Commitment

by K. M. Golland

  We both looked at it.

  Alexis stood up and stretched. ‘Answer his messages. I’ll see you downstairs.’

  I nodded, sucked in a breath and tapped on his name.

  Dale: Please don’t hate me.

  CHAPTER

  19

  TASH

  My head fell to my hand, my heart dying just a little more. I didn’t hate him. I couldn’t. Even despite his continuous pursuit and holding me hostage in the elevator, I could never hate him. I was just as much to blame for what had happened between us. The only difference was that I wanted it to stop. I’d made it clear that he needed to back off and, for the first time since our friendship progressed into murky waters, I felt the power had finally shifted in my favour. I was in control and, despite not wanting to hurt him, I was going to capitalise on it.

  I was going to fight fire with fire.

  Tash: What you did yesterday was NOT OKAY.

  You took away my ability to escape,

  if only for a short time.

  I get that you’re sorry. I am too.

  And I get that you want to talk it through,

  but here’s the thing … there’s nothing to talk through.

  You and I can never be.

  We shouldn’t have been what we were.

  It’s done. Finished. No more.

  If you want to be my friend,

  respect that and be my friend.

  And if you want me to forgive you,

  wipe the security footage of us in the pool.

  You’ve done it before to protect Danny and Kristine.

  Yes, she told me.

  And I admire that you did what you thought was right in their case,

  that you allowed them to sort themselves out.

  So do the same for us.

  Please!

  I pressed send, sat my phone in my lap and then shook my hands, releasing the nervous tension seizing my fingers. Except I felt there was more to say, that we needed further closure, so I quickly picked up my phone again and typed another message.

  Tash: And when you’ve done that,

  don’t contact me.

  Give me some time and space.

  I want to be your friend, Dale,

  I just can’t right now.

  Breathing a sigh of relief — or perhaps, release — I stood up, switched off my phone, and tiptoed over to Brayden’s cot, smiling as I watched him sleeping peacefully, and taking a moment to appreciate life and the unforeseen direction it took at times. You see, Brayden, although sweet and innocent, was the product of love perceived as not so sweet and innocent. But how anyone could look at the adorable little angel and deem his existence as anything but perfect was beyond me. He was born of love, and love is love no matter how it comes to be. To love is to soar through emotion so raw and chaotic that when you finally set down your feet they no longer belong to you. Love captures, blinds, binds and holds you hostage. It drives you, uncontrollably, and that drive cannot be fought. It’s what Dean and I had, and would always have. And as I watched Brayden’s little clenched fist jerk and then relax, jerk and then relax, his mind safe in a realm free from consequence or judgement, I realised that love wasn’t the only experience to knock us from our axis; lust was.

  Dale and I were in lust.

  And lust was an emotion with an expiry date.

  * * *

  After visiting Lexi and texting Dale, I felt like the weight on my shoulders had diminished but not entirely lifted. Guilt still swam through my veins, taunting me with its endless flow, a flow that I knew would not disappear until I confessed to Dean everything that had happened. But the time to do that wasn’t now. I had to focus on our marriage — make us my number-one priority — and after that, after I’d temporarily camouflaged my guilt with tenacity to right the axis I’d been knocked from, then and only then could I confess.

  It was a little selfish of me, and was perhaps just delaying the inevitable, but I honestly believed we would stand a better chance of moving forward if he found out about Dale when we were both in a better place. I mean, what would be the point in setting us up to fail when we could definitely have a fighting chance?

  I really wanted that chance. I wanted to make us right again, like we used to be. I wanted nothing more than to put in place some of the things Lexi and I talked about.

  I had a mistake to correct.

  I had a marriage to fix.

  Lexi’s chat had definitely broadened my perspective. Everything she’d said made sense. I was no Stepford Wife — not then, not now, not ever — but I understood what she’d been trying to say.

  My house wasn’t about to miraculously become spic and span. It had dust, cobwebs, and fingerprint smudges on the walls. Because children.

  Dinner wouldn’t be planned days ahead and cooked with love while I wore a floral apron and hummed to the twitter of bluebirds. Our family meals were a concoction of whatever ingredients weren’t past their use-by date. Because working parents.

  And although I hoped to improve my presentation, the result would be far from immaculate with pristine makeup, styled hair and a Barbie-doll figure. That just wasn’t me. I was Tash: hygienic, presentable, curvy, and soon to be comfortably sexier. Because devout devourer of donuts.

  But I got the whole look sexier/feel sexier shiz, and one of the reasons I got it was because the night of the gala, when I’d dressed up and made an effort, I’d felt amazing; the best I’d felt in a long time. And I hadn’t done it for Dean or Dale. I’d done it for me. I’d empowered myself. I’d awoken confidence and sex appeal I hadn’t realised I still possessed, sex appeal I’d once enjoyed wielding over my husband. Shit! I really have been blocking my own sexual pleasure, and I’ve been blaming it all on Dean.

  Deep down I knew it was true. Before having the boys, I’d taken more pride in my appearance and had genuinely felt better about how I looked, which had transferred to my confidence in the bedroom and life in general. Back then, manicures and pedicures were a monthly ritual, my bikini line was visible, and I’d had a hair-free upper lip. Nowadays, my fingernails were my favourite chew-toy, the bottoms of my feet would feed those skin-eating fish in Thailand for a century or more, and every month seemed to be Movember. Oh, and sans my recent anniversary clam-debearding, there was a good chance my bikini line could’ve made the endangered forest list. So yeah, it was time I owned the fact that I had stopped giving a shit about how I looked and felt because of motherhood. Motherhood was a blessing. It was a gift, not a burden, and it shouldn’t be used as an excuse for my loss of self-esteem.

  Staring at my naked self in the mirror before stepping into the shower, I took a moment to appreciate … me. Look at you. You’re a sexy mamma. You’ve got curves that could make a racetrack cry, a nicer rack than shiraz or chardonnay, lips that would make a fish squirt, and attitude with a capital YOU GOT THIS!

  ‘I have got this,’ I said, straightening my back and poking out my amazing rack.

  Pivoting 180 degrees, I admired my donut-loving arse and swirled my hand at everything on display before me. ‘I’ve got all of this!’

  Dean and I had put the kids to bed after both of them fell asleep in the car on the way home from Bryce and Lexi’s, and Dean had since shut himself in the study to finish off some work he was supposed to have finished the day before. It had been a long day for the both of us but with my renewed sense of ‘No excuses. You’ve got this. Have fun, pleasurable sex’, my plan was to shower, shave and sexy it up.

  A rush of adrenaline fired through me like an electric shock, and I quickly ducked into our bedroom, rifled through my bottom dresser drawer and found my nightie. It was my ‘non-mummy’ nightie, my sexy nightie … my one and only nightie that had lace on it. I also grabbed a bottle of perfume and headed back into the bathroom.

  Several minutes later, and after I’d performed a mute rendition of ‘Bootylicious’ by Destiny’s Child in the shower, my legs, underarms and tunnel of Tash were as bald as a bald eagle. Hang on a
second … are bald eagles even bald? I shook my head as I towel-dried my bits. No, I don’t think they are. I stopped towel drying. Then why the fuck are they called bald eagles?

  It was stupid, just like a seahorse and a guinea pig. Clearly they weren’t what they said they were either. And don’t get me started on the flying fox. It’s a bat for fuck’s sake. Regardless, I was bald: shiny, smooth, hair-no-more bald.

  Hanging my towel on its hook, I picked up my nightie and gave it the once-over. ‘Why, hello there, pretty material with the sexy lace.’ I remembered it well: black cotton, spaghetti straps and a lace band under the breast. Except my memories didn’t have it covered in dust. ‘Ew. Yuck!’ I screwed up my nose and gave it a quick shake before popping it over my head.

  It was snug, snugger than the last time I wore it.

  I sneezed.

  ‘Shit!’

  I sneezed again.

  ‘Damn it!’

  Dust was swirling under my nose and in front of my face, so thick and strong I could even smell it. Hmm … nothing a bit of bottled flower juice won’t fix.

  Continuing to swish the dust away while bum-dancing my bootyliciousness over to the basin, I grabbed my perfume and sprayed it on my neck, under my arms and … do I spray the tunnel? I deliberated for a split second, decided ‘hell yes’ and lifted my nightie, pliéd like a ballerina, and pushed the perfume nozzle twice in quick succession. ‘There,’ I sighed, smiling proudly and … Oh my fucking burn-like-the-fiery-pits-of-hell God!

  ‘Ow ow ow ow,’ I wailed soundlessly, riverdancing and flapping my arms about like an actual bald eagle. ‘Jeeeeesus!’ Tears sprung to my eyes and blurred my vision, but I kept flapping about, hoping the breeze I was creating and the constant movement of my body would result in the burn subsiding as soon as fucking possible, except it didn’t. All I’d managed to do was knock the perfume bottle onto the floor with a loud bang. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!

  Bending over to pick it up, I heard the door handle turn back and forth.

  ‘What was that? You all right in there, love?’

  I froze, in squat position, hand on the perfume bottle with my bald eagle burning. ‘Yeah, everything is fine. Just dropped … a thing.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Nothing. Everything is fine. I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘Really?’ he asked, his voice laced with surprise. ‘Okay, take your time.’

  Perhaps he hadn’t finished his work, which was fine by me. I could soothe my tunnel longer, brush my teeth and read some of my book in bed while I waited for him. Perfect!

  Standing back up, I lifted my nightie and held it out of the way with my teeth so that I could fan my hands over the disco inferno between my legs. The cool air felt like a refrigerated kiss and, before long, I’d simmered the burn. Never again. Eau de Tunnel is Eau de no-no.

  Quickly brushing my teeth and hair, I took one last look in the mirror before opening the bathroom door just as Dean was pulling back the covers on the bed.

  I paused.

  He paused.

  He smiled.

  I blushed.

  ‘Hi.’ I waved, awkwardly.

  He returned the gesture. ‘Hi.’

  The five steps it normally took to reach my side of the bed from the bathroom door were accomplished in less than three, and I was under the covers with them pulled to my chin before he could sneeze.

  Which he did.

  ‘I haven’t seen that … that—achoo. That nightie for years.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I thought I’d wear something different to bed.’

  He smiled, his eyes sparkling before turning intense. Really intense. ‘Mmm … well, it’s perfect,’ he said, trailing his finger along my collarbone and pulling the covers down. ‘Sleek, shiny, delicate and dangerous.’ Dangerous? Whaaa? What’s dangerous? My nightie?

  His stare intensified, as if he were Superman and using x-ray vision to see inside my head. Or perhaps there really was a stray hair on my chin. Holy shit! I’ll need to search for it tomorrow.

  I covered my face with my hand. I also sneezed.

  Twice.

  ‘Oh for the love of fuck this.’ I reached down, wrestled the nightie up and over my head, screwed it into a ball and tossed it across the room.

  ‘What’d you do that for? It looked good … I mean sexy. Fuck! I mean you looked fuckin’ hot.’

  He was acting a little weird. Then again, so was I.

  ‘Thanks, but it was what was making us sneeze. It was full of dust. I should’ve wash—’

  Before I could finish what I was saying he launched his lips onto mine, his kiss unapologetic. It took me by surprise and I shrieked, but the familiarity of his warm body and the touch of his hand to the side of my head, down my cheek and on my breast, shifted my focus to what I was feeling under the very tips of his fingers. I also immediately recalled what Alexis had said earlier in the evening.

  ‘Really feel him when he touches you. Really feel him when you touch him. Focus on you and him and nothing else.’

  So that was exactly what I did. I concentrated on the slide of his tongue against mine, the scratch of his stubble on my skin, his hot breath — which smelled of liquorice, which meant he’d eaten some of my chocolate bullets while I was in the shower — the cheeky bastard.

  I wanted to call him out on it but fought the urge, resuming my concentration and homing in on his erection tickling my hip, how the pressure of his hand kneading my breast was increasing quite fast, bordering painful and—

  ‘I want to eat your pussy,’ he barked out, releasing his hand.

  I swallowed the, ‘Ow, fuck!’ I’d been mere seconds from yelling and choked on the sentence he’d yelled instead. ‘Dean I—’

  ‘I’m thirsty for your sweet juices. I want to drink them.’ His mouth moved lower, his lips trailing down my neck. I’m sorry … you’re thirsty for what?

  My eyes bugged, unsure of what he expected to drink down there — honey tea, apple juice, soda? Because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be anything sweet or juicy like that.

  I squirmed and clasped his head, stopping him from going any lower than my chest. ‘Dean, wait.’

  He looked up, his eyes heavy with desire, the heat in them cooling when he noticed my reluctance. Their change from hot to cold immediately stirred regret in the pit of my stomach, and I wished I hadn’t said anything. I wanted his dark, dilated desire to return. Don’t stop him, Tash. He wants it. You want it. You shaved. You feel sexy. He thinks you’re sexy. You ARE sexy. Let him drink.

  He hung his head and began to roll off me, so I did the first thing that came to mind and dropped my hand between my legs, sliding my finger in and out and then shoving it in his mouth.

  This time it was Dean who choked and his eyes that bugged.

  ‘Sweet enough?’ I asked, biting my lip.

  His heat returned.

  His desire burned.

  And not a second later, his lips were tasting what he’d craved.

  * * *

  Three real orgasms in less than twenty-four hours. If that wasn’t a newsworthy headline, I didn’t know what was.

  I still couldn’t believe it, but the truth was in the clenching of my thighs. It had been a couple of days since Dean had shaped my mouth in an ‘O’ when he’d pounded me from behind during make-up sex, when he’d drunk my — oh my God, I can’t even say it — juices, and afterwards drilled into me while saying shit he’d never said before, shit like, ‘can you taste yourself when I kiss you?’, ‘that’s my big cock between your legs’, and ‘you like it hard, you dirty girl’. Dirty girl? It wasn’t long ago that he called me middle-aged, and now I’m a girl … and a dirty one?

  He’d been acting so strange. I had no idea what had gotten into him, but, strangely enough, I kinda liked it. It wasn’t predicable, the norm, or boring. It was exciting in an odd way.

  The day after my orgasm trifecta, I’d been proud of myself and called Lexi. I’d told her about shaving, letting him go down on me, an
d wearing lace and perfume — sans the dust and fiery river-dance. She’d been equally proud and told me to keep fighting the pleasure block and focus on what makes me bold, happy and confident, because the more I did the more Dean and I would benefit. So I’d tried, but like most things, especially new things, they needed work.

  I hadn’t worked at it yesterday.

  I’d slipped back into my old habits and lost the plot because the house was a mess and no one but me seemed to give a shit. Granted, the boys never gave a shit about the cleanliness of their surroundings, and Dean had actually tidied up. I just hadn’t noticed at the time because I was a tad flustered, and because his level of tidy wasn’t my level of tidy.

  It wasn’t until after he’d gone to bed and the house was quiet that I realised the small, inconspicuous things he’d done and not mentioned to me, things like changing the light in my rangehood, stopping the squeak of the laundry door, and sorting the block on my Netflix account.

  We’d gone to bed, not really talking, and I’d woken up feeling miserable and guilty. It was such a horrible contrast to what I’d felt less than twenty-four hours beforehand. So I’d decided that, after dropping the boys off at school, I would make it up to him.

  Lunch date.

  His work.

  Today was my rostered day off, so my plan was to surprise him with a visit. It was something I hadn’t done in years, something he would never see coming, something spontaneous.

  * * *

  Parking outside his building and reaching over to the passenger seat, I picked up the calico shopping bag that held three roast chicken and salad rolls, a bottle of wine and a packet of chocolate bullets, then exited the car.

  As I entered the front reception, Val — the firm’s receptionist for nearly twenty years — greeted me from behind the counter. ‘Tash! How wonderful to see you. I almost didn’t recognise you with short hair.’

  ‘Hi, Val. Yeah, it’s been a while.’

  ‘It has.’ Her bright pink lipstick highlighted her warm, inviting smile, and her mousey-brown shoulder-length hair was secured away from her face with bobby pins. ‘So how are you and the boys?’