by Noelle Adams
He doesn’t answer immediately. I have no idea what’s going on in his mind. Then he finally murmurs, “Of course you do. I understand. I’ll see you when you get home.”
I CALL UP SAM AFTER I leave the office, since Melissa will still be at work. Sam is in her apartment, and Hunter is still working, so I head over there.
I cry on the way there, and I cry when I get there, and I’m crying again a few hours later when Sam, Melissa, and I are finishing up dinner.
They sent Hunter and Trevor to a sports bar to drink beer and eat wings and stay out of the way for the evening because I need my sisters tonight.
“I know it’s a weird and awkward situation,” Melissa says after I finish my most recent rambling attempt to explain how I’m feeling. “But it really sounds like Owen is trying his best to make everything work.”
“I know he is.”
“Then why are you so upset? It’s got to be more than the weirdness with work.” Melissa took the pins out of her hair when she got here, so it’s hanging loose around her shoulders. It makes her look softer, and her expression is worried and gentle.
“It is.” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat. I try to say more. I try to explain. My mouth opens, but no words come out. So I close it and then open it again. I can’t get anything said.
Sam says, “She’s upset because she wants Owen to love her and she doesn’t think he does.”
A couple more tears slip out of my eyes. “He cares about me. I know he does. And he’s doing the best he can in an awkward situation.”
“But you don’t think he loves you?” Melissa asks.
“Not like I love him.”
“How do you know?”
I open my mouth, but once again no words come out.
“You don’t know,” Sam says. “You’re scared and confused and in love with him, and you don’t know how he feels about you. Right?”
I drop my eyes. “I feel like an idiot when you put it that way, but you’re right.”
“Everyone feels like an idiot when they’re falling in love. That’s what love does to you. It doesn’t mean you’re silly or stupid. It just means you’re human.”
I look up at Sam, suddenly feeling a spark of hope.
Melissa reaches over to pat my arm. “You went through this whole thing with both me and Sam, so maybe you can remember your own advice.”
Sniffing, I straighten up in my seat. “You mean I have to talk to him?”
“Yes, you have to talk to him.” Melissa is chuckling softly now. “What the hell did you expect you’d have to do?”
“Would it be so hard for him to just blurt out that he loves me?”
“Maybe he’s scared and confused and in love too,” Sam says softly.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“Of course it’s not easy,” Sam replies. “It’s being human. It’s being completely vulnerable. Which means we usually make a mess of it. Do you remember what happened with Hunter and me? I was all set to talk to him, but he refused to let me because he was terrified he wasn’t good enough yet.”
“And I was all set to talk to Trevor, and then he totally lost it with Pop and it convinced me I was nothing to him.”
“Great,” I mumble. “Thanks a lot. You’re really helping me want to do this.”
Sam laughs. “But hey? Think on the bright side. Surely one of us can manage to get through the Talk without everything falling apart. It’s worth trying, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I shake my head and lean back in my chair. “It’s worth trying. So here I go.”
Nine
IT’S TEN IN THE EVENING by the time I make it home. The house is quiet. The only lights on are the entryway and the stairs, which Owen must have left on for me.
He must already be in bed.
Does he expect me to go sleep upstairs tonight instead of sleeping with him?
The thought stabs my chest, but I breathe through it. I haven’t slept upstairs in more than a month. I’m not going to do it tonight. And if Owen wants me to do so for some reason, well, then he’s going to have to tell me to my face.
The bedroom door is half open, and all the lights are out. I turn on a light in the hall so I can see enough to go into the room, get a little gown out of one of the drawers he gave me in his dresser, and then go to the bathroom to change, brush my teeth, and wash my face.
When I come out again, I’m nervous. Way too nervous. I’m almost shaking with it as I climb into bed.
Owen is lying on his side, facing in the opposite direction. I don’t think he’s asleep though. His body seems stiff. I can’t even hear him breathe.
“Owen,” I murmur, my voice sounding strange in the quiet room.
After a moment, he turns over to face me. I can see him just a little in the light from the hallway. His eyes are open and focused on my face.
I’m the one who said his name. Now he’s waiting for me to continue. I’m so scared now I’m cold all over. “Owen,” I whisper. I reach out to put a hand on his chest.
He makes a strange, guttural sound in his throat. “Chelsea.”
Then something happens. Something snaps. He rolls over, pushing me on my back and moving over me so he can kiss me.
The kiss is urgent, almost rough. His tongue moves into my mouth without invitation. My anxiety explodes into need as I wrap my arms around him and kiss him back.
One of his legs is between mine, so our legs are threaded together. Both of us are wearing pajama pants, so I can’t feel his skin, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Our thighs are rubbing together, and it’s the most sensual thing. I’m already aroused, even though we’ve only just started kissing.
His weight is pressing down into me, and I’m rocking up against it shamelessly. His mouth has finally broken from mine but only to leave a trail of kisses all over my face and then down my neck.
Every few kisses, he’ll breathe out my name. “Chelsea.” Over and over again.
I yank up my little top and pull it off over my head, and he lowers his mouth to my chest so he can kiss and tease my breasts. I’m arching and whimpering and fisting my hands in his hair.
I’m so full of need and emotion that’s swelling up inside me. I can’t contain it. I’m helpless in the wake of it.
It’s frightening. Feeling this good. This much. This close to someone.
Like there’s nothing between us.
Like we’re sharing one breath.
I have no idea how long it’s been since I got in bed, but now he’s pulling down my pajama pants and feeling between my legs. I’m hot and wet, and he’s going to know it. Two of his fingers slide inside me as I part my thighs even more.
I tug at the waistband of his pants, and he stops what he’s doing briefly to help me get them off. Then his fingers are inside me again, and he’s suckling my breast, and I’m coming before I know to expect it, gasping out, “Owen! Yes!”
My channel clenches around his fingers, and he keeps pushing against the contractions until the pleasure has faded. Then he moves his hand, and I reach down for his hard erection, easing him into position.
He parts my legs and pushes into me slowly, finding my lips in the dark again.
We kiss and rock together with a slow, sensual rhythm, and it goes on a really long time. Longer than I knew sex could last. My hands move from his head to his back to his ass, feeling the tightly clenching muscles as he moves his hips.
I think I must be having mini-orgasms, one after another. Because the pleasure deepens, lingers, doesn’t go away as we keep rocking together.
Gradually I feel Owen’s body tightening over mine. His breathing accelerates, and he finally breaks out of the kiss, holding his head up as he pumps faster, harder.
“Yes,” I breathe, digging my fingers into the firm flesh of his ass. The way it moves up and down, the muscles clenching tightly, is the sexiest thing. “Just like that.”
He’s grunting now and occasionally falling out of rhythm. “Can you come
again?”
I bend my knees up more, moving just as urgently as he is. “I don’t think... I ever stopped... coming.”
He makes a strange, helpless sound. We’re moving so wildly now the headboard is banging against the wall. “Chelsea.” His voice is getting louder as he repeats it. “Chelsea. Fuck, Chelsea!”
I cry out as another orgasm rushes through me. I’ve never been so loud in bed in my life, but there’s no way I can hold it back.
Then he’s coming too, and it’s just as good to feel his release. He shakes and gasps and jerks his hips until the pleasure has worked through him.
He collapses on top of me, all his weight descending on me without warning. I can’t help but like the feel of it.
As if he’s completely helpless in this moment.
As if he needs only me.
He presses a few clumsy kisses against my neck and shoulder as he pants. I stroke his back and his hair.
When he finally rolls off me, he takes me with him, so we’re lying in an embrace on our sides. My legs are still wrapped around him. His body is relaxing now, and so is mine.
But something remains in the air between us. Unspoken.
“Owen,” I begin, my voice barely a rasp. “I think we need to... talk.”
“Yeah. I know.” He lets me go at last and rolls over onto his back. After a long exhale, he says, “Can we do it in the morning?”
Maybe I’m weak. Maybe I’m a coward. But I cling to his words like a lifeline. “Yeah. Let’s wait until the morning to talk.”
I find the energy to get up, put my pajamas back on, and then go to the bathroom to pee and clean up. When I come back out, Owen has put his pants on and is sitting on the edge of the bed.
His shoulders are slumped like he’s too tired to hold himself up.
It worries me, but he gets up immediately and goes to use the bathroom after me. Then we both get under the covers, and he pulls me against him like normal.
I nestle against his side, trying to plan out the words I’ll use tomorrow morning when I talk to him about our relationship.
I still have no idea what I’ll say when I drift off to sleep.
I WAKE UP EARLIER THAN normal as soon as I hear Owen getting out of bed.
Maybe my sleeping self knows something important is happening today, but I open my eyes at just after six to see Owen striding to the bathroom, his pants riding low around his hips.
I’m suddenly hopeful about the morning.
Last night was... amazing. Deep and meaningful and special.
People don’t have sex like that if there’s not something real between them. I’ve had enough sex in my life to know that much.
Last night wasn’t just bodies moving together. It was us. All of us. Body and soul. Together for real.
We still have some stuff to work out, and some of it is going to be hard. We’ve got to figure out something to do about handling both my work and our marriage.
But we can figure it out somehow. Even if it doesn’t work out perfectly, I’ll be more than happy just to know that Owen is in this marriage for real.
Like me.
I’ll be happy just to hear the words.
I sit up in bed and wait for Owen to come out. When he does, he pauses and blinks in my direction.
“Hey,” I say with a smile. “I woke up early.”
“I see that.” He pauses. I see the hesitation on his face, in his body. Then he comes over and sits on the edge of the bed beside me. “You want to talk now.”
“Yeah. Unless you need coffee first.”
His day’s worth of beard is thick and dark and gives him an unusually rakish look. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are heavy. There are shadows under his eyes. “I’m fine. We can talk now.”
I reach out to stroke his cheek gently. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
“Not really. I was thinking through everything.”
I nod and wait, but he doesn’t continue. I’m not sure who is supposed to start this conversation, but I was the one who asked for it, so I conclude it should probably be me.
I’m not going to talk around the issue. I’m not going to hem and haw and act like a teenager.
I’m going to face this for real.
It’s not going to be that bad. Owen must care about me.
We couldn’t have made love the way we did last night if he doesn’t.
I take a ragged breath and say, “I guess things have gotten kind of... kind of complicated between us.”
“Yes.” He’s staring down at the floor, and I try not to take it as a bad sign.
“When we first got married, it was supposed to be simple. We’d have our separate lives, and I’d just be your temporary trophy wife. But... but I don’t really feel like that’s what’s happening right now.”
He swallows so hard I see it in his throat. “I know.”
“And I know it’s complicated. Because we have this marriage—which isn’t what we... we thought—and we have the work thing, which makes things trickier. But I think we need to... we need to clear things up.”
My voice wobbles just a little, but it’s mostly clear and controlled. I’m amazed I’m able to be so articulate when so much emotion is shuddering inside me.
“I know we do,” Owen says, his voice breaking on the last word. “This isn’t... working. That’s what I was thinking about all night.”
I blink, so surprised by the words that I give a little jerk. “It’s not... working?”
I intend it as a question, but he must take it as an affirmation because he nods. “I know. As much as I want it to, I don’t see how we can... make it through the year.”
Oh fuck.
This is terrible.
Terrible.
I still don’t know exactly what’s happening, but I know now it isn’t good. Owen’s face is damp with sweat and is set in fixed composure.
He goes on. “It’s too much. Too much... for me.”
“Too much?” I know I’m just parroting his words, but there’s no way I can come up with my own words right now. It’s all I can do to make my voice work.
“It’s too much. We were supposed to be simple. A professional arrangement with enough distance to make it work for both of us. And now you’re... everywhere. There’s no distance. You’re at my work and you’re in my home and you’re in my bed, and it’s too much. You’re... everywhere. Everything.”
Oh God. I can’t even breathe. Maybe this is what it feels like to get shot in the chest.
Maybe in a sappy daydream, a guy might say I’m everything to him, and it would be the sweetest thing.
But that’s not how Owen is saying it now.
My being everything is ripping him apart.
He doesn’t want it.
He doesn’t want me.
Not like that.
And I stupidly thought maybe he does.
“I... see.” I’m sitting very stiffly, my hands twisting together in my hand.
“Do you? I’ve thought about it so much I feel like my brain is numb from it, and I don’t see how we can go on like this. What will I... what will we do when the year is over, and we get a divorce?”
A divorce.
The end I always knew was coming but pretended wasn’t inevitable.
“I see,” I say again.
“I’m so sorry it turned into such a mess. I thought we could... It was foolish. But the way it is now is too much for me. I don’t feel like I can even...”
“Breathe.”
He nods, his eyes darting to my face quickly before turning back to the floor. “I just need a little...”
“Space.”
“Yes.” He licks his lips and turns his body so he’s looking at me again. “You must need it too.”
The irony is so bitter I can taste it. “Sure.”
“We obviously can’t manage it the way things are now. You told me you needed breathing room yesterday, and I was going to give it to you. And then I was all over you the minute you c
ame home. So I think we need some actual distance.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat, but it doesn’t help. “I see. So you want me to... to quit working?”
“No!” The word bursts out of him, but his tone is milder as he continues, “No. Of course I’m not going to ask you to quit working. That’s too... too important.”
“So what do you want?”
A brief hesitation. “I’d like you to move back upstairs.”
And there it is.
The piece that makes the puzzle complete.
Pop warned me. He told me this would happen. As much of a manipulative asshole as he is, Pop has never been a stupid man. And he could see it immediately.
Of course Owen doesn’t want me to quit working for his company, even to give him more space. I’m doing something he needs done there, and his company has always been his priority.
If something needs to be sacrificed on the altar of emotional well-being and personal space, it will never be his company.
It will always be me.
I’m not exactly sure how I do this next thing. I’ve never believed I’m this strong. I’ve always assumed that pain like this will make me fall apart.
It doesn’t. I don’t.
I nod. Say, “I see. Then that’s what I’ll do.” And then I stand up and walk stiffly to the dresser. Open one of the drawers he gave me last month.
It’s full of my sleepwear. My clothes in Owen’s dresser.
“You don’t have to move your stuff right now, Chelsea.” Owen has stood up from the bed too.
“Why not? It’s just a couple of drawers.” I’m piling my pajamas into a wad in my arms.
“Chelsea, I’m really sorry. I wish I didn’t have to do this. I just can’t figure out any other way for us to get through the rest of this marriage.”
I glance back at him, but my vision is so blurry I can’t see any details on his face. “It’s fine. I understand.”
“Do you?”
I hate the way he’s asking me that—as if he really means it, as if he’s really concerned with how I’m feeling right now.
He’s always been a good guy. He’s always trying to do right by me.
