by Noelle Adams
Sophie stared at Abigail, wondering if she was right, if that was what she was doing, if that was part of the problem.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Abigail said hurriedly, as if she was afraid she’d said too much. “I know my own experiences are nothing like yours.”
“I don’t know,” Sophie said. “Maybe you’re right. I do keep comparing how Mark is now with the way he used to be. And it’s always so upsetting, since I was so sure of him before. I always knew what he was thinking. I was absolutely sure that he loved me. And now…now I have no idea.”
“I guess it’s impossible not to do that comparison.”
“Yeah. Maybe. But still. He told me he wants to get back to who he used to be and our marriage back to what it was. We have made some progress, but it’s not…it’s not steady.”
“Tell me if I don’t know what I’m talking about, but maybe you need to work on what your marriage is now, rather than what it used to be.”
Sophie frowned. “That’s what we’ve been doing.”
“Is it? Aren’t you trying to turn it back into what it was?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. But it was good before. I want it to be good again. We both do.”
“Maybe good can look different. Maybe what it is now can still be good.”
Sophie sighed and leaned her head against her hand, propped up on the table. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m sure you’re right, but I’m not sure how to make that happen. Maybe I have to…I don’t know…get to know him again.”
“That’s what I had to do with Thomas. That’s really how it happened between us. We even started dating again. It felt kind of like the first time—only a lot better.” Abigail grinned, as if she was remembering.
Sophie sighed, wishing desperately that she could get to the point where she had the same expression about Mark, where she was so sure of him, so happy at just the thought of him. Not that Abigail and Thomas had a perfect marriage. They still argued sometimes, and sometimes Abigail looked like she wanted to shake him, although she never said anything critical about him to Sophie. But still…the good obviously far outweighed the bad in their marriage.
That was what Sophie wanted too.
“You and Mark are doing well, though, aren’t you?” Abigail asked, sipping her ice tea and studying Sophie discreetly.
Sophie gave a little shrug. “Sure. I guess we are.”
“That doesn’t sound very confident.”
“Maybe we’ve…we’ve kind of gone downhill over the last week.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t even know. We were having a really good day, getting our Christmas tree on Saturday, and then…” She swallowed. “I don’t know what happened. He closed up, and I tried to figure out why, and we argued, and now we’re just going through the motions.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as that. You’re going to have ups and downs, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. But it doesn’t seem to be going up again. And I don’t know what to do. Every time I try to get close to him, I seem to just make it worse.”
Abigail was studying her place setting thoughtfully. “What does it look like to you? Being close to him, I mean.”
“I don’t know. Just that we really talk to each other, we really understand each other, we really enjoy being together. We used to be that way. We were always that way.”
“And you don’t think you’re just remembering the past as more perfect than it actually was?”
Sophie frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Maybe a little. But I know something’s not right between us. It’s like we’re…we’re not in sync.”
“And you’re really listening to him? Trying to hear what he’s saying?”
“That’s the thing. He’s not saying anything.”
“I guess that’s natural, in his situation.”
“Yeah. I’m sure it is. But it doesn’t make it any easier to know what to do. If he won’t even tell me...” She broke off the words, shaking her head. “I’m not blaming him. I’m really not. I’m not bad-mouthing him or anything.”
“I know you’re not. Of course, you’re not.”
“I just don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t know what to do either. I’d suggest some counseling or something, but I know he’s not interested in that right now.”
“I don’t know why not,” Sophie murmured, desperately wishing that he would be willing to do that, since it seemed like a much easier way for them to really talk and hear each other. “I keep trying to be strong, so I can be everything he needs, but I’ve never been very strong. That’s just not who I am.”
“Of course, you’re strong.” Abigail looked genuinely surprised. “I can’t imagine being as strong as you’ve been for the last few years. But maybe this isn’t about being strong at all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t really know. I was just thinking that maybe, instead of being strong, it’s really just about loving him.”
“I do love him.”
“I know you do.”
Sophie felt either nerves or excitement rising in her throat. “He has to know I love him.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Do you think he knows that I love who he is now?”
Abigail gave a little shrug. “You tell me.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
The server came then with their salads, and Sophie stared down at her plate. “He has to know. I’ll make sure he knows.”
“Good. That sounds like a good plan to me.”
As Sophie started on her salad, she made up her mind to focus on loving Mark—who he was now—and not about worrying about anything else.
***
When she got home from the bookstore that evening, Mark was reading a book.
He came with her to work on some days, but he hadn’t today.
He was stretched out on the bed, and he looked up as she came into the room to change clothes. He smiled at her and asked her how her day was. When she said it was good, he smiled again and turned back to his book.
She bit back her first instinct, which was to demand he put the book down and talk to her, since she hadn’t seen him all day and he’d just been lying around.
Instead, she pulled out a stretchy T-shirt and yoga pants, and took off the skirt and sweater she’d worn to work. As she was picking up her T-shirt, she happened to glance over to the bed and saw that Mark’s eyes were on her half-naked body.
She couldn’t help but feel a flush of pleasure. He might not want to touch her, but at least he still liked the looks of her.
When she’d changed clothes and hung up her work clothes, she went over to climb onto the bed beside him.
He glanced over at her questioningly.
She smiled. “Is it a good book?”
“Eh.” He closed the book and dropped it on the bed. “Just killing time.”
“Do you want to do something?”
“I don’t know. What are you in the mood for?”
“I’m kind of hungry.”
“Me too.”
She couldn’t help but smile at the profound nature of their conversation. It might not be deep, but at least it felt real—realer than anything they’d talked about for the last week. “I guess the best idea would be for us to fix dinner.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
They went into the kitchen and started to put together pasta with chicken and fresh herbs. Mark found a bottle of white wine and poured some of it into the sauce and then filled up two glasses.
Sophie tried to really see him, really pay attention to him—not impose her memories of him on who he was now. He was still good with a knife—cutting up the herbs and other vegetables they added with speed and skill. He also looked at her a lot—not just her body but also her face—as if he kept checking her expression.
She wondered what he was looking for. It was a strange sort of revelation that he might be just
as insecure as she was.
She smiled whenever she caught him looking, and pretty soon he looked sheepish, as if he were embarrassed at being caught staring.
As he was chopping the last of the mushrooms, she couldn’t resist the urge to touch him. She slid an arm around his waist and murmured, “You’re really good at that.”
She felt his body jerk slightly, but it wasn’t a jerk away from her. It was more like he was surprised and pleased by the gesture.
Maybe he wanted her to touch him. Maybe it meant more to him than she had realized.
She kissed his shoulder, over his T-shirt. “I think that mushroom has been thoroughly chopped now.”
He gave a huff of amusement as he stared down at the massacred mushroom, which he’d kept chopping until it was nothing but mush. “You shouldn’t distract me when I’m holding a knife.”
“Then maybe you should put the knife down.”
He carefully laid the knife on the cutting board and turned toward her. His body was tense, and she carefully studied his face. And she suddenly saw that he was holding himself back.
It was the same expression she’d seen on his face before—tight, unrevealing. But now that she was looking carefully, she could see that it wasn’t really distant. It was restrained.
As if he were reluctant—maybe afraid—to let himself go.
So she slid her hands up his chest until they were resting on his shoulders. “I wouldn’t mind being kissed, Mark.”
She felt him jerk again, and recognized it this time as his rigidly holding back his instinct.
She had no idea why he was holding back. They were married. He could touch her as much as he wanted. There was no clear reason for him not to.
And yet he was evidently afraid of letting go.
“Why are you holding back?” she asked softly, deciding the only way to find out was to ask.
“I’m…I’m…” At first, she thought he was going to deny it, but then she realized he was trying to force himself to answer for real. “I didn’t want to be too needy.”
“What?” She tried to keep her voice as light as she had before, but she was too shocked to restrain her tone.
His face twisted, and he looked away. “I know I…have a lot of needs, and I don’t want to push you into having sex all the time, if it’s too much for you.”
“Why would it be too much for me? You know I love having sex with you.”
“Yeah, but there’s a limit.”
The words sounded vaguely familiar, and she suddenly remembered where she’d heard them last. She’d said them. She’d teased him in the Christmas shop about always wanting sex.
And evidently he’d taken it seriously.
“Oh, baby,” she murmured, “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean I was getting tired of having so much sex. I was just teasing. I was…nervous about other things, so I was just teasing about something I thought was…wasn’t so important.”
His eyes never left her face. “What were you nervous about?”
She cleared her throat. “That you…you only wanted sex from me. And nothing else.”
He groaned and pulled her into his arms. “Shit, Sophie. I’m sorry you thought that. I’m so sorry about everything.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s my fault for not saying anything. I just didn’t want you to think I was complaining.”
His arms tightened around her, almost painfully. “I never meant to make you feel like I was just using you. I guess I can see why you thought that, though. Sex isn’t as hard for me as other things. I feel like I can do it well, and it’s a way to be close to you. So I thought that was something I could give you.”
She’d had no idea. Absolutely no idea. That every time he’d wanted to have sex with her, he’d also wanted to be emotionally close to her. It transformed the entire last month.
“Baby, I know I’m not what you need—”
“Don’t say that,” she interrupted, reaching up to take his face in both of her hands. “Don’t ever say that. You are what I need.”
He shook his head. “I know I’m broken, and I might never be the man I was before, but I want so much more than sex from you. I just don’t…don’t know how else to show it right now.”
“Okay,” she rasped, almost crying on the surge of deep emotion. “I totally understand. You can show it any way you want. I love having sex with you. Please don’t hold back anymore.”
He groaned again, but differently this time, and he suddenly had her pushed up against the kitchen table. They were kissing like crazy, like animals, clawing at each other and trying desperately to get closer to each other.
Pleasure and deeper emotion rushed through her as she rubbed herself against Mark’s hard, lean body. Before she could even process what was happening, he had pulled down her pants and edged her up on the tabletop. She wrapped her legs around him as he entered her, the substance of him inside her hard and intense and deeply real.
They rocked together in a fast, tight rhythm, both of them huffing and then grunting as their motion got faster and more urgent. She hadn’t had enough stimulation to come, but she couldn’t remember ever feeling so good—a good that went so much deeper than her body.
Because she could feel how much Mark needed her, and she understood it was more than just her body. He needed her so much he couldn’t restrain himself, and the noises he was huffing out were sounding more like words—more like helpless endearments.
She was crying out in real pleasure—although she still wasn’t close to climax—as he came hard and loud. She was stroking him as his body softened, and she kissed him when he lifted his face from her neck.
Both of them were gasping helplessly. “I’ll do better next time,” he said, slightly sheepish. “I’ll make sure you come.”
“It was great. I don’t have to come all the time.”
“I’m glad you feel that way, given my recent performance, but I want you to come. So I’m going to make sure you do later.”
She gave a little giggle. “I’m not going to object to that plan, but maybe first we should rescue our dinner.”
She pulled back on her pants, and they washed up and returned to their pasta and chicken.
It turned out to be quite good. And later that evening he took her to bed and pleasured her with his hands and mouth. He didn’t even use the sponge that evening, and she was still clutching at the bedding and crying out in uninhibited pleasure.
She was exhausted afterwards. It had been a long day and emotionally draining.
But she finally felt like she understood Mark—as he was now—and that felt like a real victory to her.
She was going to keep paying attention, getting to know him now. Because she was absolutely sure that the man he was now was just as worth loving as the man he’d been before.
She’d read a poem once about a falcon. She didn’t remember the name of the poem or even who had written it, except that she’d studied it in her British literature class. But she’d remembered it was about the falcon as it was diving—and how the real beauty of it was only revealed when it dove, when it fell, when it was broken.
She was thinking about that poem as she fell asleep in Mark’s arms, and she wondered if she was finally starting to understand it.
Nine
It was dark in the apartment when she woke up and found herself alone in bed.
She felt a vague sense of Mark’s presence in the room, so she sat up and turned on the bedside light, but he wasn’t in the bedroom or in the part of the living area that was visible through the opened door.
It was 2:14 in the morning, and Mark had evidently left for another of his walks.
She ran to the living room and then to the window and looked outside, surprised to see that there was snow falling, glinting in the light from the street lamps. The sight was distinctly beautiful—the empty, well-kept downtown streets, the Christmas lights and ribbons on every post, the shopfronts and benches of Willow Park, the gray ni
ght sky with snow falling down but not starting to lay on surfaces yet.
Into the peaceful scene, Mark appeared on the sidewalk below the window, emerging from the doorway of their building. He wore his pajama pants and dark winter coat. He stood perfectly still for a moment, staring out at the street. Then he took his phone from his pocket and scrolled to a number.
She had no idea who he was calling at this time of night.
Suddenly, a compulsion hit Sophie so strongly she couldn’t resist. She ran to slide on her fur-lined boots and pulled a puffy coat over her flannel pajamas. She grabbed her keys and her phone and hurried downstairs, stepping outside just as Mark was turning a corner.
She followed him. She wanted to know where he went at night. She wanted to know what drove him out of bed, what he did when he wandered in the dark.
Because she was jogging, she turned the corner in time to see Mark turn another corner a block down. He seemed to be going toward the duck pond, unless he was heading for the bridge that crossed the river and led out of town.
She kept pace with him as he walked, seeing in the streetlights that he was now talking on the phone.
She couldn’t imagine who he was talking to. She was sure he didn’t have a girlfriend or anything like that. No matter what their challenges were in the marriage, she would never suspect him of that.
But he evidently talked to someone at night, when he kept refusing to really talk to her.
She was jealous of whoever that person was. She couldn’t help but be jealous.
She couldn’t help but think that, if Mark opened up to anyone, it should be her.
It was freezing outside, and snowflakes landed wetly on her face and coat as she hurried after him, concluding after he turned down one more street that he was definitely going to the duck pond.
He crossed the street and walked across the grass, which was just starting to be dusted with snow. Then he stood next to a bench facing the pond for a minute before he finally sat down.
He was still on the phone. She could hear the murmur of his voice.
