by Penny Reid
“I should say them more often. Or at least send you a pile of diamonds.”
“I’d settle for a greeting card.”
“You should never settle, Fe. You should never have to. And you must tell me if I’m a source of unhappiness for you.”
A lump formed in my throat because my husband was so entirely and epically adorable when he was being sincere. Without thinking about his words too long or too hard, I gave into my instincts to assuage his worries. “You aren’t a source of unhappiness.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” He frowned at me, studying my features for a long moment before adding, “I am sorry I lied to you, about Nigeria. It was an act of a desperate man, a man desperate for his wife and family. And I’m sorry my dish-doing isn’t up to regulation standards. I promise I’ll do better when I’m home. I’ll watch a YouTube video on the proper way to clean a kitchen, maybe I’ll even buy one of those sexy maid costumes.”
I gave him a small smirk. “You’re going to wear one of those sexy maid costumes when you do the dishes?”
“No. You’ll wear the costume whenever you’d like me to do the dishes.”
“So I’ll wear it all the time?”
“Ah, good point. I’d have to get a second job just to afford the fishnet stockings required. Scratch that. We’ll have to come up with a different method of communication, when the dishes need doing. Maybe flash me?”
“How about you look around the kitchen and if it’s dirty you clean it? All of it.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed on me, but this mouth curved to one side. “I don’t know . . . that feels like something Hitler would say.”
I tried not to laugh as I added, “And wipe down the counters.”
“Fine.” His attention strayed to my mouth. “I will try to do better, and make every effort to remember to wipe down the counters. Though I still reserve the right to stack the dishwasher how I see fit.”
“Even though it’s inefficient,” I grumbled.
He grinned, his eyes moving back to mine. “Even though it’s inefficient, and wrong, and horrid, and a crime against humanity.”
“Glad we’re in agreement.” I returned his smile with a small one of my own, relieved he’d listened to my gripe about the dishes and promised to try harder. This was a step in the right direction. This had me feeling hopeful.
Greg’s expression sobered as he held my gaze and I could tell he was struggling, wanting to say something he wasn’t certain I would be willing to hear.
“Whatever it is, say it,” I encouraged. “You might as well, because we’re here until tomorrow morning and there are no kids in the other room vying for our attention.”
He nodded once and said, “The truth is, my poor dish-doing skills notwithstanding, I hate you taking responsibility for decisions that should be shared, not consulting me because you don’t think I care or have the right to an opinion.”
I felt his words resonate in my chest and in my neck, because he was right.
Even though I knew he was right, my first instinct was to explain my actions, because I never consciously tried to hurt him. “What was I supposed to do, Greg? I’m the one who wanted children. How could I ask—”
“No. You’re just the one who brought up the subject. Do you think I would’ve had children with you if I didn’t want them? Of course I wanted children with you. They are our children, Fe. And I need you to stop freezing me out.”
I pressed my lips together, my attention drifting to where he held my hand. My ingrained instinct was to apologize, be reasonable, let it go.
But the situation was more complicated than me freezing him out. He’d cut himself out by never being home. I was partially responsible, but we hadn’t arrived to this place solely because of my choices. Decisions had been made, actions—or inactions—had been taken by both of us.
“What are you thinking?”
I gathered a deep breath and pulled my hand from his. “The water is cold.”
“That’s not what you’re thinking.” His tone was laced with frustration.
“I’m tired, Greg. This last week has been crazy. I’m tired and . . . I need some time to think about what we’ve discussed. I need some time to think about everything.”
His jaw ticked and I could see the gathering tempest behind his expression. He was on the precipice of reacting.
I shook my head before he could speak. “No—you’re not allowed to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Give in to your pushy impulses. I will not be surrendering to your demands this time. I will not. You need to wait, because I need time to think. And no amount of pressure from you is going to make my thinking process go faster.”
“I’m not pushy.” He crossed his arms again.
“Yes, you are. You’re impatient; you want everything right now. You want all the answers immediately, and you mow down everyone in your way. You rush into things, and it’s worked out for you so far because you’re smart and wily. But I’m not like that. I need to contemplate and consider. And if you don’t want me to freeze you out, you need to give me some time.”
He frowned and issued a perfunctory nod. “Fine. You have an hour.”
I laughed, irritated and amused. “I’ll take all the time I need.”
“An hour and ten minutes. That’s my final offer.” His frown had grown fake; he was a faking frowner.
I laughed again, less irritated and more amused. “Hand me my towel, the water really is cold.”
He grabbed the towel, but didn’t hand it to me. “Can you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Stand up.”
I shrugged, then stood as requested, not immediately grasping the nature of his request. I blamed the post-Ketamine grogginess for my belated understanding.
I watched my husband blankly as he swallowed with difficulty, his eyelids growing heavy as his gaze traced over my body. I was suddenly self-conscious and considerably less cold.
I wondered; are there women who grow accustomed to being the subject of such longing?
I’ve found, as a general rule, the longer women are married, the more judgmental they become of other women, especially about sexuality and desire. But I’ve yet to meet a monogamous person who is an expert on sex, nor have I ever met a polygamist who is an expert on love.
Each marriage is a living thing, just as complex as the two individuals within it.
After eighteen years together and two kids, nothing about the way my husband wanted me in that moment felt ordinary or calm. And as thrilling as his desire was, the realization also saddened me.
We’d never been allowed to grow bored of each other. Time was a commodity, and time together had become the ultimate luxury. Perhaps if we spent infinite hours in each other’s company I’d eventually tire of his companionship. Maybe . . . but I doubted it.
He held his hand out. “Come here.”
“Greg, I’m very tired.”
“Come here,” he commanded, and yet there was a note of desperation in his voice.
I shivered and fit my fingers in his palm, goosebumps erupting over my skin. When I stepped out of the tub, he tugged me forward. I stood between his legs. His hands moved to my hips, his fingers digging into my wet skin. Mine rested on his shoulders. Both my feet were on the ground, and yet I felt unsteady.
Inclining his head, he licked a drop of water from my stomach, his hot tongue velvet against my chilled skin.
“Can you blame me?” he asked, his warm breath fanning over the wet tip of my breast, the combination of sensations coiling my insides.
“Blame you for what?” I asked, feeling remarkably winded.
He didn’t answer. Instead he covered my ribs and breasts with hot, wet kisses, causing my toes to curl, my neck to flush, and my lower abdomen to tighten and twist with a pulsing ache. His hands stroked my bare body, damp and slick and sensitive.
I was so tired. And he felt so good. I wanted to be selfish, and give myself o
ver to him. But I didn’t want to confuse him, or me.
“Nothing is resolved,” I whispered, even as I pressed him against me, wanting more, wanting to be devoured.
“I resolve to make you come with my fingers.” His fingers moved to my center, making me gasp.
“You’re not being fair.”
“I further resolve to make you come with my mouth.” He swirled his tongue low on my abdomen, sending a shock of heat to my core.
“Husband, this isn’t a good idea. You’re not listening.”
His hands slid to my bottom and he lowered his head, saying, “I will, darling. I resolve to listen to all your sweet sounds, be they sighs or screams . . . each and every one.”
I shivered again, a quaking capitulation, a submission.
The sound of Greg’s voice, dark and thick with promise, was just as potent as his touch. I knew soon he would be speaking salacious nonsense. Demanding, exacting phrases that revealed his baser instincts and desires. Possession. Ownership. Carnal infatuation. I welcomed it.
I welcomed his provoking and zealous vulgarity.
Greg’s grip grew restless and he bit me, making my breath hitch and hiss. He surged upward, stood, and I hooked my thumbs in his boxers, frantically pushing them to the ground, the tips of my fingers and the bite of my nails skimming along the coarse hair of his thighs.
He grabbed me, stroking and caressing my body. Single-minded and greedy, he pushed me against the wall, his hands rounding on my thighs, preparing to lift me.
But I didn’t want the loss of control. I didn’t want a rapid coupling against the wall. So I maneuvered him to the chair, pushed him down, and climbed on his lap, his skin now as wet and slippery as mine.
“I miss this,” he growled against my lips.
“What?” I hastily reached for him, guiding him, sucking in a breath as he entered me.
He palmed my ass with both of his hands and squeezed. “Fucking you.”
The throaty coarseness of his words, his blunt and erotic brutality, sent sharp ripples of sensation to my thighs and twisted deliciously in the dark center of my belly.
“Is that what we’re doing?” I rocked back and forth, taking him within me slowly, his savage, frustrated lust an aphrodisiac. “Fucking?”
“Yes. Oh God, yes. Like two mad animals,” he groaned, his head falling back as I quickened my pace.
“Do you want it rough?” I asked, scratching his bare chest and biting his bottom lip.
His hips jerked in response and he grunted at the sting of my nails. “No.”
He grabbed my wrists, bound them behind my back with one of his powerful hands. The position thrust my chest forward and he took advantage, nipping and sucking the sensitive flesh into his mouth.
“How do you want me?” I panted, struggling to maintain my rhythm. I felt overheated.
“How I want you . . .” he groaned against my naked skin, lifting his hips while endeavoring to guide mine. What his thrusts lacked in finesse he made up for with ruthless control, his thumb moving to stroke my center.
His ragged breath, my hitched sighs, the sound of our bodies meeting and retreating, became a seductive and impassioned symphony of sex. The hot friction of mating quickly built to a crisis. He released my wrists and I immediately pushed my fingers into his hair, wanting him closer, wanting him.
I was on the edge of the chaos of my climax when he stilled my hips and demanded, “Say you belong to me.”
“I belong to you,” I repeated the words mindlessly, shifting restlessly, enamored with the feverish, aching need of release, of being claimed. “I’ve always belonged to you.”
He flicked his thumb and pulsed forward, anchoring me to him and biting the side of my breast. “I love you wildly, madly, completely, Fiona Archer,” he growled, then groaned on a broken breath. “I love you always.”
His words, so desperately spoken, paired with the coarse texture of his beard against my sensitive skin sent me beyond thought, to a place of selfish shamelessness. My body bowed, every cell, every atom magnetized and provoked with frenetic ardor, and I lost control.
Yes.
Oh God.
Please.
Now.
Fuck.
Yes.
Please.
Greg . . .
Slowly, by degrees, the rigidity of my body released, and still he moved. As I rode him I grew languid, rocking, no longer taking. Tenderly, I kissed his jaw and tongued his ear, breathing hotly against his neck and arching into him.
“I love you, Greg Archer.” Our chests brushed and he sucked in a sharp breath, his grip now punishing and needful.
“Fe . . .”
“You belong to me,” I whispered, biting his shoulder and meeting his quickening thrusts.
His eyes closed, his jaw clenched, and his body was hard and taut as he came. I watched, reveling in his surrender to the oblivion of passion.
And his surrender to me.
CHAPTER 12
Dear Wife,
I hope you know that I miss you and that my love for you doesn't stop at the last time you heard from me. Especially when that last time turns from days to weeks and sometimes months.
-Frank
Letter
Serving in Iraq
Married 5 years
~14 years ago~
*Greg*
Art exists because situations exist wherein all words are underwhelming.
The words “senseless tragedy” may define a situation, but can never describe with any accuracy or poignancy the truth of raw feeling, emotion, chaos, darkness, anger, and pain.
I’d been up for two hours when the first plane hit the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. Returning from an early morning run, I’d flipped on the television in my downtown studio apartment.
I lived alone, though reminders of Fiona were everywhere. She’d left a toothbrush in my bathroom, her lotion next to the bed we shared when she was in town. Sometimes I’d smell it and miss her even more acutely, more desperately.
Our separation was supposed to last only a year. Yet stellar career and academic opportunities kept me in Texas and her in Iowa. We made it work, always with the promise of coming together at the end of the academic year. The most time together we’d managed was a full two months last summer. It had been divine. But then I’d been offered a fellowship with Dr. Louisa Franklin’s team in Houston, a pioneer in the field of environmentally friendly oil extraction.
Fiona urged me to take it. It was the smart thing to do. The opportunity was too valuable to pass up. We’d already proven we could handle a long-term separation. We’d been apart more than we’d been together over the last three and a half years.
I moved away from the racket of the morning news, crossing to the kitchen. Because I lived mostly without her, I liked the background noise to mute my loneliness. But the words World Trade Center and explosion effectively cut through my preoccupation with my to-do list of mundane tasks for the coming day.
Coffee was soon forgotten. I watched the news with both rapt fascination and abject horror for ten minutes. Then I saw the second plane hit in real time.
I stared at the TV screen, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, shocked beyond sense or sensation. I could not comprehend what had just happened.
I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but looking back, my level of shock was a testament to how lucky I was as a citizen of the United States. Since my medical discharge from the Marine Corps, I’d felt relatively safe. US citizens, for the most part, existed in this bubble of doldrums, of first-world problems. We lived apart from the rest of the world, a world where the words explosion and terrorist attack are as common as making the morning coffee.
But my first concrete conviction as I broke through the eerily numb surface of my thoughts was: Fiona and I are getting married. Today. Or Tomorrow.
And we would. Every time we’d been together during the last three years she’d suggested we elope. She hadn’t been pushy. She’d typic
ally cloak the suggestion as teasing, but I knew she was serious. I’d been the one holding out. But not anymore.
I didn’t shower. I didn’t pack. I grabbed my truck keys and passport, and I left.
It didn’t matter that our wedding was scheduled for January, a big extravagant affair planned entirely by her mother. We’d been engaged for three years, and in this moment it felt like three years too long. Too much wasted time. Too much waiting. And waiting.
And waiting.
Too much caution, courage, and bravery, and not enough seizing the fucking day.
The drive from Houston to Iowa took sixteen hours and I listened to the news throughout, gorging myself on repeated sound bites until my brain felt rubbery and bruised.
I stopped at a payphone around midday and left a message on her answering machine.
“Fe, darling, it’s your betrothed. I’m driving up right now. I know we’re not scheduled for another visit until October, but I’ve decided it would be best if we got married today or tomorrow. Can you call the clerk of the court and check on the requirements? I have my passport with me.”
I hung up, then immediately redialed.
“Also, I love you.”
I hung up again. I stared unseeingly at the dusty expanse of the Texas desert, focusing instead on the oil pumpjacks—the visible portion of a reciprocating piston pump—moving up and down in the distance.
Oil.
Oil felt like both the question and the answer to the question I hadn’t asked yet.
The why and the how: Why had they attacked the World Trade Center? And how had they obtained the resources needed? A growing sense of purpose, resolve to do whatever was necessary to keep this kind of senseless tragedy from happening again, infiltrated every part of my sentient thought.
I’d always wanted to do right by the earth, leave the world in a better state than when I’d arrived. Yet now I was struck with a new sense of determination, to make every action count for the better good. Oil was a corrupting influence, but it didn’t have to be. It could be a liberator instead of a tool for oppression. But people needed to be taught. They needed an advocate.
