by Portia Moore
My heart is beating rapidly, and his eyes still won’t connect with mine. My stomach drops. He doesn’t say anything, which makes my heart speed up even more. I have to be jumping to conclusions. I mean, no—Cal wouldn’t leave me. We argue, we fight, we make up. This isn’t right.
“I have to,” he says.
His eyes finally fall on me, and the look in them scares me. He seems helpless, and I’m suddenly terrified. My throat is starting to burn.
“Is this about me, how I’ve been acting? Is this some kind of revenge thing?” I say, hearing my voice crack.
“This has nothing to do with you,” he says, almost in a whisper.
“Exactly, Cal! Look what you’re saying—I’m your wife. And your decision to leave has nothing to do with me?”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“What are you talking about? Cal! Talk to me, please,” I say frantically. “Look at me!”
His eyes stare past me.
“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like this?” I plead, feeling tears fall down my face. This isn’t the man I know; he seems broken. “Tell me what the hell is going on! Tell me what’s going on with you for once!”
“I can’t!” he yells back, and his expression hardens. “This isn’t about me.” He walks to the other side of the room.
“Then who is it about?” I don’t understand. This is not how this is supposed to happen.
He doesn’t say anything.
“You won’t tell me that either, huh?” I say quietly, unable to stop the stream of tears. I wipe them away angrily. “What am I supposed to say, Cal? What? Am I just supposed to accept you leaving? No explanations except ‘I have to.’ Not that I’ve ever gotten one from you. This won’t be any different except who knows when you’ll come back? If you come back.”
“My stock dividends from the company will still be deposited into the account…” he continues.
Oh my God, he thinks I care about money, as if that’s my main concern right now.
“I don’t care about the fucking money! I never cared about any of this—the trips, this house—I never needed this! All I wanted”—I’m screaming now—“all I ever wanted was you. Can’t you see that?” My words get caught in my throat. “Say something.” My voice comes out in a whisper. “Is there someone else?” I try to maintain what little composure I have left.
“I told you I’ve never cheated on you,” he insists, almost annoyed.
“Then why? People just don’t decide to leave out of nowhere. There has to be a reason. Tell me you’re in love with someone else, that this isn’t working, that you’re in trouble. Just tell me something,” I plead with him, begging for some type of explanation.
“There’s nothing I can tell you,” he says coldly, his eyes not even on me.
I look at him, the person I’ve loved all these years, the man I’ve loved so much that my body ached. How many nights have I cried myself to sleep, missing him? How many times has my mind told me to walk away, and I stayed?
If it’s this easy for him, he doesn’t deserve a measure of what I’m feeling right now. He doesn’t deserve to know how much I love him. I don’t even know how to respond to this. How do you respond when your husband says he’s leaving you, and he can’t tell you why?
“What am I supposed to do?” I ask him, wanting some kind of response, some kind of answer.
“Helen and Dex will take care of anything you need—”
“Helen and Dexter? They know about this?” I yell.
He looks away for the hundredth time today.
“How long have you known that you were leaving me? Have you gotten bored with me, or is this just a spur-of-the-moment thing?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, walking toward me.
I step away quickly. “Then what? Tell me what it’s like. Tell me something. Tell me why,” I say as the burning in my throat mounts. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!”
My throat feels as if it’s on fire. My vision is so blurry I can’t even see him clearly. I walk over to the bed and rest my head in my hands. I’m completely drained. Every emotion inside me is spilling over, and all I can do is cry. He walks toward me, reaching out. I get up to step away, but he pulls me into him.
“Why? Why are you doing this to me?” I whimper, feeling too drained to push him away, and I don’t want to. I want to hold him and never let him go. I can feel myself completely breaking down.
“I’m sorry,” he says, stroking my hair.
But instead of finding that endearing, I feel like a helpless puppy about to be put to sleep at the pound.
“No, you aren’t,” I tell him in a daze. I’m not even in this moment. I can only see past it. And I see nothing.
“Yes, I am,” he says softly in my ear. I don’t detect a hint of sarcasm or amusement in his voice, which makes me cry even more.
I wrap my arms around him tightly and look into his eyes. “Don’t make me ask you to stay.”
I cry harder. I can’t even control what I’m saying, what I’m feeling. I feel as if everything is crashing down around me.
“I wish I could,” he replies in a whisper.
“Don’t! Don’t you dare make this seem as if it’s out of your control. If you wanted to stay, you would!”
It takes all my strength, but I remove myself from his arms. My vision is so blurred that all I see is a vague image of him. I feel his hands touch both sides of my waist, and his lips meet mine. I don’t even respond. I can’t. I want to kiss him back, wrap my arms around him, but I’m numb, too numb to react, too helpless to pull away. I can’t even register this; I won’t believe this is the last time he’ll kiss me, the last time he’ll touch me. I close my eyes, pretending this is all a bad dream and that I’ll wake up any minute. But when his lips leave mine, I know I won’t wake up. This isn’t a bad dream; I’m living this. I feel his lips move to my cheek.
“You’ll get through this,” he says. “You’ll have to.”
I wipe my eyes and look at him quickly before they blur again. “If you’re leaving, go!” I try to hold on to the last thread of dignity I have, the one thing that’s keeping me from begging him not to leave me. “Leave.” I push him. “I hate you! I hate you, you fucking bastard!”
I hit his chest furiously—I’m a hysterical, sobbing mess—and he stands there and takes it, not even trying to stop me. He looks drained too, and I hate him for it.
I hate that, even at this moment, I hope he’s okay. I hate the fact that his expression is soft, and he seems vulnerable. It’s all a trick. He’s trying to convey that he doesn’t really want to go. How could he do this to me and make me feel sorry for him? Why, in this moment, am I worried about him?
“Just go,” I whimper.
I make my way to the floor, not wanting to feel anything, not even the comfort of the bed we once shared. My whimpers are probably inaudible to him, but it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t care. I can’t believe that he cares, not now. I have to believe he doesn’t. I won’t give away my anger. It’s all I can hold on to. The alternative is worse, but I feel it winning out. It’s about to take over, and I silently pray that he leaves before it does, because I’m on the verge of it. It’s growing from the pit of my stomach—desperation.
I squeeze my fists together and bury my head underneath my arms. His footsteps approach. He nears me, and a moment later, the steps grow distant, farther and farther away with each second. Then the door closes, and I feel as if my heart has stopped. I lift my head and see that he’s gone. My imitation of a prayer has been granted, and that desperation in my stomach is now morphing into something else, something even more terrifying—complete and utter sorrow.
I close my eyes and my new prayer is for sleep. I want out of this moment, out of this life I’ve fallen into—that I’m now trapped in alone. My only temporary freedom is sleep. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish more than anything that sleep comes and comes fast. But it doesn’t, not in the follo
wing minutes or even the following hour. I feel catatonic, staring at the clock over my bed.
When I hear the door open again, my heart rate goes into overdrive, but I close my eyes, almost afraid to see him, wondering if he left something behind—if he forgot his keys or something important enough to take with him. I keep my eyes closed and try to slow down my breathing when I hear him move around me. I hope he’ll get what he needs quickly and leave me to my despair.
His footsteps near me again. I hold my breath, hoping if I hold it long enough, he’ll disappear. But when his hands move underneath me and he lifts me into his arms, I lose my breath completely. I’m afraid to breathe and only do so when he finally lays me down on the bed. He lifts my legs, removes each of my shoes, and I don’t know what to do. Do I say something? Do I kick him away? A moment later, cool sheets cover me. Then his lips rest gently on my forehead and I feel frozen, knowing he thinks I’m asleep. His footsteps grow distant again, the light clicks off, the door opens, and that welling from earlier comes up again, full force. I shoot up from my zombie-like state.
“Can you stay?” I blurt out and immediately regret it.
He stops in his tracks, his back toward me—there’s silence, and I remember I’m supposed to be asleep. But here I am, punishing him for his last act of decency toward me.
“Just—just until I fall asleep,” I manage to squeak out without my voice breaking, my old self content that the words have been spoken. The jaded, vindictive woman I’ve become these last few months cringes at the sound of them.
He doesn’t answer, but he walks back toward the bed. I slowly release the sheets trapped between my fingers. He sits on the edge of the bed, still not facing me, and rests his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together. I feel the burning sensation in my chest followed by the stinging coming up in my throat. In the next few minutes, I’m not going to be able to stop crying.
I immediately regret asking him to stay. I tell myself he has to be here out of pity, or some fucked-up sense of duty, granting his desperate wife a last request. A wife who doesn’t even know where the fuck he’s going and what’s making him sit so far away from me on our bed as if I’m disgusting. I change my mind. I want him out, but I can’t tell him without unleashing what will be an uncontrollable, hideous wail. So I quickly force myself back onto the bed, pull the sheets over my face, and try my best to whimper as quietly as I can.
His weight shifts, and I know he’s risen. I knew this would be too much for him. Why should he have to sit here and deal with this? He’s leaving anyway, and being here now isn’t going to make the resolution of this any better. He shouldn’t have come back in. He should have left me in my grief, lying on the floor alone. After all, that’s what he’s ultimately going to do.
When the sheet lifts off me, it’s like a splash of water on my face. When he climbs in beside me and pulls me toward him, it’s a comfort so conflicting, it almost gives me a headache. My mind tells me to push him away, overriding every other thought. I attempt to do it, placing my hands on his chest, but he pulls me toward him, wrapping his strong arms around me, and I don’t put up much more of a fight. He holds me tightly. I feel his heart beating rapidly, but when I look at him, his expression is calm. He stares past me, and I wonder if he’s in this moment with me. I don’t know if I want him to be, but I do know what I want.
I shift in his arms, and he looks down at me. I bring my lips to his, pressing against them, holding my breath as I do. When he pulls away, my heart drops, and I can’t face him. I quickly make a break from the bed, but he grabs my arm. He looks confused and conflicted, and it’s just making things worse. One thing that Cal has never denied me is his kiss, his touch, his body—they were all mine, and it’s breaking my spirit that he’s doing this now.
“I—I’m still going to have to leave.”
His voice is unyielding but soft, and it makes me melt. His grip on my wrist is gentle but firm enough to not allow me to run away, which was my absolute intention. I wish I could stop him from running away so easily. I replay his words in my head, trying to decipher the meaning, and in my clouded, emotional state I realize he’s trying to give me a choice. For once, he’s not trying to use sex as a bandage or as a means of control or manipulation. But I have to say his timing sucks.
I take a deep breath and command my voice to be steady. “I want to go to sleep.”
My voice is raspy and somewhat harsh. I clear my throat and wipe away any vulnerability and sincerity. I want him to know that him giving me his body wouldn’t be a knife stabbing through me, that this isn’t about trying to keep him here—but that I need this now. His guilt about it is not a priority to me now.
“Put me to sleep,” I say, sternly commanding my normal voice to return.
He raises his eyebrow, apparently skeptical. I can tell he’s surprised. Before he can say anything, I attack his lips, this time without hesitancy, with a swiftness I think catches him off guard and with a force I’m shocked I can muster, considering the state I’m in.
I climb on top of him, ensnaring his body between my legs, and wrap my arms tightly around his neck, kissing him with an urgency I’ve never felt before. He pulls away this time, trying to catch his breath. He takes my face in his hands, searching my expression, his eyes finding mine—the tables have turned, and he’s trying to figure out what it is I want. But I don’t have time for that. He’s trying to give me my last out, and I don’t want out. I want the one thing from him that makes me forget about everything else.
“What are you waiting on?” I ask, breaking the solemnness of this moment.
Before a second passes, he takes my lips, countering my hectic kisses and frantic need with a passionate patience that my fake bravado isn’t ready for, an unhurried desire that makes my stiffness melt away. His lips hold on to mine as though he’s trying to pull me into him. His hands slowly remove my clothes, but his pacing makes me feel vulnerable, almost innocent. The hard façade I’m trying to create is going to break, but I have to hold on to it. I break our embrace, snatch my shirt over my head, and reach to undo his pants, somehow successful even with my rapid, clumsy movements.
“Lauren!”
I ravish his lips to silence him, throwing all of my body weight on him, which causes us to momentarily fall back on the bed. I realize my pants are still on, and I swiftly shimmy out of them. When I try to climb on top of him again, he grabs my waist, stopping me. His eyes are downcast and his lips pressed tightly together—he’s upset, but right now, I don’t care. The confusion on his face is unexpected, but I don’t want to know what it’s about.
I need to be distracted. My lips find his once more, but again he pulls me into that slow, sensual kiss that almost broke me before. I pull away. I rest my eyes on his chest—I can’t look at him. I work up my nerve to try again, and I kiss him hard, biting his bottom lip. This time he breaks our kiss, and my eyes can’t leave his face fast enough. There’s a glimpse in his eyes of something I’ve never seen before, and I think I see hurt, possibly disappointment. It stabs through me, but the expression is brief. Soon, his familiar wicked grin covers what was just there. His fingers slide under the lacy material on my hip. He pulls it down, and I step out of it. Within a second, I’m on the bed, my arms above my head, trapped beneath his wrist. This is what I want. Lust—not love. Physicality—not intimacy.
He’s fucking me figuratively, and I want it literally. I don’t want to be made love to—that’s over. I can’t let him in that place. I won’t. I go to suck his neck, and he moves. His finger glides down my arm, and I try to ignore the tingling that jolts down my back at his touch. It’s something I’ll have to forget. He grips my hands, holds them together, then he takes my flimsy thong and ties it around my wrists. It’s tight, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want tenderness anyway. I want him inside me. I want to be exhausted, but mostly I want to forget. I want to forget this moment, that this could be or is good-bye.
When his lips find my neck, they st
ay there briefly before his tongue glides down to the crook of it, and he sucks on the skin midway. His path is slow and tortuous, and I shift to stop his trail. His fingers grasp my hair, forcing me to look at him, and I close my eyes. I won’t. I don’t want to see into him.
His lips are at my ear. “Open your eyes.”
His voice is deep and stern, but I ignore him. I can’t look at him. I bite my lips and squeeze my eyes shut tighter, and soon his tongue finds its way inside my ear. My body involuntarily arches toward him; it’s the place he knows makes me give him complete control. My eyes open. I pray that the tears welling up don’t escape them. I try to focus on the waves of lust going through my body and not on the fact that after all this, he’s going to be gone. That’s what I want to forget. I want to forget that I don’t want him to go. I feel his hardness pressing against me. It’s torture, and I’m growing inpatient. I want him inside.
“Now,” I demand, but it comes out more as begging, and I realize I’m helpless. I start to try to free my hands.
His lips leave my ear, travel down my neck, past my breasts, and when they reach my belly button, I freeze as his tongue swirls around it. This isn’t what I want. I know now where he’s going with this, and it isn’t what I wanted.
I try to move my body away from him, but he holds me in place as his lips trail lower and lower. I try to lock my legs together, but he easily holds them open and in place. His tongue traces the one part of my body I have absolutely no control over. I can’t help but cry out.
“Cal. Cal, stop,” I pant.
My mind is demanding that I do something to stop this, but my body is giving in to each stroke of his tongue. My thoughts and emotions crash against one another, my moans of pleasure battling against my pleas for him to stop. This isn’t what I wanted. I cover my face as best I can with my arms as his tongue delves deeper inside me. I try to inch away from him, and he grips my thighs tightly and pulls me to him. He goes more slowly, his pressure increasing, and my protests become shorter and inaudible. As my stomach tightens, he goes faster, and I can barely catch my breath. I give in completely, and as I feel myself building to a climax, my legs trembling, I think of when we first met—our first kiss. I try to block these things out and focus on the absolute pleasure my body is feeling—no emotion.
