by Q. B. Tyler
“Matt,” I say, and he looks up from his computer shocked to see me in his space.
“Yeah?”
“What’s today?” I ask, praying that he’ll break out in a smile or laugh. A simple “gotcha” would turn my whole day around.
What I don’t anticipate is his response.
“Wednesday?” he asks as he cocks his head to the side.
“No…the…the date,” I whisper.
“The twenty-third?” he says, and the wind is knocked out of me by the fact that it still hasn’t clicked.
“You…you forgot,” I say, the combination of the mimosas and wine causing the tears to flow out of me like a fountain. My lip trembles and I bolt from his office. I hear him calling after me but I fling myself on the bed and cry. Not just because he forgot my birthday; I’m not a child. No, it’s so much bigger. I cry because, in that moment, I know it’s over. I cry and cry until I feel the bed dip behind me and I’m pulled into his arms. I want to fight him so bad and if I were stronger I would, but I’m weak and exhausted and I just want him to love me again.
Why is that so hard? Why am I so unlovable?
I close my eyes, the tears leaking out of me when I hear a series of “I’m sorrys,” “I’ll fix this,” “Anything you want,” “Jewelry.”
I cry well into September twenty-fourth, and then I’m done. The walls move up over my face, my eyes, and most devastatingly my heart.
I ask for a divorce the following day.
I look at Matt, the hurt and anger at how inconsiderate he was almost a full year ago still coursing through me. I turn on my side; I can’t stand to look at him for another second, but my heart still races out of anger. I turn onto my back and shut my eyes, my last-ditch effort to calm down. When it doesn’t work, I fling the covers off of me and make my way out the bedroom, hoping some chamomile tea will calm my nerves. I start our electric kettle and prepare a cup before I sit on the floor, leaning up against the island in the center of our state-of-the-art kitchen. I pull out my Blackberry and put the phone to my ear as I hear it ring.
“Why are you still awake?” I hear him say sleepily and I wince, remembering how late it is.
“Sorry I woke you; I couldn’t sleep. I miss you.”
There’s silence on the other end as well as some shuffling, and then his voice is louder, making me believe he’s fully awake. “I miss you too, Charley. I wish you were here.”
I feel the tears lodged in my throat, and I’m seconds away from answering his question about why I’m awake in the first place, when my libido has a different idea. “What would you do if I was?”
I hear a sharp intake of breath and then his voice is low, sinful almost. “Charlotte.” The single word rings through the phone and has a direct line to my sex. “Where are you?”
“Kitchen.”
“Are you sure you won’t be…heard?”
“I’m sure. Tell me.” My hand dances at the hem of my t-shirt, my fingertip rubbing the skin just above the waistband of my shorts. “Make me forget, Will,” I whisper. “Please.”
He’s silent for a moment. “I should come back.”
“No. I’m fine, I just… I started thinking about my birthday last year.”
I don’t hear anything for a moment. I even pull my phone away from my ear wondering if I had dropped the call. “You have this blue dress,” he starts, and my eyes widen. I wasn’t expecting him to start talking about my wardrobe. “You wore it a few weeks ago, on the first warm day of the season. It clung to you in a way that made me hard for your entire session. It showed a hint of cleavage and I couldn’t stop fantasizing about licking the tiny bit of skin exposed between your breasts. It was a bit short, and I’d hoped you’d worn it for my benefit, especially every time you crossed and uncrossed your legs. My heart stopped every time you did because my eyes automatically went to the space between your legs, hoping for a glimpse of your panties. Wells was next to you… I swear he had to have known.”
I gasp at his confession about my Alice and Olivia dress. I hadn’t missed the way his eyes raked over me in appreciation when I walked into his office, my silky-smooth legs out on display for the first time since the prior year.
“I wanted to rip that dress off of you the second I laid eyes on you,” he continues. “Lay you on my desk and lick your pussy until you screamed my name.” My hand moves between my legs, rubbing myself through my shorts feeling myself build even underneath two layers of fabric. “I would take my cock and rub it against your slick clitoris. I wouldn’t slip it inside of you. Not yet. I would rub my cock against you. Torturing you, slowly. I would tap my cock against your sweet spot, over and over.”
Fuck, I wish I had my vibrator.
“Touch your pussy for me, Charley.” I do as he says, sliding my fingers underneath my panties to the slick folds that have been wet ever since Will answered the phone. “Are you?”
“Yes,” I breathe out, hoping I don’t sound like a cheesy porn star.
“Good. I’m touching my cock.”
“I wish it was inside of me.” I squeeze my eyes shut as I continue to rub harder.
“So do I, baby. Tonight, in the car wasn’t enough. I need you so badly I can’t think. If I were there, I’d have you on your back, your legs over my shoulder as I fucked you mercilessly. I would fuck you so hard, you’d wince every time you moved tomorrow. Every time you cross your legs, you’d feel the emptiness of not having my cock there. You’ll ache for me, Charlotte.”
“I already do.”
“Do you? Does your pussy hurt when I haven’t paid it attention in a while? When I haven’t kissed it or fucked it? Does it cry for me?”
“Yes!” My fingers slide inside of me just as Will would do if he were here.
“When you rub your pussy, do you picture me?”
“Yes, every time!”
“What are you picturing now?”
“Tell me what I should be picturing.”
“My fingers.” And I close my eyes trying to pretend my thin dainty fingers are his thick ones, burrowing deep inside of me up to the knuckle. “I love feeling your juices coating them, the smooth skin of your lips that tremble just before I touch you. That quiver while I’m inside of you, around my fingers. I love touching your clit with my thumb as I finger you, rubbing circles into the engorged flesh as I hook my finger around your g-spot. And then you moan.” His breathing speeds up and I wonder if he’s getting close. “Fuck, baby, your moans are like music to my dick.”
Right on cue, one escapes my lips as I feel myself nearing my climax. “Will, I’m so close.”
“I’d pull my fingers from your pretty pussy and lick the juices from them, the smell filling my nostrils of my favorite scent…you know that’s why I always smell your panties, right? Why I run my nose along the wet fabric just after I take them off?”
“I—I had an idea,” I stammer, my orgasm only a few strokes away.
“Let me hear you come, baby. I know you’re close.”
The strokes along my clit become more vigorous as I approach the edge, knowing that I’m so close to sweet release. “Will!” I cry out, my hand gripping the phone with one hand so tightly, as I fear I may drop it on my hardwood floor.
“There it is,” he says, his voice gravelly as if he’s just had an orgasm of his own. “Hearing you come is just as hot as watching you.”
“I wish you were here to watch me. Did you come?” I ask him.
“The second I heard you gasp out my name, sweetheart.”
I’m not sure if it’s his words or the after effects of my orgasm or a combination of the two, but I feel drained. My body is suddenly exhausted and wanting nothing more than to be in his arms.
“I want to spend my birthday this year with you.”
“I would love that.”
“Is it possible? Can we make that happen?”
“I’ll make it happen, if that’s what you want. Anything you want.”
“Anything?” A smile finds my f
ace as I picture all of the possibilities.
“Anything,” he repeats.
I sigh, thinking about the one thing I want most. The thing that can lead to me getting everything else I want in life. “I want a divorce, Will.”
He lets out a breath. “Do you want me to come get you?”
I know he would. If I asked him to, he would walk right into this house, pull me up off this kitchen floor and carry me to his car without thinking twice. “No. But I think…I think I’m going to talk to Matt tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Baby, don’t you want me to be there?” he asks, knowing that tomorrow isn’t one of our scheduled sessions.
“I don’t know… Maybe? But what are you going to do? Urge us to work it out? Tell me not to make any hasty decisions? You try to remain impartial during our sessions. It’s not going to work if you’re being all reasonable, trying to appear as if you’re an unbiased third party.”
“I just don’t know how he’s going to take it…what if he…”
I can imagine where his mind is going. “He won’t hurt me.”
“Everyone has a breaking point, Charley. Matt isn’t violent because he has to actively work at not being so because of how he was raised. Violence is a learned behavior that is embedded deep in Matt’s psyche. He has to constantly battle his demons, telling himself that he doesn’t want to become his father. It may not be a natural reaction. And if he’s upset, his natural reaction without thinking might be to cause harm to you.”
His words make sense and if it were anyone else I would agree, but this was Matt. My Matt. Well not mine anymore. But I know him. “I’m not worried, but if you want to be parked down the street just in case you can be.”
“I want to be,” he says instantly.
“Okay.”
“So, tomorrow?”
“Yes.
“Tomorrow, I ask for a divorce.”
* * *
Me: We really need to talk, tonight. Do you think you can come home early?
I stare down at the text I sent Matt well over three hours ago that is still unanswered. I roll my eyes, frustrated with the usual bullshit, and press the phone to my ear. An exasperated sigh leaves my lips as I hear the beginning of his voicemail. I don’t even bother leaving one, knowing that he either won’t listen to it or he’ll delete it as soon as he sees the red number flash on his screen.
Me: This is important, Matt.
The day passes at a glacial pace, my nerves on edge as I picture how this conversation with Matt is going to go.
How should I start it?
“You know we haven’t been happy in quite some time…”
“Despite everything that’s happened between us, I want you to be happy…”
“I want to be happy and I’m not…”
“I met someone…”
I look at my phone for the millionth time today, my pulse racing every time I reach for it, expecting a text message from my husband.
Still nothing.
I begin to pace the length of my bedroom, my heart in my throat as I picture his response to asking him for a divorce…again. He broke down in our living room, his knees finding the space on the floor just between my feet as he promised that things would get better. That he loved me more than anything, and he wanted a chance to fix it. When I was hesitant to respond, he went for a different tactic: fear.
“What about Michael? What are you going to do if Michael comes after you again? You need me, Charlotte. You need me just as much as I need you.”
“I don’t need you, Matt,” I speak into the air, my voice cold and angry. I jump nearly three feet when I hear my phone beep with the notification of a message.
Except it’s not the phone that Matt would be texting me on.
My heart races even faster, when I realize it’s not my husband, but the love of my life.
Will: Hi, beautiful. How is your day?
Me: As good as a day where I can’t see you could be, I guess.
Will: Tomorrow.
Me: What time should I meet you? And send me the address!
Will: Anxious, are we?
Me: You have no idea.
Will: Have you talked to him?
We’ve done our best to keep names out of our texts, not that I thought Matt would ever find my phone—or be able to unlock the impossible passcode I had on it—for that matter.
Being able to hack someone’s password required them to know deep intimate details about the other person and Matt didn’t know much about me anymore.
But, on the other hand, you could never be too safe when it came to technology, so we tried to keep specifics out of our messaging as best as we could.
Me: Nope. I’ve called, texted, he won’t respond or take my calls.
Will: Unbelievable. He must suspect what’s coming.
Me: How?
Will: He can’t possibly think you two are happy. That YOU are happy.
Me: Doesn’t mean he suspects that I want a divorce. He’s just inconsiderate and oblivious.
Will: Clearly.
Me: Can we talk about something else?
Will: Fine.
I can tell he’s irritated that I still haven’t had this conversation with Matt, indicating another day is going by that I’m not free from the shackles of my loveless marriage.
Will: What color are your underwear?
Me: Now we’re talking.
I spent the next hour, talking to Will, with my clothes off and on…and then off again. By the time we stop, I’m sated, yet physically and emotionally wrecked.
I wanted to be with Will. Now.
I stay up until my eyes can’t physically stay open for another second, and drift off to sleep on my couch in the den. I’d hoped he would have woken me up when he came home, but when I wake up the next morning, around five thirty, it’s to the sound of the front door closing, and I have an inkling that maybe Will was right.
He’s avoiding me.
I frown, annoyed that he’s so opposed to talking to me that he would let me sleep on our couch all night. I don’t know why the thought makes me so emotional, but it does and before I can stop them, the tears are moving uncontrollably down my face.
Why does he hate me so much?
It’s 10 a.m., and I’m driving to the house across town that Will had bought. I’m so happy to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city, and looking forward to an area of peace and quiet that could only be found in suburbia. I put my phone down as it tells me “I’ve arrived” and I stare up at the house in front of me. A vast contrast to the mansion I share with Matt, this house is much smaller but has the warm, inviting feel I’ve always longed for. It’s a gorgeous, gray house with white and blue accents, in a neighborhood just outside of Atlanta. I get out of the car and put my hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun and to take in the beauty of what’s before me. My eyes take it in from top to bottom and by the time I get to the white picket fence, I can’t help the smile that crosses my face.
“Do you like it?”
I turn to him, my brain telling my body that I can’t mount him in the front yard. “I love it! It’s beautiful and…there’s a white picket fence!”
“Did you think I’d buy you a house without one?”
I’d always wanted a house with a white picket fence because to me it represented that perfect family. Call it watching too much Father Knows Best and all of those older sitcoms that portrayed a family that lived in a perfect house, on the perfect street with white picket fences surrounding their perimeter. Matt didn’t seem all too concerned with that, and while our mansion is gorgeous, it’s also ostentatious and doesn’t exactly have the home feel that Dorothy wished for.
This feels like home…or maybe Will is my home.
He leads me inside, pushing me against the wall the second we are safely behind closed doors. “Hi, beautiful.” He cups my cheeks gently, stroking his thumbs over the space beneath my eyes. “How are you?” he asks, his eyes scanning my face, knowing
I can’t lie as easily to his face as I can over the phone about being fine.
“I’m okay, I just… I think you’re right about Matt suspecting what I want to talk about. I fell asleep on the couch waiting for him to come home and he didn’t even wake me when he got in last night.”
“He left you there?”
I nod. “It’s stupid. I hate that it bothers me so much. And our couch is comfortable.” I shrug.
He steps away from me, rubbing his jaw. “He’s such a fucking asshole.”
“Will…” I say, reaching for his hand in an effort to calm him down.
“Don’t, Charlotte. You know he is.”
“Yes, but I also know it’s not helping for you to get all worked up over it. You’re the level-headed one. I’m the emotional one, remember?” I joke and he shakes his head, his eyes finding mine.
“This isn’t funny. Nothing about this is funny,” he whispers as his fingers find my hair, gently tucking a strand behind my ear. “I’m ready for this—all of this. Aren’t you?” He waves his hand around the foyer and I’ll admit I’m dying to see the rest of the house, but clearly, we need to get a few things straight first.
“Yes, Will. I do, more than anything, but I’m ending a marriage. One I was in for five years, with a man I’ve known for almost a decade. Counselor hat on, please, boyfriend hat off. I know you can’t possibly be telling me that this isn’t a big deal. This isn’t something I can blurt out on my way out the door.”
“It just seems like you’re dragging your feet a little.”
“Me?” I push him gently on the chest so that I can put some space between us. I cross my arms defensively. “Matt’s never home.”
“That’s nothing new, Charlotte.”
“What do you want me to do? Hide his keys? Force him to sit down and pay attention to me? If I knew how to do that, we wouldn’t need you.” I roll my eyes and, in an instant, he wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me into his arms.
“Don’t be a smart-ass,” he scolds, pressing a finger to my lips when I try to protest. “This is going to be difficult. Perhaps the most difficult thing you’ve ever done, but if this is what you want. What you truly want…not just what you think I want, then you need to do this. In the end, only you have to deal with the choices that you make.”
