by Portia Moore
He smiles, almost as if he’s amused. I guess I’d be amused too if I could reduce a college-educated woman to a bumbling idiot just by licking my lips.
“I’m Cal,” he replies.
Chapter 2
April 27th, 2011
I open my eyes and turn over to see Cal’s still asleep. I remember when I would watch him sleep; he seems like such a different person when he’s asleep. When he’s awake, he’s confident, cool, and in control of every situation. I think this is the only time he doesn’t have a wall up—when he’s not plotting and planning and his guard is down—the one he always has up, even with me.
I touch a lock of his hair and move it back into place. He starts to wake up, so I turn away and settle back on my pillow. He knows I’m awake, but he won’t say anything to acknowledge it.
He runs his fingers through my hair before tracing a soft line down my neck and momentarily resting them on the small of my back. He begins to trace his signature there, making me roll my eyes and get goose bumps simultaneously. This is his way of saying good morning, a tease. I feel him get out of bed. His footsteps grow faint as he enters our bathroom and the door shuts. I roll onto my back, entangling myself in our sheets.
A sigh escapes my mouth as my thoughts drift to last night. Tingles shoot through my body at the memory, and I try to shake the thought. He can make me feel wanted and be so in tune with me physically, but his mind will still be miles away in an emotional desert. He didn’t used be like this. I can’t pinpoint when he changed, but somewhere along the line, he started to grow resentful toward me, or maybe toward our marriage. I’m not sure which, or if there’s even a difference. We used to talk about it—or at least I tried to talk and he blew me off, telling me I was paranoid and overreacting. Now I don’t talk—I throw fits.
I didn’t used to be angry and vindictive all the time, but now it’s my defense mechanism. It’s about my only way to maintain my sanity. He has a barrier up that he won’t let me see behind. I only see what he wants me to see. I’ve known him for three years, and he’s still a puzzle I’m trying to solve. Sometimes I just get mad and want to throw the pieces at the wall and give up.
Unfortunately, I always come back, letting the mystery of the final project pull me in. It seems that’s what we’ve been reduced to—emotional mind games. We both play them. He’s forced me to play, and all I want is for it to be over and for us to be how we were before we were married. If it were up to me, I’d wake up every morning and tell him how much I love him.
Now, I just keep my feelings to myself until I have an emotional overload, like yesterday, aided by a bottle of wine—a bad habit I’ve developed after being left alone for days at a time.
His story is that he’s working. I do believe him—mostly—and for a while, I was content to share him with his job—or at least what he says is his job. I’ve never been privy to the specific details, other than that he works in a special division of Crestfield Corporation, a company that has its hand in nearly everything, from real estate to commercial retail and highly questionable financial investments.
Conveniently for Cal, he’s in a position that’s so confidential he can’t even tell his own wife where the hell he is half the time. When I complain, he says I knew this when I met him. And I did, but getting surprise visits from my boyfriend when we didn’t live together was exciting. The picture isn’t so rosy when you’re home alone most of the time and it seems as if your husband is just dropping by rather than living with you.
I look toward the window, where the sun is shining in. He must have opened the blinds. Two conclusions quickly come to mind: he’s either trying to wake me up, or he’s just trying to annoy the shit out of me. Whichever it is, I’m not happy about it.
I grab the remote that controls the blinds and close them again. I hate how the weather almost never matches my moods. Right now I would prefer it to be raining and dark out, that way I could linger in my depression, but as always, things never go as I plan.
I hear him come back into the room, and I look over as he opens the closet. His typical getup—a gray button-up and black slacks—will be, I’m sure, paired with one of his long black coats. He probably spends more money on clothes than I do. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him leave the room, so I return my attention to the ceiling. Suddenly I feel the sunlight on my back. He’s opened the damn blinds again. I was right. He’s trying to bug the shit out of me.
“What the hell is your problem?”
“It’s time to get up.” He glances at me while rifling through his drawer across the room.
“It’s morning. I’d like to sleep,” I growl before burying my head beneath the covers.
“Morning?” he asks, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “It’s one o’clock.” He laughs.
One? I roll over and maneuver myself to see the clock on his dresser. Damn. He’s right.
“I’m sorry I tired you out. I won’t keep you up so late tonight,” he says, smugness lacing his voice. He turns his attention to his cell phone.
I roll my eyes at him and start to get up, making sure the sheet covers my entire body. He notices.
“You have something I haven’t seen before now?” he asks deviously.
I don’t dignify him with an answer. I head to my closet, which he is now blocking.
“Excuse me,” I say sharply.
He just smiles at me. When he doesn’t move, I push past him, but he holds on to the sheet, so my choices are to either keep walking, bare as an egg, or to stay put and covered. I tug on it, but he won’t let go. In a battle of strength, he’ll win every time, so I do the only thing I can to save my dignity. I throw my hands up and twirl around in the birthday suit God gave me.
“Happy now?” I ask sarcastically.
“Well, you are wearing my favorite outfit on you,” he says with an amused grin. He points his phone at me, and the flash goes off on the camera.
“Real mature, Cal!” I chastise him before going into my walk-in closet and slamming the door.
I look around, see my robe hanging on a hook, and put it on. I go to my dresser and look for something to wear today. I need to get out of this house.
I sink deeper into the warm bath water, grab the remote beside me, and turn on the stereo, hoping to calm my senses. Twisting my hair into a braid and pinning it in place, I realize I should have done this before it became wet. I look at my nails. It’s time for a new manicure. Then I settle in and close my eyes, trying to relax.
I don’t really need a manicure. It isn’t a necessity; it’s just another example of how spoiled I’ve become since marrying Cal. The fact that it’s so high on my priority list is just one of the bad traits I’ve picked up since being with him, along with a long list of very bad words I use now that never used to escape my mouth. He brings out the worst in me sometimes, but when he wants to, he can bring out the best. Most times, that’s only when it’s to his benefit. I look up and notice he’s leaning in the doorway.
Damn him, sneaking up on me. I swear he has feet like a cat.
He’s dressed in one of his many chest-hugging gray T-shirts and a pair of dark denim jeans. The only thing that stands out about his outfit is the black Rolex on his wrist. He always does that. At first glance, you’d guess his clothing came off the rack from any local mall and then—surprise! He’s wearing an $11,000 watch or a $500 pair of sunglasses, and you’ll know otherwise.
It’s not the same clothing he picked out earlier. I’m surprised; he’s usually very decisive when he chooses things. He’s never been one to second-guess himself. Since I’ve known him, he’s always been very particular and exactly sure of what he wants. So I’m curious as to why he’s changed clothes. I grab my sponge and dip it in the water before I run it up my leg. I know he’s there. He knows I know he’s there, but I have no reason to address him.
He walks toward the sink, and I can’t help but think how good his hair looks since he’s grown it out—that fresh-out-of-bed-look.
He takes off his watch, making me wonder why. He then opens up the stereo control above our sink and presses the “scan” button, changing the radio station I had it on. I roll my eyes. I’m not going to do this with him. My first instinct is to change it back, but I came in here to relax, and I won’t let him interrupt my attempted moment of peace.
“How do you listen to this crap?” he asks, shaking his head in disgust. He finally finds a station he’s happy with and closes the stereo control back up.
I open my mouth to insult his choice, but I like the song. I have to admit, I’ve stolen his iPod more than a couple of times. His musical choices have exposed me to songs I’d probably never have discovered had I not known him. He’s not into pop at all; his favorite genres range from alternative to R&B, with classic rock dominating.
I’m so lost in the song that I don’t realize he’s now beside me, squatting near the side of the tub so we’re close to eye level. I try to play off my surprise as he smiles at me knowingly. The shirt he’s wearing highlights those gray eyes of his.
Ignoring him would be a lot easier if he had a beer belly, bad breath, or an ugly scar. I look away from him, continuing to busy myself with my soap sponge. I see him out of the corner of my eye, but I won’t give him my full attention. Unfortunately, he knows he has it, and he’ll make sure I know he knows.
He grabs the remote and turns down the radio. I still don’t look his way. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a smile play on his lips. He walks behind the tub and starts to caress the back of my neck. I bite my upper lip to keep from moaning, it feels so good. I curse him silently for knowing each and every sensitive spot on my body. With his one touch, my hormones drown out my anger, stubbornness, and better judgment. I feel his hands start to slide down my shoulders as he massages them. I try to maintain my aloofness, continuing to wash myself. I don’t know if it’s helping or making this situation worse. I know he either wants something or is going to tell me something that’s going to really piss me off.
“What do you want, Cal?” My question comes out as a whisper, which is not what I intended. I feel his lips on my shoulders, making their way up my neck.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he whispers in my ear before his tongue makes its way inside it.
This time I can’t help but let a small gasp escape. I try to wiggle my way out of his grasp. I don’t want to let him have the satisfaction of doing this to me, but one of his arms crosses beneath my breasts, holding me in place while his other hand makes its way past my belly button, slowly trailing downward.
“Cal, leave me… s-s—” I’m unable to finish my incoherent sentence as one of his fingers slips inside me, finding a place only he’s been able to discover.
I freeze as his fingers start to work their magic on the two most sensitive places on my body. I draw my legs up, my previous defensiveness disappearing as I close my eyes and lean back, giving him complete control to finish his intended task.
“What were you saying?” His voice is low and husky.
I want to scratch his eyes out, but I settle for digging my fingers deep into his shoulder as I feel myself going over the edge. It has little effect on him as his rhythm speeds up. I start to fidget, unable to control my panting, and I feel it coming on. As bad as I want it, I wish it wouldn’t.
“You started that little show out there,” he continues in between sucking the back of my neck. “But I just wanted you to know…”
I hear his voice, and I want to slap his patronizing ass, but a moment later, everything in me rises and releases, and I involuntarily let his name slip past my lips. Moments later, my body is coming down in ripples, and for that instant, I just enjoy bliss.
“I’m the finale.” He snickers, and it wakes me out of my moment of ecstasy.
I push him away from me, irritated at the satisfied grin on his face.
“What, no thank you?” he asks condescendingly.
I make my way out of the tub, dripping wet in more ways than one. As I grab my robe off the counter, I see what’s lying next to it and get a wicked idea.
“Lauren, don’t do it.” His eyes widen, reading my thoughts, and before he can reach me, I grab his watch and throw it into the water.
“Fuck!” he yells and races toward the water. But it’s too late. “That was really fucking evil, Lauren!” He holds up his watch helplessly.
I try to keep myself from laughing.
“Why the hell did you do that?” he shouts. His brow furrows and his skin turns a shade of red.
I shake off the thought of how good he looks. “Because you’re a condescending asshole, that’s why!” My voice matches the volume of his. He thinks he can do and say whatever he wants with no consequences.
He shakes his head incredulously then leaves the room, slamming the door. I smile to myself, but there’s a twinge of guilt somewhere inside me. He’s being such a baby—but the guilt is still there.
I let out a much-needed breath and let the tub water out. I quickly dry myself off and slip on my underwear and robe. I walk to the mirror, letting my hair down.
Cal buys expensive things, but he isn’t frivolous. He takes great care of everything he owns. From his most expensive car to his least expensive shirt, he treats all of them the same. I hate feeling guilty or sorry. I know he doesn’t most of the time. Yet maybe I did go overboard today.
I grab my sweater to put it on, but give in to my conscience. If I’m going to apologize and get him to accept it, the fewer clothes I have on, the better. I peek in the bedroom and see that he’s on the phone; he’s changing into the gray button-up and black slacks from earlier. I see his travel bag and cringe; I really want to burn that thing. Even though I’m upset with him, there’s still a sinking feeling in my stomach that he’s leaving.
“What time is he going to be there?” he asks.
“Around seven thirty. That’s two hours, your time,” a voice booms through the speaker.
“I’ll call you when I’m there,” Cal answers. He sits on the bed and begins putting on his shoes.
I sit beside him quietly, trying to sense how mad he is at me. “The watch was waterproof, wasn’t it?” I tell him dryly, trying to cover up my sincerity.
“Would it matter to you if it wasn’t?” he asks, surveying my outfit—or lack thereof. I love how he asks me a question and disregards mine.
“Maybe… maybe I overreacted a little,” I admit, watching him change out of his gym shoes into his black loafers.
I pout because he’s ignoring me. I stand up and walk in front of him. He doesn’t bother to look up at me.
“And that makes this time any different because?” he asks, unenthused.
“How long are you going to be gone?” I ask, pushing myself between his thighs, purposely ignoring his previous comment.
“You’re going to miss me?” he asks, but it’s a statement more than a question. He loosens the tie on my robe.
I don’t answer but look him in his eyes, knowing mine will give away my answer. He slides the robe down my shoulders and pulls it off me.
“The next time you try to get out of apologizing…” His voice is low and deep in a way that causes my heart to beat faster. His eyes look from my body into my eyes. “This”—he unhooks my bra—“isn’t needed.”
“Who said I was apologizing?” I retort before he pulls me onto him.
His lips crash against mine. I don’t fight his tongue for dominance but allow him to have his way, freely exploring my mouth. I wrap my legs tightly around his waist as he frees me from my robe completely and drops it onto the floor. I unbutton his shirt, looking into his eyes. Sometimes, I swear he can read my mind.
Hopefully he can see in my eyes what I can’t bring myself to say. At the very least, I know the longer he makes love to me, the longer it will be before he leaves, and I try to take solace in it.
Here I am again for the second time today, with nothing but a cool sheet covering my body. The space Cal previously rested in is cool. He’s
getting dressed after his shower, and I know in the next hour, I’ll be alone again. This is how it usually goes. Physically, he has no boundaries with me and none of my needs go unmet, but anything beyond that is a no-man’s land that I can’t seem to escape. He goes from attentive, responsive, and connected to withdrawn, distant, and aloof; and I wonder why me?
Any nameless woman could fulfill this need of his. He won’t let me be there for him in any way except sexually. It’s starting to get harder to see the difference between being his wife and a favored high-class escort.
“I’ll be back tomorrow… or more likely Thursday,” he states quietly.
I glance at him and turn in the opposite direction. I can’t believe how upset I still get; this is routine, after all. I fight back my tears. He doesn’t deserve them. He sits down beside me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sincerity intermingled with sarcasm.
I sigh. “I don’t know, Cal. What is wrong?” I ask sarcastically.
“What’s the matter? It’s not like you’re going to miss me.” He’s kissing my shoulders with the same lips that once could make me forgive him for anything. “But I’ll miss you. Just a little.” He adds the last part playfully.
I watch him put his coat on and grab his overnight bag. I could practically narrate this scene from memory.
“Come walk me to the door,” he says, heading out of the bedroom.
I start to pull the sheet around my body.
“Leave the sheet. Please.” He smiles with a twinkle in his eye that I’ve missed.
I feel myself blush, but I comply. I walk through our bedroom door as he holds it open, and I playfully roll my eyes at him. A moment later, I feel his hand slap my backside.
“Cal!” I yell, massaging the tingling on my backside. I should have seen that one coming. When we reach the front door, I cross my arms, starting to feel cold with no clothes on. “Thursday at the latest?”
