by Liza Palmer
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I say, giving him a long kiss. I can feel his confusion as it takes him a few seconds to really kiss me back, but then he pulls me in tight and for a few blissful minutes we’re us again. His strong hands weave through my wet hair—then a flash of Adam and Nicola clinking glasses with Leah and Gregory. I shake it off. My hands tighten around his waist, his crisp oxford cloth shirt beneath my fingers—did he sleep with her last night? Another shake. I dive into him more and in some altered state start to unbuckle his belt right there in the foyer of our house not half an hour before Luz Alcazar and her crew are to take our highly respectable Christmas card photo.
“What’s gotten into you?” Adam asks.
“I just miss you,” I say. I lunge into him again and this time I feel this intense wave of yearning sweep through me. I’ve never felt … this need. For him. “I need you.” I look up at him and am almost undone by the heat of my own openness. I unbuckle his belt and feel this fantastic animalistic freedom tingle all over as I quickly untuck his shirt, my hands sliding up his perfect torso.
As we get more and more lost in one another, I can’t keep my mind from inventorying how well lit this foyer is. Can I get him back to our bedroom, or maybe we could go back into the shower, but our en suite bathroom has got all the lights on and … no, we could go under the covers or … oh, wait! I realize that I’m naked under the towel and I can just keep it on and it can be super spontaneous and he won’t even notice that he’s not seeing me naked, because he’ll be so swept away in the sexiness of the moment. Maybe we can even do it standing up? In all of our years together, we’ve never tried it that way. I had a whole “could he lift me” thing. But, now is as good a time as any …
I pull away from him and huskily tell him that I’m naked under my towel, which, I know, is obvious, but in the moment sounded super hot. I pull him toward the wall—without the seasonal wreath I bought for the holidays on it—and wrap my leg around him just like I’ve seen women do in the movies. I dive into him again, my hands now fumbling with the zipper of his pants.
“Liv,” Adam says, pulling away.
“It’s okay. Luz won’t be here for another half hour.”
“Liv.” His voice is more forceful.
“What?” I ask, looking around for what could possibly be making him stop the super spontaneous proceedings.
“It’s been a long night,” he says, taking my hands in his. Stopping them from any further investigations. He looks down at me. Waiting for me to get it.
“Oh,” I say, feeling like I want to crawl into a hole and die. Adam zips his pants back up, tucks in his shirt, and buckles his belt. My face is hot from want. My entire body is tingling. My hands are shaking and my breath is fast. I focus on him as he buckles his belt and there’s nothing. His hands are calm. His breath is steady. His face pale and serene.
“Now, why don’t you finish getting ready,” he says.
“Why?” The word comes tumbling from my mouth before I even know what I’m asking.
“Why should you finish getting ready? I don’t know, Livvie, I’m not sure my parents would really take too kindly to a Christmas card with my half-naked wife on it, although…,” he says with a wry smile as he walks into the living room.
“No. I mean why don’t you want to have sex with me?” My entire mouth goes dry. Adam turns around.
“What?”
“Please, don’t make me ask it again,” I say, walking toward him.
“I’m just not in the mood right now,” he says. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“We haven’t had sex since Valentine’s Day.”
“That’s—”
“Of last year.”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s almost two years of you not being in the mood.”
“Okay,” he says.
“So…”
“So?”
“Why?” I ask again.
“Do we … are we thinking right now is the best time for this conversation?” he asks.
“Is there ever a best time?” Adam crosses his arms over his chest. I walk over to him. “There’s never a good time for a talk like this.” I tighten the towel around my body. I see a flicker of something in his eyes. A flash of something new. “What? What was that?” Adam shakes his head. “Please.”
“I was just…” He motions to my towel. “I mean, God forbid, your own husband sees you naked.” I watch him, scanning his face for some hint that he’s kidding.
“What?”
“You asked. That’s what I was thinking.”
The towel now feels like the Groot costume.
“What does that have to do with why you don’t want to have sex with me?” Adam shrugs his shoulders. My mind is a riot. “Okay.” My fingers inch to tighten the towel once more. No, by all means, don’t touch the fucking towel again, Olivia. “Okay, you’re saying shitty things so we don’t talk about what’s really going on,” I say, trying not to act like that wasn’t a direct hit. I was right. This is all my fault. The hurt falls through a trapdoor and lands squarely between anger and rage.
“Maybe that’s why I haven’t been in the mood,” he says.
“Okay, so this is where we need to check ourselves before we say things we can’t take back.” I stand there more aware of the towel than ever. Why did I think he didn’t notice? Of course, he noticed he’s never seen me naked. I mean, he’s seen parts of me, of course, but in the ten years we’ve been married I’ve never stood in front of him bare-ass naked with the lights on.
“I thought you’d come around.”
“Come around?”
“Get more comfortable with your body.” I want to go back before this conversation started. I want to never have asked him why. I want to go back. “But, you never did.” Adam watches me. He tilts his head and uncrosses his arms. His hands lazily drift into his pockets.
“I was hoping you’d come around, too.”
“Shit, I’ll get naked right now and no one can stop me,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt. I laugh and he smiles. I can’t help it. There’s another new flicker in his eyes. Something I’ve never seen. It’s up in the air whether it was there and I never noticed or this is the first time he’s done it. This time, instead of asking him another land mine of a question, I take half a second to dissect it my goddamn self. He’s pleading with me. Let’s stay here. Don’t do this. Put down the shovel. Stop digging. “Go on. Go get ready. Let’s be done with this now,” he says, walking toward the kitchen.
But, I don’t move. He hoped I’d come around? You know what I hoped he’d come around to? Not cheating. I thought if I waited him out and didn’t let myself fall into some caricature of the nagging wife, he’d snap out of it. As time went on, that bargain became how I did things, simply because it was comforting to have made a decision. Sure, he was having affairs, but I had a plan. Now all I had to do was wait for it to bear fruit. I told myself that life is long and our marriage would span decades, and while it may not look like it sometimes, we were in love and our marriage was great. These were just growing pains. Whenever I had doubts, I leaned on the three most important factors that proved my plan was working.
1. Wherever he was and whomever he was with, he always came home to me; and
2. Nobody else knew about the other women; and
3. I was always his “plus one.”
But, as I watch my husband plead with me to let this sleeping dog of a marriage lie, the smell of tomato soup forever caught in my nasal passages, I must confront the truth.
1. He is no longer coming home to me; and
2. Everybody knows; and
3. I am no longer his “plus one.”
Speak my truth, Elijah? Speak my truth. How about this:
“I’M EXHAUSTED,” I say. Adam is just about to push through into the kitchen, his hand resting on the door. “I am fucking exhausted.” His shoulders lower. He is slow to turn around.
“You’re the one who wanted to take these photos,”
he says. His voice is a low warning.
“I know.”
“Right.” This conversation now feels like a hostage negotiation.
We are quiet.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” I take a breath, and as if it’s eggnog, every drop of it coats my mouth and throat. “I know. About Nicola.” Adam lets out a long breath. “And Sarah. And Margaret. And Amber. And Kate.” He is completely silent. “I’m tired of pretending like I don’t know.” I breathe. Oh my god. I breathe.
“I agree with you—” My heart soars. “That there’s never a right time for this conversation.” Ugh. “But, I can pretty much guarantee that there’s definitely a wrong time for it.” I am frozen. “So, how about you get dressed and we table this.” Adam waits. Maybe I nod? I don’t know. He turns around.
“Are you even sorry?” I ask. Adam continues into the kitchen. Did he hear me?
I quickly walk toward the bedroom as if I’m trying to get out of the foyer before my unanswered question can infect me. I close the door behind me, and then and only then do I drop the towel. I don’t look at myself in the mirror as I put on the outfit I bought for this very occasion. Head down, eyes darting anywhere but at my own reflection.
I am numb.
I run a comb through my now completely dry hair. It looks kind of terrible. A hurried bit of makeup and I’m back down the hallway just as the doorbell rings. I don’t say one word to Adam. And vice versa. I smooth my skirt, trying to dry the clamminess. I think nothing. I say nothing. And then I open the door.
“So happy to meet you, Caroline only says good things,” I say.
“We both know that’s not true,” Luz says, with a wide smile.
“Right. I should specify. She’s only said good things about you,” I say and Luz laughs. I open the front door wide and she walks through, followed by a team of people holding cases of photography equipment, lights, huge panels of netting, and so on. She is wearing a white V-neck T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of old worn-in cowboy boots. “I loved your retrospective at the Broad.” I close the door behind everyone.
“Oh, thanks.”
“Adam, this is Luz. Luz, this is my husband, Adam,” I say. “There’s food. Please help yourself.” I gesture to the items I bought this morning.
“It looks delicious,” she says. Luz pours herself a cup of black coffee, grabs a croissant, and starts to guide her crew through their equipment setup.
“Good thing you didn’t go all crazy,” Adam says, watching Luz’s team stream into our house. I look up at him. Is he making small talk? I’m waiting for him to be terrible. Waiting for him to be someone other than exactly the man I married ten years ago. Show me how cruel you can be, love of mine. Make it easier on me to be mad at you. Do something to make this all your fault. But, in the minutes and hours that follow, I have to admit that this is the same man I married. Which sends a chill down my spine. This is the man I married.
He has not changed.
Luz has taken what must be a thousand pictures. On the couch. In front of the fireplace. Standing in the kitchen “laughing.” And now we’re outside sitting on a bench by the fountain. It’s my favorite spot that I never sit in.
“Okay, if you can just … yes, your arm around her and a nice candid moment, you know?” Luz says. Adam is the perfect little model. Luz loves him. Naturally. And I am an unsmiling and moody brat. Every single moment of our marriage is spilling from the recesses of my brain and being filed and inventoried. What happened? Where did this all go so wrong? Is this just marriage? “Good. Good. Let me just swap out cameras.” Luz turns to her assistants and leaves us on the bench. The temperature is maybe high seventies and there’s not a cloud in the sky. The Christmas card is going to be beautiful.
I’m losing control. I can feel my temper poking and prodding. Looking for an exit. Just like when I was in second grade and upon getting called out in kickball—unfairly, I might add—I launched the ball over the fence. It was run over by a passing car within seconds. That was the first time somebody compared me to the Incredible Hulk. And it was not the last. Later, words like “intense” and “passionate” took its place. But, with each new iteration, I knew that this Thing inside me was not good.
When I became the New Olivia Morten, I knew that the Incredible Hulk had to go, right along with the Sweaty Marble. A woman coveted by men had to be effortless and easygoing. Boring and sweet. Not the kind of woman who flipped tables over when she suspected that someone was cheating at Candy Land.
Adam looks at me and brushes a strand of hair from my face.
“Do you love her?” I ask.
“Hm?” he asks, tucking it behind my ear.
“Do you love her?” An assistant looks over at us, trying not to listen. She looks at her other coworkers like: Are you hearing this shit? But, I don’t care.
“Olivia. Later.”
“I don’t think you loved the other ones. Maybe that’s why I didn’t mind. Well, that and I thought I wasn’t very good at sex. You’re right about the naked thing, of course. I honestly thought I was hiding it. Which is hilarious now that I think about it.” The same assistant’s eyes dart away from us. Now she’s trying to get the attention of another girl over by the pastries. Adam’s jaw tenses. He says nothing.
“You’re fine.”
“Yeah, but not good enough to keep you. Right?” I’m outside of myself at this point. Luz has a new camera and turns back around to find her assistants all averting their eyes and trying to let her know that this perfect, happily married couple they’re photographing is not-so-silently imploding.
“Okay, now … smile. That’s right,” Luz says. She snaps photo after photo.
“Why stay married to me?” I ask. Adam is quiet.
“Okay … let’s just try to get a few more shots,” Luz says, her voice quavering a bit. Adam smiles. Easy. Calm. This enrages me. My temper punches through.
“If I’m so terrible at sex and you have to find a thousand other women to have it with, why not just get a divorce?” Luz stops taking pictures. Her entire crew freezes.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” Luz says, and she and her crew stream into the house, packing up any extra gear that they won’t be needing. Quickly.
“Shall I just jump past this being humiliating and maybe we could have waited to have this conversation?” Adam asks.
“Yes.”
“Right. Thought so,” Adam says. Luz should be taking shots now because it’s the first time we’ve been candid today.
“Well?” I’m not even … I don’t know where I am anymore. I don’t know who’s talking. I don’t know who I am. My entire body is buzzing. I walk over to the spread of food I’d arranged outside, grab a handful of raspberries, and pour them into my mouth. Bright. Delicious. Sunlight. Another handful and my hands are now stained red as I pop them one at a time into my open mouth. Adam watches me. I can’t feel my face and yet, as I chew and savor the raspberries, there’s no panic attack in sight. A silver lining.
“I don’t know what you want from me.” I recognize the look on Adam’s face very well. It’s like the one you have while watching a little kid playing with a too-blown-up balloon. It’s the bracing fear of someone readying for the POP!
Despite my years denying it, I’m the pop. I’ve always been the pop.
Luz comes back outside.
“I think we’ve got what we need. Thank you for welcoming us into your home. We’re going to get going.” I look beyond Luz, through the French doors, and see that the crew has already cleared out. I pull a napkin from the table, wipe my hands, and walk over to her.
“Thank you,” I say.
“I’ll email you what I’ve got and we’ll go from there,” Luz says. She looks past me to a now-pacing Adam. She jerkily reaches out and fumbles to grasp my arm. “Good luck.” I don’t know what to do, so I put my hand over hers. She squeezes. Nods. Before I can say anything Luz is gone. And Adam and I are alone again. I turn around and he starts speaking
.
“What I’ve always treasured the most about our marriage is how much I genuinely liked you—”
I interrupt what I’m sure is going to be a rousing speech. “How much you genuinely liked me.”
“Yes,” Adam says, wrapping his arm around me.
“Liked me,” I say, hitting the “d.”
It’s the lightbulb moment. Whenever I watch my cozy mystery TV shows, the great sleuth always knows when someone is the murderer when they start referring to the victim in the past tense.
It’s a murderer’s first mistake.
MAYBE WE START THERE
Growing up, we listen to love songs and believe that’s what real love is. As we get older, what sinks in is not that those songs are a fantasy, but that they simply aren’t about us.
“And four! And five! And six! Wake up, ladies, or I’ll wake you up!” Barb yells, early the next morning.
“That one doesn’t even make sense,” I say to Mom. At the moment we’re doing the grapevine to “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” Barb has said “get it?!” no less than a hundred times.
Adam slept at home last night, a feat he announced as if he ought to be awarded a medal for it. When I barely cracked a smile, the night went from awkward to downright frigid. We said nothing during dinner and our good nights were about as warm as what you’d say to the flight attendant as you deboard a plane. I left before he awoke, but I did stare creepily at him sleeping. That felt like some kind of progress.
“Shh! You’re going to get us in trouble!” Mom says, whizzing past me to catch up with Joyce Chen.
“Then how come Mrs. Stanhope can just float over by the lane line?” I ask, quickening my pace to keep up. Mom looks from me to Mrs. Stanhope, who’s gliding around in her pink floppy hat talking about peach pie to one of the lifeguards, and smiles. Mrs. Stanhope lazily waves.
I focus on Barb. Step, cross, step. Arms high. The water fights me. Step, cross, step. “You could have told me yourself, that you found someone else.” Step, cross, step. “Instead I heard it through the grapevine.” Step, cross, step. Arms high. The water splashes. My face is hot and the cold morning air burns my throat as I take deeper and deeper breaths.