by Lexie Ray
“For the last time,” Jonathan began, his voice forcefully even, “Violet was never with me. Ever. Not on any leg of the trip.”
“I saw the photos,” I mocked.
“I never once saw her!” my husband shouted, making me jump before I crossed my arms over my chest and lifted my chin at him defiantly.
“Are you saying your sister’s a liar?” I asked. “She’s the one who showed me all those photos. She said Violet had been texting them to her. Jane told me she hated me being made a cuckold. She wanted me to know. She wanted me to confront you, to tell you to stop being such a dick.”
I was probably paraphrasing, but I’d gotten the gist of it.
“Jane’s on vacation,” Jonathan said, looking irritated. “I’d talk to her myself, get some answers, but she’s turned her phone off and gone on a sailing trip around the world.”
Now that he mentioned it, I remembered Jane toying with that plan when she talked about going on vacation all that time ago. It seemed like another lifetime. I was glad she’d picked the sailing trip. It sounded like the most adventuresome thing to do.
“If you just admitted that you’d been with Violet, maybe we could move forward,” I said. “I told you everything I remembered from my night out with your sister and Brock. Why can’t you at least come clean with me? There are so many pictures, Jon.”
“There is nothing to come clean about,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I never once saw Violet while I was abroad. And just because you don’t remember doing something doesn’t mean that you’re automatically absolved of it! Based on those photos, you fucked Brock that night.”
“Based on your photos, you had a lovely jaunt with your former fiancée during the time you and I should’ve been here, enjoying our honeymoon!” I roared back at my husband.
All I could think about was that I hoped our baby’s first impression of its daddy wasn’t that he was angry all the time, fighting with its mama. That would be a terrible complex. I’d have to remember later to look up the point in time when babies first started forming memories. I hoped it wasn’t in the womb.
Without any sort of warning, Jonathan lunged at me. My first thought was that he was going to try to hurt me, as out of character as that would’ve been. Hell, I didn’t know what to expect out of him anymore. I thought I’d known him, thought his heart was an open book, but I knew now that he was a stranger to me.
Maybe he’d been that other Jonathan all along, the one I kept hearing about but didn’t like.
I didn’t have time, though, to react when he came at me. All I could do was stiffen and prepare myself the best I could. What was it going to be? A kick? A punch? A slap?
It looked more and more like it was going to be a head butt until his lips were on mine, tearing into me in the fiercest kiss I’d ever experienced. Our teeth knocked against each other, and I was suddenly afraid I’d bit my lip, tasting blood. I kissed him back, ferocious, a wild animal, not sure who or what I was anymore.
All at once, we tore at each other’s clothes, Jonathan stepping into the cottage and slamming the door shut behind him. I didn’t care that I hadn’t invited him in. I didn’t care that I’d only just tried to get rid of his presence by several intense rounds of cleaning. I didn’t care that I had a baby inside of me.
I didn’t care about anything. The parts of me that cared shrunk away, unwilling to witness this bestial display. The only parts that were left were the parts that only cared about the here and now, that only wanted pleasure. That needed something, anything, to stop feeling the way that they used to.
I cried out as Jonathan’s fingers raked down my arms as he clawed at my shirt, but he didn’t apologize. I didn’t want him to apologize, and I was glad he didn’t. I would’ve slapped him if he tried to tell me he was sorry for this.
This was nothing.
I tangled my fingers in his dark hair and pulled as hard as I could, yanking his head back and scraping my teeth along his throat, sucking at the skin and leaving welts behind.
“Fuck,” he growled, pulling my hands away from his hair.
“Fuck you,” I growled back, kissing him as hard as I could. I tasted blood again, but didn’t have any pain. I wondered if I’d bitten Jonathan’s lip too hard, giving my baby the first taste of its father it had ever had with a violent kiss.
Jonathan pinched my skin painfully as his fingers scrabbled against my stomach, trying to unfasten my jeans. I slapped his hands away to do it myself.
We’d somehow stalked and pushed and fought our way to the bedroom, falling on the bed and nearly landing on the iPad. I flung it onto the bedside table and started working my jeans off when Jonathan covered my body with his own.
I’d forgotten how he’d smelled, how potently I reacted to him, how the weight of him felt on me. I shoved at him, then clung to him, not sure which ebb or flow of hate or desire I should listen to inside of me. He bit my shoulder and I yowled, arching my back and pressing my front into him.
At that point, it was all over. Jonathan thrust his erection against my hip, the hardness practically bruising me, and I fought my jeans down to my knees before parting my legs as far as they would go, struggling to accommodate my husband.
He thrust into me with no preparation whatsoever, which should’ve hurt, but I was so wet that he slid right into my pussy. I’d had no idea just how turned on I was until that very moment, and I cried out at the feeling of being filled with my husband’s cock.
God, I had missed it. Oh God, how I had missed it.
I dug my fingernails into his biceps and moaned, thrusting uselessly against him. He was buried to the hilt inside of my body, but he was staying perfectly still, breathing hard and staring into my eyes with a vehemence that should’ve made me cringe away.
I met that glare for all that I was worth.
“Fuck you,” I flung at him again, and he yanked himself out of me and forced his way forward again. I cried out at the hot, pure sexuality. This was how animals fucked. There was no thought, no feeling, just action and reaction, push and pull.
“Fuck us,” Jonathan corrected, his voice low and raw, and then set up a brutal, punishing pace.
I hung on to him. I scratched him. I screamed when he struck my G-spot, driving down on it again and again. I’d missed my husband. I’d missed him so much, and I’d missed sex. He held on to me, driving into me like a piston, and I knew that we were just two opposite sides to the same machine, one that was grinding and grinding against itself, wearing itself down, breaking itself.
I couldn’t even warn him when I saw my climax galloping toward me. All I could do was scream and scream, blinded by the force of orgasm, clenching every muscle I had and then some as it ravaged my entire body, laid waste to my entire heart.
“Fuck!” Jonathan cried, and I felt his seed fill me. His potent, potent seed. It had already given me one child. I needed it. I needed it. I needed it.
Our bodies parted, and Jonathan fell down onto his back. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know if there were words to be said, or if I even had the ability to speak. All I could do was breathe — in and out, in and out, in and out.
We both panted in tandem, lying side by side on the bed. It was so easy to just close my eyes and pretend that we’d been here at the cottage all along, never having discovered who Jonathan was and what that entailed. We’d just had a wild and rambunctious sex session and we were just fighting to catch our breath. As soon as we did, we would tenderly decompress in the shower, unwinding under the hot water, rubbing each other until we relaxed.
We’d fall asleep in each other’s arms. It would be beautiful. Everything would be beautiful.
When I saw Jonathan carefully sit up, his back to me, and scoot toward the edge of the bed, I realized it had been all wrong.
That wasn’t the way you were supposed to make love. That had been hateful, hurtful fucking. We’d done it to each other, and it was the ugliest thing I’d ever witnessed — incredible orgasm be damned.
Even worse was the feeling that our child had witnessed it all.
“This was a mistake,” I said, gathering my clothes around me, yanking my jeans back up to my waist. I wanted to apologize to my baby, but I couldn’t do it out loud — not with Jonathan here.
“I agree with you there,” he said. “It was a moment of weakness. Because we hadn’t had any physical contact in so long.”
“With anyone,” I emphasized, asserting my innocence with Brock.
Jonathan didn’t answer. He didn’t even turn to look at me.
“I’m going back to Chicago,” he said. “Back to the compound.”
“And I’m staying here,” I said.
“Suit yourself,” Jonathan said, standing and pulling up his pants as he did so. I didn’t even get to see his ass. As stupid as the passing thought was, it made my eyes fill with tears.
I had a sudden thought that was even uglier than the sex we’d just had. If I told my husband that we were going to have a baby, he’d stay out here in the woods with me forever. I knew it as surely as if someone had whispered it in my ear. A baby could save this marriage. A baby would anchor Jonathan to me for the rest of our lives.
And at the same time, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t turn my amazing pregnancy into something as horrible as that — a nasty little manipulation to get my way. I wouldn’t do that to our baby.
I followed Jonathan to the door, staring at his back, willing him to turn around, but he never did. He just kept plodding forward as if something were drawing him away from me.
What could I say to make him stay? What could I do to make him see that I hadn’t done anything with Brock? Why couldn’t he move past that, admit that he was wrong, admit that he’d spent some significant time with Violet, and move forward?
Was this really how it was going to end? With me never seeing my husband’s face again?
“Jonathan.”
He stopped and stood still for nearly a full minute before turning slowly around to face me. His face looked haggard, like he’d lost all the vitality that had always attracted me to him. The man in front of me wasn’t the man I’d fallen in love with. That fact was painfully clear to me.
I’d wanted to tell him anything and everything. I’d wanted to apologize for things I’d never committed. I wanted to do anything to try to save our marriage, but looking at that stranger made all of those feelings flee from my heart, all of my words retreat from my mind.
“What is it?” he asked me, his blue eyes dull, as if someone had snuffed out the light they’d once held.
“Nothing,” I said, and I was shocked to find that I meant it. There was nothing there anymore, no joy, no love, nothing.
We were through, and I think we were both realizing it.
Without another word, Jonathan turned back to the door and let himself out, plodding with that same terrible shuffle as if he were being drawn along by a string.
He had almost reached his car when I lost the last bit of my sanity. This was really the end, and I couldn’t do this.
Oh, God. I couldn’t do this. I just couldn’t. I wanted to call out after him, to beg him to take me back to Chicago, to stay with me here in the woods, just to be with me, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want my child back there in that terrible place. I was doing so well out here for the first time in a long time that I just couldn’t do it to myself.
No matter how much I still loved Jonathan. No matter what lengths I was willing to go through to keep him in my life.
I couldn’t watch him go. I couldn’t watch him just leave my life after all of that, after everything.
I couldn’t.
I ran blindly away from the cottage, away from my husband and my ending marriage, away from everything, tears streaming down my face, sobbing for all the world to hear. It was a miracle I didn’t face plant right into one of the trees, but I found myself in the woods, sprinting away from a future I didn’t want.
If only he could admit to his faults. If only he could give up everything for me.
I didn’t care how selfish it was. And I didn’t care that I hadn’t told him about our child. Maybe if I’d told him, he would’ve done whatever I said. But I didn’t want our baby to become a bargaining chip. I would never forgive myself.
My heart pounded all the way up in my ears, and it was hard to breathe, but I just kept running. I remembered the time I’d run away from some asshole of a trainer at the gym in the Whartons’ office building. I’d run all the way to Lake Michigan, the burn of exertion being the only thing holding back my despair.
This was exactly the same feeling. I couldn’t stop, or my sorrow and horror and regret would catch up with me.
“We’re — going — to be — fine,” I panted at my baby, hoping it wasn’t having trouble with all my running. I just needed to get away. I had to get away from this.
Tears ran down my face as I ran and chanted. “We’re — fine — we’re — fine — we’re — fine.” I wasn’t trying to reassure my baby. I was trying to convince myself. I didn’t know if we were going to be fine. I had no clue. I’d just lost the love of my life for what was probably going to be forever. He couldn’t live here, I couldn’t live there, and neither of us could reconcile with the fact that we’d been betrayed. Maybe if we hadn’t both been so damn stubborn, we’d have been able to come up with a solution. Maybe live half the year in Chicago and half the year out here.
The more I ran, the more it made sense. We should’ve negotiated more. I shouldn’t have been so confrontational. I should’ve remembered that love would find a way through anything. Instead, I’d ended everything and ran for it. I was so stupid. I was supposed to be thinking for two, doing the best for both my baby and myself.
With a sudden scream of surprise, I tripped over a tree root. I’d been too distracted by my thoughts and despair. They’d caught up to me after all, bogging me down, tripping me up, dragging me down.
Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. I stretched out my arms to try to cushion my fall, but the ground just wasn’t there. I seemed to hang in space, weightless, and it was then I realized that I was at the ravine.
More than that. I was at the ravine and tumbling into it, too distracted by my stupid life to notice that I was running straight for it.
It couldn’t have been very deep, but it was still a significant fall, one I’d stumbled right into. I puzzled at the fact that I had all this time for thinking, then hit the ground.
-----
Pain. Pain. Pain.
I opened my eyes and tried to cry out, but the only sound I could make was a strangled grunt. It was evening, the air cooling and color purpling, and I knew the sun was already down. I felt a thrill of fear even though I knew there wasn’t anything to fear but my own idiocy.
I’d fallen into the ravine, and I was in pain.
“You all right in there?” I asked my baby, patting my stomach and wincing. It was bruised, and I think I had a broken rib or two. I was lucky I wasn’t dead. My pounding head told me I’d hit it upon my crash landing.
I dragged myself into a sitting position, grimacing as the trees spun around me. I needed to get home and assess my damage. I needed to eat dinner and to rest.
But first I needed to get up.
My ankle was badly sprained, I realized, as I gained my feet and tried not to vomit from how dizzy I was. I needed to get home. I needed to get back to the cottage. That was a safe place for my baby.
“Hold on,” I told it. “Mama’s going to get you home. You don’t worry about a thing, all right? You let your mama take care of everything.”
It was going to be slow going with my ankle, and the ribs and head didn’t help. To add insult to injury, my jeans were wet at the crotch. I’d probably hit the ground so hard that I’d pissed myself. Wonderful.
I set out, going from one tree to the next, holding onto each passing trunk for support. If there’d been anyone in the woods to see me, they probably would’ve thought I was drunk, weavi
ng through the trees like a lunatic.
Thankfully, there was no one to witness my shame but my baby.
“I’m sorry if I gave you a scare,” I said. “I’m going to fix all of this. Promise.”
I’d get that doctor out here as soon as possible, I decided. I’d pay him extra if he made an emergency trip outside of business hours. Money could usually get people to do things they normally wouldn’t. For the right price, I could get anyone out to the cottage.
I comforted myself with thoughts and plans on my painful journey, aware that I couldn’t stop and rest for fear of passing out, intent on my plan to get back to the cottage and get myself comfortable for my baby’s sake. In spite of all my pain, it was my wet jeans that gave me the greatest discomfort. They were sticky and made me feel irritable. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought that they were getting wetter with each shuffling step.
