by Chloe Liese
“I’m so tired of crying,” I tell Mai through the lump in my throat.
“I know, Frey,” she says softly.
“I’m so mad at him,” I growl through the tears.
Six months of slow, silent decline. It wasn’t one big, awful argument. It was a thousand quiet moments that added up until I realized I didn’t recognize him or us or, shit, even me.
“You’re allowed to be,” Mai says. “You’re hurting. And you stood up for yourself. That’s important. That’s big.”
“I did. I stood up for myself.” I wipe my nose. “And he acted like he had no goddamn clue what was wrong, like nothing was wrong.”
“To be fair, a lot of guys are like this,” Mai says. “I mean, Pete has gotten better at carrying more of the emotional load of our marriage, but it took time and work. You remember two years ago, when I kicked him out?”
“Uh. Yeah. He slept on my sofa.”
“That’s right. So you’re not alone. Guys do this. They mess up, and they’re usually clueless at first as to how. Most men aren’t taught to introspect on relationships. They’re taught to drag race for the girl, then once they have her, to hit cruise control. I mean, not all men. But enough of them that there’s a precedent.”
“Okay, fine, most of them don’t tend to introspect. But when things deteriorate like this, how are they happy?”
“I can’t say they’re happy. Complacent, maybe?”
“Complacent,” I say, tasting it sour on my tongue. “Fuck that.”
“Oh, you know I agree.”
There’s no way Aiden’s happy with this corpse of a marriage, is he? And complacent? That’s the last word I’d ever use for my husband. Aiden’s determined, driven, the most dedicated and hard-working person I’ve ever met. He doesn’t settle for anything. So why would he settle in our marriage? What happened?
Is he content to come home, exchange the same seven lines about our day, shower separately, then go to bed, just to do it all over again? Is he fulfilled by a quick peck on the cheek, satisfied that we haven’t had sex in months?
We used to have such fire for each other, such passion. And I know that dims with time, but we went from a blazing roar to a steady, warm glow. I loved that glow. I was happy with it. And then I realized one day it was gone. I was alone. And it was so, so cold.
“This sucks, Mai.” I blow my nose and throw the tissue nowhere in particular. I almost wish Aiden were here to cringe at the mess I’ve turned the house into. I’d watch his left eye start twitching and derive perverse satisfaction from actually eliciting some kind of response from him. “This sucks so bad.”
“I know, honey. I wish I could fix it. I’d do anything to fix it for you.”
Fresh tears streak my cheeks. “I know.”
The security system of our Culver City bungalow beeps, telling me someone entered and used the security code.
“Mai, I think he’s home. I’m gonna go.”
“Okay. Hang in there, Freya. Call anytime.”
Sitting up, I dab my eyes. “I will. Thank you. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I tap the button to end our call just as the door shuts quietly. Horseradish and Pickles leap off of me, bounding out of the room and down the hall.
“Should have named them Benedict and Arnold,” I mutter. “Traitors. I’m the one who feeds you!”
“Freya?” Aiden calls, followed by a bang, a thud, then a muttered string of curses. I think I left my sneakers right inside the door, which he must have tripped on.
Oops.
The door clicks behind him. “Freya?” he calls again. “It’s me.” His voice sounds hoarse.
I swallow a fresh stream of tears and try to wipe my face. After a week, you’d think I’d be ready by now, that I’d know what to say, or how to say it. But my pain feels…preverbal, tangled and sharp—a hot barbed-wire knot of emotions, shredding my chest.
Pushing off the mattress, I rush to the attached bathroom and splash my face, hoping a few handfuls of cold water will wash away evidence that I’ve been crying. Then I glance in the mirror and groan, seeing how I look. My eyes are red-rimmed, which makes my irises appear unnervingly pale. My nose is pink. And my forehead’s splotchy. All signs I’ve had a good cry. Excellent.
Aiden’s reflection joins mine in the mirror, and I freeze, like prey who senses the predator’s about to pounce. He stands in the threshold of the bathroom, his ocean-blue eyes locked on my face. He has a week-old beard, brown-black like the rest of his hair, that makes him look like a stranger. He’s never had facial hair beyond stubble, and I don’t know if I like it or hate it. I don’t know if I’m glad he’s home or miserable.
Silence hangs between us, until a drop of water falls from the faucet with an echoing plink!
My gaze travels his body, broad and strong. It feels like that first glimpse of home after a vacation that went just a few days too long. I realize I missed him, that my impulse to turn and throw myself in his arms, to bury my nose in his neck and breathe him in, isn’t entirely erased. It’s subdued but not gone.
Maybe that’s a good sign.
Maybe that scares the shit out of me.
Maybe I’m drunk.
God, my brain hurts. I’m so tired of thinking about this, I don’t even know what to think about the fact that some part of me wants to be in Aiden’s arms, for him to turn his head and kiss that spot behind my ear, then whisper my name as his hands span my waist. That I want that feeling of coming home, I want him to look into my eyes the way he used to, like he sees me, like he understands my heart.
“Y—” My voice cracks with phlegm and tears, before another hiccup sneaks out. I clear my throat. “You’re back already.”
“Sorry, I…” He frowns. “Are you drunk?”
I lift my chin. “Plausibly.”
“Possibly, you mean?” His frown deepens. “Freya, are you okay?”
“Yep. Grand. I asked you to leave because I’m in seventh fucking heaven, Aiden.”
His expression falters. He drops his bag to the floor, and I try not to watch his bicep bunch, the way his shirt hugs his round shoulder muscles. “I know it hasn’t been very long. But the janitor kicked me out of my office.”
“You were”—another hiccup wracks me—“sleeping in your office?”
“Frankie showed up at the cabin a few days ago. I wasn’t sticking around while she and Ren…” He coughs behind a fist. “Made up.”
My brother, Ren—thirdborn after me, then Axel—has been at the family A-frame cabin in Washington State for a few weeks, nursing a broken heart. I figured if I sent Aiden there, too, they’d at least have some camaraderie. Ren’s gentle and sensitive, and he was hurting over the breakup. Of course I’d hoped that Ren’s ex, Frankie, would come around, that they would be able to reconcile. But until then, Aiden might be of some comfort to him.
Seems my hope for their happy ending wasn’t for nothing after all.
I smile faintly, picturing my brother’s relief, even though in a small, sad corner of my heart, I’m jealous of him. That possibility feels so far for Aiden and me.
“I’m happy for them,” I whisper. “That’s great.”
“Yeah.” Aiden stares down at the floor. “I’ve never seen Ren smiling like that.”
Which is saying something. All Ren does is smile. He’s a ray of freaking sunshine.
“So,” Aiden says. “I came back and made it work, sleeping on the couch in my office, using the gym showers, until the janitor busted me and kicked me out because they’re shampooing the carpets. I’m sorry. I’ll do my best to give you space. When you’re ready…we can talk.”
I sniffle, blinking away tears.
“I know you said you’re not sure if this can be fixed, Freya,” Aiden says quietly. “But I’m here to tell you I will do everything I can to make it right. I promise you that.”
Nodding, I glance down at the sink.
After a long silence, he says, “I’ll sleep on th
e couch. Give you space—”
“Don’t.” I wipe my nose, dab my eyes. “It’s a big bed. We’re tall people, and neither of us are going to sleep well on a couch. Just…sleep on your side, and I’ll sleep on mine. We can both wear pajamas. We’ll get some rest, and in the morning, we can figure out a good sleeping situation for going forward. Maybe we can find a cheap bed for the office.”
I blink up and catch Aiden’s reflection in the mirror, the emotion tightening his face. “Okay.”
I leave the bathroom, rushing past him and biting my cheek as his hand softly brushes my wrist. “Go ahead, have a real shower,” I tell him. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
I leave him alone in our bathroom, silence hanging between us.
Soooo I might have neglected to grocery shop while Aiden was gone. There’s a head of cauliflower—ew—two eggs, and some questionable apples.
I know myself. I’m good and buzzed, and if I’m going to tiptoe around my husband and try not to blow a fuse the rest of the evening, I need to eat. Taking down our list of takeout places stuck to the fridge, I scour the names that are jumping around.
I squint until the letters settle down and decide pizza sounds good. Then again, Aiden’s picky about when he wants pizza. I might want to scream-cry at him, but erasing the ritual of making sure he’s up for ordering nauseates me. Or maybe that’s the bottle of Cab Franc I had on an empty stomach.
Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I can be pissed and still be civil. I can ask the guy if he wants a pizza without it signifying all is forgiven and forgotten.
I blame being tipsy and hungry, relying on muscle memory, for why I walk right into the bathroom without considering that my semi-estranged husband is much more than semi-naked in the shower. Just as I’m about to speak, I hear it—his soft, hungry growl. Every hair on my body stands on end.
He exhales roughly, and a quiet, broken sound punctuates his breath, like a cry he’s trying to stifle. My heart trips in my chest, as I peer around the corner, through the glass door of the shower, and freeze.
Aiden’s long body. His back to me. The tight muscles of his ass flexing, the divot of his hips deep and shadowed, droplets of water sliding down. One hand splayed on the tiles while the other is hidden, his arm moving.
My cheeks flush as I realize he’s masturbating, something I haven’t seen Aiden do in years, when we used to be sexually playful and do fun things like get ourselves off while watching each other, seeing who could last the longest until we were jumping on the other and finishing how we really wanted: together, so deeply connected—
Another low growl punctures the quiet, another broken, swallowed sound, and then, “Freya,” he whispers.
A flood of tears crests my eyes. My name on his lips echoes around us.
He calls my name quietly again and again, then drops his forehead to the tiles as he groans. His arm flies, the sound of his cock gliding through his hand faster, wetter.
My body responds obediently, remembering what it’s like for every tender, sensitive corner to burn awake, for my hands to run down his back, then lower, to pull him close, as I beg him to give me everything.
Desire and resentment smash inside me, a head-on collision of oppositional emotions. He wants me so badly, he’s fucking his hand to my name, but he hasn’t even tried to make love to me in months? He wants to fix it, but it’s on me to talk?
Aiden’s movement falters. A deep, wounded growl leaves him as he lifts his hand and slams it against the wall.
“Fuck,” he groans. Dropping his forehead to the tiles, he starts banging it rhythmically.
And then…the groans become steady, jagged, thick. A sound leaves him that I realize I’ve never heard. Aiden’s…crying.
I must make some kind of sound, too, because Aiden’s head lifts. He’s heard me. Slowly, he glances over his shoulder and meets my gaze. His ocean-blue eyes are as red-rimmed as mine, his jaw hard through his dark beard. The shower’s turned his hair black, clumped his long lashes. He looks at me in a way he hasn’t in a very long time.
Our eyes hold, and somehow I know we’re remembering the same thing. The last time we had sex. Here, in the shower. How it started wildly, like we were clawing, flailing for a grip on who we’d once been, doing just what we used to—playing. I rubbed myself to orgasm beneath the water, he worked himself roughly as I stared him down.
I remember how his eyes fluttered, his arm faltered, and his mouth fell open, as one last rush of air left him. How he spilled across the tiles as his eyes never left mine, like always. Then he dragged me out of the shower, dried me off, and knelt at my feet. I came against his mouth again and again… And then we did it once more, so urgently, we never even got beneath the sheets, like a solar flare, burning out bright. Before it became bleak. And cold. An emptiness that much darker without the startling beauty that had just brightened it.
I wipe away my tears, shattering the moment. Aiden blinks away and steps farther under the water.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, staring at anything but his body. “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right, Freya,” he says quietly, shampooing his hair. But I can tell he doesn’t mean it. I embarrassed him. Invaded his privacy.
Because I guess we need that now. Privacy.
I will my eyes not to stare at him. Not the part of him I know so intimately, not his long legs and powerful quads, whiter at the top, tan from mid-thigh down because the man’s a lucky freak of nature who turns golden brown the moment summer comes but has the loveliest alabaster skin in winter. It’s more difficult than it should be.
“I came in,” I say, steadying my voice, “to ask if you want pizza. I was going to order some because I didn’t get groceries.”
“I’ll go grocery shopping tomorrow.”
“Okay. But for tonight, I need to eat, so I’m asking about pizza.”
He rinses his hair. “Pizza’s fine.”
“Fine. Thanks.”
I rush out of the bathroom, my heart pounding. And then I feel the salt in my wound—a deepening twinge of cramps that have wracked my stomach all day, the first signs of what I knew was coming but have been dreading all the same: another cycle and no baby. Another twenty-eight days gone with a husband who’s barely acknowledged it the past six months since we decided that I’d stop taking the pill. No caring inquiries about how I’ve felt or if I’m late or what I need. Just another month with a husband who’s home from work later and later, who’s always on the phone and pauses his calls when I walk into the room. A husband I barely recognize.
I throw the takeout list back on the counter, dial for pizza, and open a fresh bottle of wine. After pouring a fat glass of red, I take a gulp. Then I take another and refill my glass. At this rate, I’ll wake up with a nice wine hangover. Tomorrow’s going to suck. But my husband came home.
It was going to suck, anyway.
Aiden
Playlist: “What Should I Do,” Jaymes Young
“You did what?”
I stare up at the sky. Clear blue just moments ago, it’s now swarmed by ominous black storm clouds. It feels like my fucking life. “I went back to the house.”
“No, man,” Pete sighs. “You don’t do that. Shit, you told me that when Mai kicked my ass out two years ago.”
This is true. But mostly because I was worried his wife would actually strangle him. He needed to let her cool down. My problem is the opposite. Freya’s already cool, which, despite her pale blonde hair and glacial blue-gray eyes, is not her normal disposition. She’s a bit reserved with strangers, but once she’s comfortable around you, she’s affectionate and expressive, full of warmth and jokes and smoky laughter.
Or, she was.
That was how I knew something was very wrong. I came home, and it was like the sun had slipped behind a thick cloud, like every songbird within miles had left the trees. Freya was quiet. Very, very quiet. I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard her sing in the shower or hum softly as she went
through the mail.
Then I glanced down at my feet. I saw a bag packed and a ticket with my name on it. That’s when I knew my world was falling apart.
“Aiden,” Pete says. “Talk to me. What were you thinking?”
“What was I supposed to do? Come enjoy a stay at your place? Your wife would’ve shish-kebabbed my nuts.”
Pete’s wife, Mai, is Freya’s best friend and undoubtedly knows what’s up. She’d murder me in my sleep if I tried to stay at their place.
“What about your buddy you’re doing all that secret business shit with? Dave?”
I roll my eyes at the jab. “Dan lives too far out from work. Not Dave.” Pete’s pissed that I’ve been busy with the app and that I won’t tell him more than loose details.
Yeah, your wife’s none-too-happy, either.
My chest constricts sharply. “Pete, I gotta go. I was already on the phone with Dan, and if I’m out here any longer, I’m pretty sure I’m going to be walking home from the art gallery.”
“Go. Call me later.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
I hang up and stare inside, steeling myself for the crowd and noise, the claustrophobic press of people when my mind’s already buzzing with too many thoughts, pulsing with nervous energy that has my body begging for a run that I haven’t had time for in too long. My anxiety is fucking terrible today. Not that it’s been much better otherwise lately.
I tried explaining it to Pete once, when he asked, like a good friend, what was going on. I told him anxiety is like whack-a-mole. Unpredictable, always waiting beneath the surface. Sometimes it’s a trigger that you can pinpoint and deal with, but even then, unexpectedly anxiety rears its head and you’re spinning, wishing you could locate that thing, for there to be one thing, that makes you this way so you can isolate it and smack the shit out of it, or…more accurately, fix it. Somehow.
