by Penny Reid
All of this alone.
Arguing was pointless. It would change nothing. At the end of the day, I was still the one raising Grace and Jack, and he would still be gone.
So I swallowed the anger and bitterness, kept my tone even and carefully civil, and indulged him. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have emailed you. From now on, if something important happens, I’ll send you an email as soon as possible.”
He stared at me, examining me as though my words were a puzzle. The longer he stared, the colder and more remote his posture grew. At length he cast his gaze to the floor and scowled at our carpet. I watched as he swallowed, seemingly with effort, his eyes unfocused as though he were attempting to tame unkind impulses.
“You know . . .” he started, his voice rough. But then he shook his head and clamped his mouth shut, biting back words. He turned away from me and moved to leave. When he grasped the handle, he paused and said to the door, “I love you, Fe.”
He left the room.
A moment later I heard the front door open and close.
He was gone.
And I was alone. Again.
CHAPTER 6
Dear R.
I honestly believe that you were completely and totally clueless to the fact that I was and had been head over heels in love with you from the day we met. It wasn't a secret to anyone else. When you catch me "creepy" staring at you now, all I'm really doing is silently appreciating all that you are and all that you mean to me. Forgive a man if you will for wanting to cherish something a little more openly after having to hide it for twenty years.
-D
Letter
USA
Friends for 20 years, currently engaged
~17 years ago~
*Greg*
“I’m not good enough for you, Fe. But . . .” I shrugged, unable to do anything but smile at this woman who’d become my entire world, “no else one is either. So I might as well take you for my own. Marry me.”
She stared down at me, captivatingly astonished. Though I couldn’t tell if she was merely shocked, or both shocked and horrified. She’d covered her mouth with her hands and was standing still, motionless, too stunned to even move.
I’d effectively pressed her proverbial pause button.
Obviously, I was completely and utterly mad.
Too early.
Too soon.
She wasn’t ready, not for a proposal of marriage.
At eighteen, Fiona was wise beyond her years. And yet her wisdom was as tragic as it was beautiful.
So I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Just like I’d waited all those months after seeing her for the first time, keeping my distance despite seeing her everywhere—at the gym, the café, the library, in the dorm lobby—endeavoring to convince myself I was merely infatuated with her façade. In lust was an easier concept to manage than some fanciful rubbish like love at first sight, or soul mates, or cosmically meant for each other.
So I waited. And waited.
And waited.
Kneeling in front of her, holding my offering between us, my heart in a little blue box.
“Fe?” I prompted, because a creeping uncertainty had taken up residence at the base of my throat.
She flinched, her eyes jumping between the ring and me.
And then she said, “Yes.”
Though it was more of a,
!!!! ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Y E S ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ !!!!
Because she’d yelled it—screamed it at me, actually—with a shade of hysterical delight. I didn’t have even a split second to recover, to grin, to rejoice in her response before she launched herself, tackling me to the plush carpet. Quick thinking had me closing the ring box before it was knocked from my hand in her exuberance.
Straddling my hips, Fiona covered my face and neck in kisses. She punctuated each press of her soft lips with another “Yes,” the volume and intonation varying wildly.
I laughed and then groaned as she moved over me, lithe and eager, her body clamoring for intimacy.
“Wait-wait, darling.” I sought to still her movements, but she was surprisingly strong. Though, if I dwelled upon it, her strength wasn’t at all surprising. She could climb walls. And do backflips. And walk on her hands for an indeterminate period of time.
She rocked against my growing erection, driving caution from my mind and the breath from my lungs. Her dress was the problem, because the skirt was virtually nonexistent. The only impediments to a hasty coupling were her inconsequential panties, and my suit pants and boxers.
And, you know, her virginity.
“Make love to me, Greg,” she whispered hotly against my ear, now driving good judgment away. In fact, all noble thoughts and feelings packed their bags, loaded up, and decided to take a vacation for the evening. Selfish desire had pushed them out.
Good riddance.
I flipped her onto her back, and her hands were everywhere—in my hair, pulling at the hem of my shirt, scratching my sides, reaching for the buckle of my belt. The only sign of nerves was the slight trembling of her fingers as she cupped me through my pants.
I batted her hand away because I was prone to make a mess in my boxers if she continued to stroke me with her eager palm.
“Fe, we have to get off—”
“Yes! Let’s get off!”
“—the carpet,” I finished as I straightened away, laughing at her wide, impatient eyes and opportune remark. “We have to get off the carpet.”
She gave me a determined glare, then did that thing only gymnasts know how to do, where one springs off the ground in a blatant display of strength and flexibility, kicking off her shoes as she did so.
As soon as we were both standing she was on me again, backing me into the bed. I grabbed her hands between us.
“Darling, is this your way of telling me you’re feeling sexually frustrated?”
“Frustrated? No.” Now she was trying to climb me with just her legs. “Starved? Yes.”
“Though I’m thoroughly enjoying your exuberance, I really must insist we slow down.” Not because I intended to stop. But rather, much like the first time we’d kissed, I wanted to prepare her for what came next.
“No slowing down.” She rubbed her thigh against my cock, crippling both my ability to think and move. “I don’t know if I’m doing this right, but I honestly don’t care anymore. I want you. I want you so very badly. And I want those bad things you promised . . .”
Well, okay then.
“. . . and I want—”
I cut her off by capturing her mouth with a kiss, turning her such that the backs of her legs were against the mattress, then pushing her on top of it. I reached under her skirt, found her extraordinarily inconsequential lace panties, and pulled them from her legs.
Her wide eyes, though still rimmed with excitement, had grown anxious as well.
Standing over her, trailing my fingertips back along her bare legs, luxuriating in the feel of her, her nervous little exhales, I grinned.
“Prepare yourself. I’m going to kiss you now.”
A panicked question formed between her eyebrows as I knelt to the floor, pressing the flat of my palms against her inner thighs and opening her to me with my thumbs.
“You’re going to . . . ?” She didn’t finish the sentence. Her chest moved up and down with violent breaths.
Here is the truth: I love pussy.
And hers was petal pink and sensitive and secret, and entirely mine. I lowered my mouth and licked her just once, loving her tortured sounds of shock and awe, the instinctive rolling of her hips, and her mindless abandoned desire. When I began to move in earnest, her hips bucked off the bed, drawing a rumbling laugh from me, and a strangled, feral moan from her.
She was strong. I was stronger. I pressed her back to the bed, held her there with one hand while I drew small circles on the back of her thigh with my fingertips.
I’d barely found my rhythm when she squeaked, “Something is happe
ning,” as though I required a status update, as though this were an experiment and not the most natural thing in the world between two people in love.
Watching her lose control, feeling it, knowing I was the master of her pleasure, the proprietor of her trust, and cultivator of her appetites intoxicated me with an intense and heady sense of power.
Just as it humbled me.
Just as it made me remember why I’d insisted we wait to begin with. I stretched next to her, petting and stroking her as she continued to tremble, gathering her in my arms. She was completely vulnerable to me. Noble thoughts and feelings returned in a flood of protectiveness and certainty of possession.
I’d bought the ring the week after Valentine’s Day, more a compulsion than an impulse, and I’d carried it in my pocket whenever we were together.
The ring had been a promise to myself.
One day she would be mine.
One day I would be hers.
Until then, I’d decided I would be patient. We would take things slow, discover each other’s minds, foster the seed of love and mutual respect before satiating each other’s bodies.
The promise was enough. I’d planned to wait years before asking, before claiming her skin as mine.
Instead, during this first week of May, just three months after we’d agreed to be the only source of romantic situations for each other, I’d just asked Fiona to marry me.
And she said yes.
Again, it had been more a compulsion than an impulse, just like teasing her in the car earlier in the evening, or bringing her to this posh hotel, or proclaiming that I was in love with her.
I was in love with her. I had no choice. I needed her. She was as vital to me as the heart I’d offered and she’d accepted just moments ago. We bantered, teased. Everything felt good, better, meaningful. No doubt I was completely enamored. No doubt she owned me.
I was coming to understand fear was found in waiting. But that meant bravery was also found in waiting. I’ve never been very good at being brave.
Yet for her I would be. We would wait. We would explore and discover, take our time, learn to love delayed gratification. Because we were building a foundation to last a lifetime.
CHAPTER 7
Dear Husband: I am one more dog bark away from shaving my head and leaving everything behind. Your son was not good at Target. Or when we got home. There's mud all over my life and salmonella all over my soul.
Dear Wife: I promise to do all I can to get you to stay. I am sorry it is hard right now. If you leave, know I will follow. With chocolate. And muffins. And movies. And yoga pants.
-Heidi and Charles
Text Messages
Iowa, USA
Married 7 years
~Present Day~
*Fiona*
“I don’t think it was actually a real thing. I can’t imagine any Christians I know getting all worked up about renaming Christmas Wreath to Evergreen Wreath. It’s like, come on! Who cares? We have bigger fish to fry, namely frying fish and distributing loaves to the hungry.” Sandra waved her knitting needle in the air like it was a baton, emphasizing her point.
Elizabeth nodded. “I’m convinced the war on Christmas is actually just one atheist named Dave spreading rumors on the Internet from his parents’ basement in Rochester, New York, trying to make Christians look like super nuts.”
“Poor Dave. You should pray for him.” Marie giggled.
“I will, Marie. I will pray for Dave.” Sandra poked Marie with a finger. “Aren’t you an atheist?”
Marie shrugged. “More or less. I’m agnostic. And it’s not contagious, Sandra. You can’t catch it.”
“That’s not what Dave said,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, eliciting various heights of laughter from the group.
It was Tuesday knit night, but we weren’t at my apartment. Elizabeth had called me Monday and suggested we move the meet-up to her house as Janie was still under the weather. I readily agreed. My place was still a disaster. Severely lacking in energy, feeling morose and mournful, I hadn’t made the time to do any cleaning.
The first twenty-four hours after Greg’s departure were typically the worst. My chest hurt like I had unassailable heartburn. This time I was more heartbroken than usual.
I hated fighting with my husband. Nothing felt good or right or normal until we felt good and right and normal about each other.
After the kids fell asleep on Saturday, I’d composed an email. He wouldn’t receive it immediately, but I needed to apologize. He’d been worried about me and I’d patronized him instead of acknowledging his concerns.
So I wrote down all my thoughts, apologizing for my behavior. Apologizing for keeping him in the dark about my headaches, promising to redouble my efforts regarding the kids and keeping him in the loop. I also confessed to Jack’s upcoming soccer season and Grace’s princess dress. The email took me two hours to write, and I felt marginally better after I hit send.
It was now Tuesday night and he hadn’t yet responded, so I was still feeling pretty crummy.
Kat leaned forward. “As the token Jew in the room, can I just say I don’t get offended when I see a Christmas tree in an airport. I like all the decorations, it’s like the entire country goes Liberace for a month.”
“Well, as the token agnostic in the room, can I just say nothing offends me,” Marie added while studying her knitting pattern.
“Nothing that you know of offends you,” Nico corrected with a smirk.
“Ha ha. Very clever.” Marie rolled her eyes.
Sandra poked Marie again. “But don’t you celebrate Christmas?”
“Absolutely. I guess I’m what’s called a “Holitarian.” I’m an equal opportunity holiday celebrator, especially if the holiday or special occasion involves cocktails and presents.”
“I’m thinking of becoming a Buddhist.” Janie held a cold glass of lemonade in her hands, taking frequent sips. “Their respect for life, all lives, appeals to me.”
“I can see you as a Buddhist,” Marie said in such a way that made it sound like she believed religion were an item of clothing or a costume to be tried on and worn on the outside, rather than a deeply held belief.
“Well, as the token southern Baptist in the room, I can confirm that there are some Christians who get irritated about relabeling things as generic that were once Christian-specific. But I suspect that’s because early Christians did the same thing to the pagans as a means to dilute pagan religions and evangelize.”
“That’s right, they did. And it worked.” Marie studied Ashley with a thoughtful frown. “Like Halloween and All Saints Day.”
“Correct.” Ashley nodded once. “And if—no transgression implied to my dear agnostic friend—if Holitarians dilute the meaningfulness of Christmas by making everything generic, then it’s the same thing. Christmas and the traditions around it lose their meaning, so I understand the irritation, even though I don’t think most Christians pay attention to it, having better things to do. But I can also confirm that the media makes a big deal out of it when they should be covering more important issues—like our hungry brethren, and homelessness, and neglected children.”
“I’m going to miss you, Ashley Winston,” Nico said to the hat he was crocheting. “Your perspective is always well researched and well rounded.”
We all paused for a moment, the rhythm of our hands ceasing, because tonight was Ashley’s last evening with us before she moved to Tennessee. The landscape of our group was changing. Over the last two years, Janie, Elizabeth, and Sandra had all gotten married, now Janie was pregnant. Ashley’s move to Tennessee felt like the end of an era.
“It’s because I’m a reader. Readers have open minds; they have to. Otherwise they wouldn’t read. And I’m going to miss you too, Nicoletta.” Ashley gave Nico a small grin. “By this time next week I’ll be Skyping in from Tennessee, surrounded by my degenerate brothers. God help me.”
“Speaking of degenerates, where is Drew tonight?” Nico as
ked. This question caused a few chuckles because Drew Runous was the least likely of our crowd to be labeled as degenerate. He was the strong and silent type, and he looked like a mountain man. Probably because he was a mountain man.
“He and Alex went to the sporting goods store to look at fishing supplies. I think they’re planning a trip for the summer.”
“I’m not done talking about the last subject,” Sandra chimed in.
“Let it go, Sandra.” Marie had set her knitting aside to help Kat untangle her yarn. “We all know what you’re doing. You’re in denial about Ashley leaving, so you’re trying to change the subject.”
Sandra ignored Marie’s valid analysis of the situation and pointed her knitting needle at Nico. “You’re Catholic, right? What do the Catholics say?”
Nico lifted an eyebrow and regarded Sandra with sparkly eyes. “I’m not the Lorax of Catholics. I don’t speak for the trees of the faithful. That’s why we have the Pope.”
Kat giggled. “The Lorax of Catholics, I like that.”
Sandra squinted at Nico, but her next question was for me. “What about you, Fiona?”
“Fiona is more of a lead-by-example kind of person,” Elizabeth remarked, reaching for her whiskey-spiked hot chocolate.
“Fiona would be a lead-by-example kind of person,” Sandra nodded her agreement, but then added, the problem is, she’s too quiet about it.”
“Isn’t that the point of leading by example?” Kat frowned at her ball of yarn, more of a tangled mass of yarn than a ball.
“Yes, mostly. But if you don’t ever say anything, then how can others follow your example? All the good works get lost in the background noise. I think there are two parts to leading by example: do what you say, and say what you do.”
“Am I supposed to narrate my life? Add captions to all my actions?” I grinned, not looking up from my work in progress.
“No. But tooting a horn every once in a while wouldn’t hurt—and it doesn’t even have to be your own horn. But making no noise at all when you, oh I don’t know, need help, or see others in need, isn’t leading by example. It’s living with your head in the sand, or . . . No, that’s not right. It’s living with your emotions bottled up. You shouldn’t let people walk all over everything you believe, take advantage, or discount your feelings. If you don’t prioritize your feelings, no one else will.”
