the kids picking up on the tension. It’s something we know all too well how to do, but I’m exhausted just thinking about it.

  Tucker waits patiently next to his empty food and water bowls and I fill the metal containers with fresh, cold water and his kibble.

  “Sorry, boy,” I say, reaching down to scoop him up. I hug him, burying my face in his soft fur.

  Upstairs, I strip down to my tank top and underwear and crawl back into bed, pulling the covers over my head. Anything to temper the sunlight that filters in through the bedroom curtains. I suddenly understand why people like blackout shades. I need a break from the TV, from my life. I toss and turn, but I’m so tired that my mind eventually stops spinning.

  I close my eyes and soon the sleep returns.

  • • •

  “Claire, wake up.” Chris opens the curtains, and the simultaneous assault of his voice and the blinding sunlight has me squinting and wishing I could put my hands over my ears like a child. His voice is so loud, or maybe it just seems that way because the room was so blissfully quiet. I have no idea why he’s here and one glance at the clock doesn’t make it any clearer. It’s noon on Friday. Chris should be getting ready to fly home, not standing in our bedroom looking down at me.