Tell Me Everything

by Amy Hatvany

  “Oh, honey,” I said. I reached over and squeezed her hand.

  “He’s only fifty-three. I can’t spend the rest of my life like this,” Charlotte pressed her lips together, clearly fighting back tears.

  “I wouldn’t be able to, either,” I said, thinking about my own, currently less than satisfying sex life. “Have you thought about seeing a marriage counselor?”

  “That’s not going to get his dick hard.”

  I laughed. “Okay. But if what’s going on is more in his head, talking about it with you and someone who can help him figure out where this all stems from could be a first step? Or they could help you get him in to see the doctor.”

  Charlotte sighed. “He hates talking about his feelings. He seems perfectly content with the way things are. He walked in on me using my vibrator last night and didn’t say a word. He just turned around and left.”

  “Wow,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ve been talking with someone,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes on the table.

  “Like a therapist?” I asked, confused.

  “No” She looked up at me, guiltily. “A guy I met at an event I did for the Bill and Melinda Gates’ Foundation. Bryan. He’s divorced. He and his wife didn’t have sex for almost five years before he finally threw in the towel. He wishes he didn’t wait that long.”

  “How often are you talking with him?” I asked, keeping my voice as even as possible. I was shocked to hear that Charlotte, who was usually so vehemently against anything that even tip-toed around the issue of infidelity, was talking about intimate issues in her marriage with another man.

  “We’re just friends,” Charlotte said, with more than a touch of defensiveness. “I’m not spending time with him. We’re just texting. He gets what I’m going through, you know? I can tell him how I’m feeling—how lonely I’ve been. It really helps to talk with someone who’s been there.”

  “Sure,” I said, in a neutral tone. “I get that.” I paused, and swallowed a bit more of my drink. “Are you thinking about leaving Richard?”

  “I’m not cheating,” Charlotte declared, instead of answering my question. Her cheeks were flushed pink, either from the alcohol or self-righteous indignation. Probably a little of both. I made it a point to not talk too much or too often with the men I’d slept with—there was no texting or phone calls in between seeing each other, except for the ones necessary to set up our next meeting. But while Charlotte wasn’t sleeping with this man—at least, she wasn’t, yet—she was opening up, sharing with him about the problems she and Richard had. Which is worse? I wondered. Which creates more of a risk?

  “Honey, you know I’d never judge you, even if you had. You can tell me anything.” I felt a little sad, knowing that I couldn’t do the same; at least, not when it came to my sex life.

  Her expression softened. “Jesus, I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “After everything that happened with Alex....” She trailed off, and looked down at the table, again, picking at the edge of her cocktail napkin, tearing off tiny shreds. “I never thought I’d be capable of even thinking about cheating.”

  “But you are.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. Her eyes filled with tears. “I really like having him to talk to.”

  “Maybe you need to tell Richard that. Maybe it will help him realize how serious this is for you. For you marriage.”

  “I love him,” Charlotte said, blinking fast, as she carefully wiped beneath her eyes with the tips of her fingers. “Richard, not Bryan,” she added, quickly.

  “I know,” I said, gently. “I wish I could fix it for you.”

  “You know what I hate most?” she continued. “That Bentley sees us like this. Richard doesn’t even hold my hand anymore, or kiss me when he leaves the house. He doesn’t touch me. We just...exist. We co-parent. Bentley’s almost seventeen and I’m afraid we’ve completely fucked her up.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” I said. “Teenagers are so self-involved, I swear most of what we say or do around them doesn’t even register.” Even I spoke these words, they rang hollow. “You and Richard do need to work this out, though” I said, instead. “Make him get counseling with you. Tell him your marriage is at stake. That you really can’t keep living without some kind of sex life. Be clear that you’re at the end of your rope.”

  “Easier said than done.” She gave me a lopsided smile. “Why can’t every man be more like Jake? Can’t you clone him or something? Or at least have him teach some how-to-be-a-good-husband classes at the rec center?”

  “Jake isn’t perfect. We have our issues, too. Tonight, for example.”

  “What else?”

  “He always leaves clothes in the dryer when he does a load of laundry. He never folds or puts anything away. It drives me nuts.”

  “Oh no!” Charlotte said, with mock horror. “Divorce his ass, immediately!”

  “He also says he ‘cleans’ the kitchen, but really all he does in put the dishes in the dishwasher. I still have to sweep and mop the floor and wipe down the appliances.”

  “So hire a maid,” Charlotte said, with a snap of her fingers. “Problem solved.”

  “That would make my mom way too happy.”

  “At least your mom doesn’t tell your kids inappropriate stories about how she spent the Summer of Love.”

  “Yuck.” I didn’t care how old a person was, it was never a good thing to think about your parent having sex.

  “No kidding.” Charlotte paused as the server stopped by and asked if we wanted another drink. After we told him we were fine, and would take the check, she went on. “We should have a get together the next time your parents are here.”

  “They’ll actually coming in a few weeks, when school gets out.” It would be a rare occasion when my dad agreed to take a few days off—at my mother’s insistence, of course. My mother had continued to teach part-time over the last few years, but had also joined a local senior activities center. There, she’d met a few other women who were either single, widowed, or simply looking for reasons to get out of their house. They went out for dinners, formed a book club, and played Bunco every Sunday afternoon. They’d even taken a couple of trips together, one to New York and another to London—this year, they were discussing spending week in Mexico, or possibly taking a Caribbean cruise. It was heartening, to hear about my mother’s connection with this group. The majority of her colleagues in the physics department had been male, and she had little time—or desire, as far as I could tell—to forge friendships with other women. (She had not, suffice to say, been active on the PTA.) But now, whenever we spoke, she no longer complained about how little my dad was at home; instead, she told me about the conversations and adventures she had with her new friends.

  Unfortunately, she had never managed to bond with Charlotte’s mother the same way. The last time they saw each other, at Easter, Helen had spent the entire meal regaling us with tales of her latest protest march, repeating the phrase “fuck the patriarchy” enough times I was worried she had developed a verbal tick. My mother had nodded and smiled politely while Helen spoke, despite what I recognized as her distaste for Helen’s profanity and overtly unbridled breasts. Though they both had challenged the stereotypical role of what a woman “should” be or do with her life, they expressed their defiance in decidedly different ways.

  “Perfect,” Charlotte said, now, with a huge smile. She was always happier when she had a gathering to plan, more so if it was for her personal life, instead of work. “I’ll put something together for the Sunday after school gets out. I’ll invite Tiffany!”

  “I’m sure she’d appreciate that.” I kept making half-hearted promises to myself to get to know Tiffany better, but hadn’t done a very good job at following through. I never did tell her that Lizzy had been the one teaching other girls how to purge in the locker room, since Ella informed me that Lizzy had stopped doing it right after Tiffany spoke to the principal, probably worried that she would get caught. And whil
e I’d been tempted a few times to find a way to express my concern over Lizzy’s alleged promiscuity, I honestly didn’t know how I would have that conversation with Tiffany. It didn’t seem like something I’d want to hear about from another mother, unless it was someone like Charlotte, who knew and loved my daughter as much as I did, so I kept my mouth shut.

  We finished our drinks, paid the bill, and then ended up chatting for another hour about less serious subjects than the ones we’d begun our evening with. After Charlotte and I hugged in the parking lot, I climbed in my car and checked my phone. I’d missed a text from Jake. “Where are you?” he asked. I hadn’t bothered letting him know that I was going out with Charlotte, thinking that he would still be at the office by the time I got home.

  “Drinks with Charlotte,” I replied. “On my way, now.” He didn’t answer, which could mean he was irritated with me for worrying him, or already asleep. I hoped for the latter. It was almost one in the morning, and both of us needed a good night’s rest instead of trying to hash everything out when he was exhausted from a sixteen hour work day and I was still the tiniest bit annoyed. Those circumstances seemed more like a recipe for disaster than resolution. Regardless, I knew we needed to talk, so we didn’t end up like Charlotte and Richard or my parents— married, raising children, living in the same house, but leading separate lives.

  Thirteen

  Jake finally stumbled into the kitchen around ten the next morning, as the sun streamed in through the French doors that led out onto our deck, highlighting the fact that window washing was not high on anyone in this family’s to-do list. He made his way over to the Keurig machine. I’d already had my coffee when I got up at eight, but then put in another pod and set out his mug, so all he would have to do was press the brew button. It was a silent mea culpa—my small way of saying “sorry for being a bitch” the night before.

  I watched him from my spot on the couch in the family room, legs crossed. My foot bounced as he added a splash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar to his mug. He wore dark gray gym shorts and a black T-shirt, and when he turned around, I saw that his face was lined and puffy; the tender skin under his blue eyes almost looked like he’d been punched.

  He took a swallow of coffee and gave a quiet sigh of relief. “Are you still mad?” he asked, warily.

  “No,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true. I was emotionally-hungover from the frustration I’d felt last night, despite knowing it wasn’t fair for me to hold it against Jake when he had no choice but to work. But it wasn’t the first time knowing something to be true didn’t change how I felt about it. Sometimes it took a while for my heart to catch up to my head. “I’m sorry I hung up on you, though. That was shitty.”

  “It’s okay,” Jake said. “You were looking forward to going out. I was, too. I really am sorry.”

  “I know,” I said, the tension I felt starting to diminish. “How did the interviews go? Did Justine do okay?” When he hired her, Jake told me that Justine, a woman in her fifties, had worked in HR for almost twenty years, so she had recruiting experience, but not at the executive level, and not in the technology field, Jake’s area of expertise. She would require some serious hand-holding through the training process.

  “She has a lot to learn before she’d totally up to speed,” Jake said, now, as he came over to join me, sitting on the opposite end of the couch. He scratched at his chin—the stubble that was bordering on looking like the beginnings of a deliberate beard. “But overall, she did well. I think we found the right person for the job.”

  “That’s good.” It felt like we were making small talk on an uncomfortable first date, instead of a husband and wife of twelve years, and I hated it. I looked at Jake and unexpectedly, my bottom lip trembled and tears filled my eyes. “I miss you, baby.”

  Jake put down his coffee on the table in front of us and scooted closer. “Me, too,” he said, as he took my hand. He leaned over and gave me a soft, lingering kiss, and I tasted coffee and the slight, familiar funk of his morning breath. He set his forehead against mine. “We’re too damn busy.”

  I nodded, blinking my tears away, but didn’t speak. Despite how open we’d become with each other about our sexual desires, talking about my deeper emotions, showing him any sign of possible weakness, still didn’t come naturally to me.

  “Tell me your feelings, Jess,” he said, which only made me want to cry more. About a year ago, I’d shared how my mom used to say, “Tell me the facts” about a situation, so now, when Jake sensed I was upset about something, he made a point to ask me the opposite question. And every time he did, a few more bricks would crumble away from the wall I’d built to protect my heart.

  I forced myself to answer. “I’m just so damn afraid if we don’t start making our relationship more of a priority, we’re going to turn into my parents. I can’t live like they did. I refuse to. I feel like we’re right back where we were three years ago, and I hate it.” Just saying the words, being honest with my husband, lifted an enormous weight that had been sitting on my chest. I released a small sigh of relief.

  “I know,” Jake said. He shifted back, searching my face with tired blue eyes. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. I don’t want to live like that, either. But we talked about this. I’m expanding the company so eventually, I can work less. It’s going to take some time for everything to balance out.” He reached over and used the side of his thumb to wipe a bit of wetness from my cheek. “You’ve been working a lot, too.” He said this with concern, not as an accusation.

  “I know.” I sighed. “It’s hard to say no to new clients right now. I get so panicky that my current deals might be it for a while, because you never know when the housing bubble is going to burst again.” I’d just been starting out in real estate when the recession hit, fighting for every listing, every potential commission that would keep a roof over my children’s heads. There were some months where I didn’t make a single penny, scraping by on the child support Peter gave me, paying for gas and my utilities with my credit cards, and eating macaroni and cheese or bowls of cereal for dinner every night of the week. Now, with the huge influx of growth Seattle was experiencing—people flocking to the area faster than construction companies like Peter’s could build places to house them—I couldn’t help but work more, taking on as much, if not more business, than I could handle. For every one iron in the fire, I felt like I needed at least six more. That kind of uncertainty in my career was a double-edged sword: Nancy had told me to let it drive me to land the next listing or sale, which it did, but it also created the constant feeling that no matter how hard I worked—how many deals I made, or commissions I earned—it would never be enough.

  “I totally get it,” Jake said, and I knew this was true. But he didn’t struggle with the same insecurity that I did. He was human, of course, and had moments of self-doubt in his work, but fear of not doing enough—especially in my career—was a cloud that hung over me, even on my sunniest, most successful days.

  “You know what else I miss?” I asked, wanting to lighten the mood. “Sex. Dirty, kinky, fun sex.”

  Jake laughed. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  “A month and two days,” I said. “Not that I’m counting.”

  “Of course not,” he said, smiling. “I’m sorry, babe. My brain’s on total overload. I just haven’t been thinking about it.”

  I quickly relayed what I’d had planned for us the night before.

  “Well, shit,” Jake said, frowning. “That would have been awesome. No wonder you were pissed.”

  “It’s my fault. I should have told you instead of making it a surprise.” I had to remind myself that the only way Jake could understand my feelings or meet my needs was for me to vocalize what they were. Realizing this, more than anything else, had been the most beneficial result of deciding to explore a more adventurous sex life. Talking openly about what turned me on ended up being a gateway into talking about other things.

  “We haven�
�t put our profile up for a while,” I said, cautiously. I didn’t want him to think that my go-to solution to a challenging situation was having sex with someone else. But I also couldn’t deny the desire I had to spice things up again—to feel that wild, heart-hammering thrill of a strange man touching me.

  “We weren’t having the best luck finding someone,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you still wanted to do it.”

  “Do you still want to?” I asked. What if he said he doesn’t? I wondered, feeling a stitch of concern in my chest. And I still do?

  But then I didn’t have to worry, because he nodded. “I think it was good for us.” He paused. “And not just in bed.”

  I reached out and rubbed his forearm, giving it a quick, affectionate squeeze. Our eyes met, and it seemed like a hundred words were spoken in a language that only Jake and I understood.

  “The last few times,” Jake began, “it seemed like a lot of the guys were more into the idea of being with you alone instead of having me involved.” That was true—along with the men who wanted to be “bulls” or have me call them “’Daddy,” several men said they’d be interested in fucking me alone and having me tell Jake about it later, but not in having Jake there to take part.

  “Yeah, but the whole point is that we’re doing this together,” I said. I gave him a questioning look. “Right?”

  “You fucked the other guys without me there,” Jake said. “So, not together in person, every time we did it.” The rise and fall of his chest sped up, slightly, and his cheeks flushed.

  I held his gaze, watching as his pupils expanded, almost obliterating the blue of his irises. “Are you saying you don’t want to have a threesome, first?”

  “I’m saying,” Jake began, releasing a breath he’d apparently been holding, “that maybe you should pick a guy out on your own.”

  “What?” I asked, thinking I’d heard him wrong.

  Jake didn’t flinch. “You could post our profile, but leave out the stuff about me joining in. Just say I like to hear about it. You pick out the guy, decide if you like him, and then fuck him. Alone.”