by Karen Cimms
“You want respect? Maybe you should think about the way you act.” He slumped against the counter and stared at his feet. When he looked up again, the fire in his eyes had been replaced with a sad sort of resignation. He stared at me for a few beats before he spoke.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to be married to you sometimes?”
His voice was soft, but the words cut deep. He should have just hit me. Punched me in the stomach. Knocked me out. Anything would have been less painful than what he’d just said to me.
There was no way I would let him see how much he hurt me.
“Fuck you!” I stormed out of the kitchen and down the hall, grateful that the kids were spending the night at my mother’s. I tore the comforter off the bed, grabbed his pillow, and hurled them into the hallway. Then I slammed the door hard enough that a picture on the other side of the wall crashed to the floor, shattering the glass and probably the frame as well.
With a locked door between us, I slid to the floor. I was able to hold back the tears at first, at least until I heard the garage door rumble open, followed by the sound of Chase’s Harley tearing down our street.
Hours later, staring at the empty side of the bed, I felt more alone than hurt. Chase and I hadn’t spent a night apart since Zac was born. I remembered that day well. Chase had been walking on air when the nurse laid our son in his arms, but later he’d disappeared, and I didn’t see him for almost twenty-four hours. I’d even wondered if he’d changed his mind and had decided to walk away. But he’d shown up the following afternoon looking apologetic and ready to take us home. I never asked where he’d gone, and he never volunteered to tell me. I was just happy that he’d come back.
This time, however, I knew without a doubt that he was upset with me. And while I still thought he was blowing things out of proportion, I could see his point.
When that tattooed behemoth of a security guy had approached me to ask if I wanted to meet the band, I’d been thrilled. Chase was a superfan, which was the reason I’d gotten him those tickets in the first place. How was I supposed to know he wouldn’t be invited to tag along? It was my first rock concert; I’d been too busy working and raising Izzy to do most of the things my friends had done in high school and college.
Besides, it’s not like I would have gone backstage without Chase. Maybe I was being naïve, but baring my chest wasn’t a green light for anyone—not even Harlan St. James.
Chase’s words bounced around inside my head. I climbed out of bed in search of coffee and aspirin. When I pulled open the bedroom door, I nearly fell flat on my face.
Sprawled on the floor in front of the door, wrapped in our comforter, lay Chase. The half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him told me how he’d gotten there.
I tried quietly to step over him, but when my foot came down on the other side, he wrapped a big paw around my ankle.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled from a mouth that sounded like it was filled with cotton. He let go of my ankle and pushed himself up into a sitting position. “I didn’t mean it like it came out.”
Most of his hair had escaped the elastic that had held it in place last night. His shirt was rumpled, and two dark half-moons were stamped beneath his eyes. I wanted to feel sorry for him, but I couldn’t. Seeing him like that, on the floor, was a reminder of what he’d said and how much he’d hurt me. I wasn’t about to let him off that easily.
“Didn’t mean what? A lot of what you said last night came out pretty rotten.”
Eyes scrunched closed, he banged his head in frustration against the wall behind him. When he stopped, he looked up at me with genuine sadness in his eyes.
“I love you, and I love being married to you.”
“But?”
“But nothing. Not really. What’s difficult now is what’s always been difficult.”
I spun toward the kitchen, but he was quicker. He scrambled to his knees and wrapped his arms around my legs. His cheek was pressed against my back as he spoke.
“What’s difficult is that you’re so beautiful and so sexy, and I see other men looking at you and I imagine them fantasizing about you and it makes me crazy. I can’t help it.”
“How many times do I have to remind you that I have no control over what someone else—”
He turned me around so that I was facing him and pulled himself up on wobbly legs.
“You’re right. You don’t have control over what anyone thinks. But when you flaunt it right in front of them? When you pose half-naked, even for something ‘artistic’”—his fingers curled into air quotes, and it was all I could do to stop myself from slapping his hands down—“or when you flash a rock megastar like you did last night, you are in control, whether you want to admit it or not. And maybe it’s old-fashioned or worse, but I can’t help feeling disrespected. As if my feelings don’t matter.”
It genuinely frightened me to think what he might do if he ever found out I’d posed for Antoine to earn the money for those tickets, let alone that I’d done so with that horny male model. I shivered involuntarily.
He ran his fingers over my hair, gathering it to one side. “I love you so much. So yeah, I’m a fucking caveman when it comes to you. I can’t help it.”
Feeling more contrite, and a little guilty, I cupped his cheeks in my hands. “I love you, and your feelings do matter. I just got carried away, and I’m sorry. I don’t like fighting with you.”
His arms circled my waist. “Me neither.”
“I promise from now on, no one gets to see my boobs but you. And maybe the doctor.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Female doctor?”
I stretched up onto my toes and kissed the tip of his nose. “Yeah. My female doctor.”
Chapter Six
A week later
The buzzer sounded over the stove. I stuck a finger through the thick purple goop on top of my head and scratched, then wiped it off on the towel around my neck. I peeked in on Zac, who still had about an hour left on his nap, and then tapped on Izzy’s door. She was sprawled across her bed, her nose in a book.
“Hey, Iz. I need to jump in the shower. Could you listen for your brother? He’s napping.”
“Yeah, sure.” She didn’t look up, but I knew she wouldn’t ignore her brother if he started to cry. She was a good big sister. The best.
I stepped into the shower and carefully rinsed my hair in lukewarm water until the water was no longer purplish-brown. Lisa had only had time to fit me in for a haircut this morning, so I’d had to do the color myself. She’d told me what to buy and where to buy it, and I’d followed her instructions to the letter. That didn’t stop me from worrying that my hair would turn out green or purple. If it went anything like the color of the dye on my head, that could be a real possibility.
I stood with the water pounding on my neck and shoulders, giving the conditioner time to do its thing, while the fight with Chase last week played over and over in my mind. He’d definitely overreacted, but I was trying to see things from his perspective. I really didn’t have a problem with women looking at him appreciatively. As far as I was concerned, they were complimenting me on my good taste. And even if they were picturing him bare-chested or even bare-assed, it didn’t mean he was encouraging them or that he would respond to an actual come-on. He was mine. I knew it as much as I knew that I was his.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have the same confidence in me. It was upsetting, but I got it. He probably wasn’t the only husband who had a problem with his wife flashing rock stars or posing half-naked, with or without a half-naked man. It also wouldn’t hurt for me to tone it down a bit, which was exactly what I was doing.
After toweling off, I stuck my head out of the bathroom and listened. Still quiet. I dried my hair and styled it the way Lisa had, then opened the drawer that held all of my makeup. Even in my sleep, I could paint wings sharp enough to cut a bitch. Not today. I dropped the wand back into the drawer and settled for a few coats of mascara.
I’d taken Zac an
d Izzy for new sneakers yesterday, so while we were out, I also picked up a few new things for me.
I pulled out one of my new tops—a pale pink turtleneck sweater in a size larger than I usually wore—and slipped it on, then finished getting dressed.
The reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door was startling. I’d expected to look different—just not this different. I was indistinguishable from any one of the dozens of bored-looking moms I’d seen in front of the elementary school, standing beside their minivans, gossiping until the bell rang and their kids came charging out the front door. Fighting the urge to dive back into my makeup drawer, I smoothed my hands down the front of my sweater and over my new mom jeans.
Chase hadn’t asked me to do anything except respect his feelings. Changing how I looked on the outside might help the way I felt on the inside and how I behaved. At least I hoped it would.
I just didn’t realize my new look would be so drastic.
Chapter Seven
I eased the bike into my garage, snapped the kickstand in place, and hung my helmet on the handlebar. We’d spent too much time bullshitting after we’d loaded the car onto Wally’s trailer, and now I’d barely have enough time to grab a quick shower and gobble down some dinner.
I unlaced my work boots and grabbed a beer from the garage fridge.
As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, I was greeted by the aroma of lasagna from the oven and the sight of my mother-in-law washing dishes.
“Hey, Dorinda.” I toed off my boots next to the door. “Where’s Rain?”
She turned off the water, wiped her hands on a towel draped over the handle of the oven door, and turned.
I choked on my beer. “Holy shit! What the hell did you do?”
Rain’s eyes met mine for the briefest of seconds, then skittered away toward anything that wasn’t my face. Her hair was shorter—a lot shorter. At least ten inches had been lopped off. And it was darker. The silky, pale blond hair I was used to had given way to a flatter, darker blond. And she had bangs. They were cut longer on the sides, blending into the shape of her new haircut.
Once I got over the shock of her hair, I took in the more subtle changes. Her face was almost completely bare, and her pink turtleneck and jeans looked about a size too big. Not only were her fingernails now trimmed as short as mine, her signature pink nail polish was gone. It didn’t even look as if her nails had been polished.
On her feet, she wore little black ballet shoes. Flats. I hadn’t been able to get her to wear flat shoes even when she was pregnant.
She looked as if she were auditioning for the role of soccer mom in some community theater play. She also looked like she was about to burst into tears. I would bet anything, including my Harley, that it was my fault.
I set my beer on the counter and pulled her into my arms. She didn’t come easily, and I had to tug until she stumbled toward me.
“I’m sorry, babe. You just surprised me, that’s all.” I leaned back far enough to look down at her, but not far enough that she could get away. I ran my fingers through her hair. It felt the same, even if it looked nothing like what I’d known for the past few years. “You look beautiful, just . . . different.” She stared at a spot on the center of my chest, her eyes glistening. “Please don’t be upset with me.”
“You hate it,” she said to my chest.
I curled a finger under her chin and tilted it up. “Baby, I wouldn’t hate the way you looked even if you shaved one side of your head and dyed the other side purple. I love you. I don’t care what you look like.”
She lifted her hands and gave me a hard shove. I stumbled backward and caught myself on the counter. Guess that wasn’t the right thing to say either.
“Rain, you know I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m just surprised you made such a dramatic change. It’s not a bad change. It’s just you look so different.”
The eyes that met mine seemed more suited to shooting sparks rather than leaking tears. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Me? What are you talking about?”
Her hand swiped the air, from the top of her head and down. “This. Isn’t this what you wanted?”
I would’ve asked if she’d been drinking, but I didn’t think that would go over very well.
“I never said I wanted you to change how you look. I love the way you looked—look. I love the way you look. Before and after.”
The buzzer went off on the stove. She stalked over and slammed it off so hard I was surprised the button didn’t snap off. She opened the oven, grabbed a pair of potholders from the counter, yanked out the lasagna, and dropped it on top of the stove with a clatter.
“So I guess the old Rain was just for you to look at then, right? Maybe I should quit work and stay home. Never go out. This way no one can look at me.” The potholders went flying across the kitchen. “I know! Maybe I’ll get one of those black things women in the Middle East wear. What are they called? Burkas? They even have them with the mesh across the face. No one would see me at all, and then you’d never have to worry. Not that you have anything to worry about, you ass.”
Before I could answer or even try to defend myself, she stormed out of the kitchen. The slam of the bedroom door wasn’t far behind. At the rate we were going, I’d be replacing that door frame soon.
I wracked my brain trying to recall the past twenty-four hours: I came home from work; we ordered a pizza for dinner; after the kids went to bed, Rain made popcorn and we watched Skyfall until she fell asleep; then I carried her to bed and when she woke up, we had sex; then I fell asleep. This morning, I kissed her goodbye and went to work. Nope, nothing unusual. I fall asleep all the time after sex. I can’t help it; she wears me out. That didn’t mean there weren’t days I’d wake up soon, ready to go at it again. I even cuddled her before I fell asleep last night, so that couldn’t be it. Maybe she’d gotten her period or something.
I headed for the bedroom, unsure what to do or say to fix this, but I sure as hell couldn’t head to the track with her in this state of mind—whatever the hell state that might be.
“Dad?” Izzy popped her head out of her bedroom. Zac was sitting on the bed, looking worried. “Is Mommy okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” I kissed the top of her head, then gave my son a kiss and a tickle. The worried look disappeared, replaced by deep-throated giggles.
“Why is she crying?”
Izzy was too smart to lie to. “I don’t know, but I think she’s mad at me.”
“You don’t like her hair either?”
I bit down on my bottom lip to keep from laughing. It wasn’t funny, but kids could be brutally honest. “I think she thinks I don’t like it.”
She nodded, mulling that over. “I guess you better go tell her you like it then.”
I tapped her on the nose with my finger. “I think you’re right. Dinner’s on the stove. Why don’t you take Zac and get started? We’ll be there in a few minutes. Okay?”
The bedroom door was locked, so I swiped my hand over the top of the doorframe and pulled down the key I’d put there after the last time she’d locked me out. I didn’t bother to knock. I just unlocked the door and went inside.
She didn’t hear me. She was sobbing into her pillow. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wishing I knew what the hell was really going on.
Her body stiffened when I touched her shoulder, and she tried to shrug me off.
“Rain, sweetheart, please talk to me.”
“Go away.” Her voice was muffled into the pillow.
“I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”
“You have a race, remember? Just go.”
I rolled my body lengthwise over hers and dropped down onto my side of the bed. I propped up on one hand and ran the other over her back.
After a few minutes, she lifted her head. Her hair covered much of her face, but what I could see was wet and puffy, and her eyes were red and swollen. What little mascara she’d be
en wearing had formed two black crescents on her pillow.
“Why are you still here?”
I brushed several strands of hair off her face and tucked them behind her ear. “I live here. This is my bed, and you’re my wife, and you’re upset.”
She snorted. It was a ragged, wet sound. I grabbed a few tissues from the box on my nightstand and handed them to her.
“Thank you.” All she did was crumple them into her fist and sniff.
I dropped my head onto my pillow so that we were eye to eye.
“Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m an idiot. That’s what’s going on.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. Not that I thought she was an idiot, but I had no idea what she meant, and it seemed safer to listen and not speak.
“I thought if I toned down my appearance, guys might not look at me and you wouldn’t get so freaked out all the time. I thought you’d like it better if I looked more like a mom. You know? Like your mother.”
My balls shot up out of my nut sack and were currently lodged somewhere in my gut.
“Jeez. What the hell made you think I wanted you to look like my”—shit, I couldn’t even say it—“like her?”
She dabbed at her nose. “I bet she’d like me to act and dress more like her.”
“No doubt. But that doesn’t mean that’s what I want. I love you. Every part of you.” I pulled her onto my chest. “This is my fault, isn’t it? You’re still thinking of what I said last week about it being difficult to be married to you, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. I just thought you’d like it better if I looked less like a stripper and more like your mom.”
I clamped my hand over her mouth. “Do you like having sex?” She nodded, eyes wide. “Me too. I love it. But if you keep talking about trying to look like my mother, there’s a good chance it will never happen again. Got it?”
