“And since then?”
I sigh. “Since then, he’s spent every spare moment in the studio. Which is just as well, because I seem to have lost that desire once more.”
“Have you considered that part of your lack of desire could be because you aren’t feeling connected with him? If he’s spending so much time focused elsewhere at precisely the time that you’ve been struggling to find your balance with the kids, your father, and everything else, that could be off-putting.”
I take a moment to absorb this theory. I don’t want to cast blame on Conor, but I can see how our different focuses might have sent us in opposite directions. I can also almost hear him scoff at the notion. He’d likely tell me I’m using this as yet another excuse to push him away. I tell Amelia as much.
“He thinks you don’t want to be with him?” she asks.
“He thinks I have a bad habit of feeling like I’m not enough, and that turns into me finding ways to push him away. Like, the other day I visited him at the studio and for whatever reason—I’m still not quite sure why I said it—I told him I’d understand if he had regrets about how quickly his whole life has changed by suddenly becoming this family man.”
“How did he react to that?”
“Angrily. And then he reverted to his old playboy ways and started flirting shamelessly with our nanny,” I say with a laugh.
Amelia doesn’t see the humor in it, though. “He did what?”
Though I appreciate her indignation on my behalf, I wave it away. “It was just Conor being Conor. I really find it silly. It doesn’t mean anything other than he still gets a thrill out of playing those games.”
“Well, then, how did you resolve this?”
“We didn’t. That’s what I’m saying. We have these things we don’t resolve. Things we aren’t saying to each other.”
She nods and falls silent, tearing up bites of her donut and licking her fingers unselfconsciously.
“Do you think,” she says, “you two could try dating each other?”
I laugh. “What?”
“I think a lot of couples could benefit from going back to the beginning, recreating that dating ritual as a way to reconnect.”
“Therein lies our problem, perhaps! We never dated. Not properly. We were friends for a long while when he was engaged to someone else. But we were close in a lot of ways. So, finally, when he was free, we just went right to it. I basically moved in with him right away because I had nowhere to stay.”
Nodding thoughtfully, she wipes her hands on a napkin and then balls it up. “Then, you’ll just have to start from scratch.”
“And date my husband?” I asked, amused.
“Who else would you rather date?”
“No one.”
“There it is.”
I smile and once more feel lighter for having spent time with her. I wonder if she could possibly feel the same in return, but don’t know how I might have been of any use. Just then, her mobile rings and she reaches for it quickly. I watch as she looks at the screen, silences it, and the puts it face down on the table.
“Was that him?” I ask.
“Em, no. No, not this time.”
She’s struggling to hide her disappointment.
“Were you together long? You and this phone fella?”
That nickname makes her laugh. “It was complicated. Not a traditional relationship, I guess you could say.”
“Tell me something about him.”
Her eyes drift away from mine as she looks out the window. Rain is coming down and the gray clouds feel especially low today.
“He’s absolutely unique, that’s for sure. And funny. Perceptive. Thoughtful, too.”
“Sounds like a very interesting man.”
“That he is. He’s lived quite a life. But he’s only just getting started really.”
“Shame it didn’t work out.”
She nods. “Yes. In the end, there was just no way to make it work.”
I’m about to respond when she thanks me for the chat and says she needs to get back to her office.
“Thursday, then?” I ask. “Same time, maybe different donut?”
She laughs. “Love to. See you then, Felicity.”
20
Conor
“Tell me something—and don’t get all defensive about it,” I say.
I’m sitting with Gavin in the little lounge area of the studio. The others have gone but we stayed to work through Christian’s song. It’s still not done, but we’re so close. That’s what keeps us here at all hours, that instinct that we almost have it.
At the moment, however, we’ve taken a break for a Guinness.
“Why would I get defensive?” Gavin asks mildly. He leans back in the chair opposite me, putting his feet up on the coffee table.
“Just tell me it’s not true that Sophie doesn’t let more than two days go by without making sure you get off.”
“What?” Gavin asks with a laugh. “What are you on about?”
I feel a sense of relief that he seems to be rebutting Felicity’s claim. She and I never did find our way back to that intense attraction we toyed with the night she went out to dinner with Sophie. It’s been three days and we’ve both been ignoring the issue. I’m not sure why I haven’t pressed her more. Probably because I’m sick of being turned away. It’s not just that she makes it clear she’s not attracted to me, but in doing so, I feel how off balance we are. And I don’t know what to do about it.
“Where did you come up with this?” Gavin asks, pulling my attention back to him.
He looks worried. It’s a look I’ve seen too many times before, one where he’s hit in the gut over the ways in which his wife and I have betrayed him. He thinks Sophie shared this intimacy with me.
“Felicity told me,” I say quickly, hoping to ease his mind over the matter. “She told me because she’s been spiraling with insecurity and comparing herself to Sophie. She was going down a whole list of ways in which she feels like she doesn’t measure up to her.”
Gavin is slow to relax with this explanation, so I throw it all out there, saying, “Including the fact that while she’s all but lost her own sex drive, Sophie makes sure that no matter what, she takes care of you.”
This has the effect I intended. His shoulders loosen, and he leans his head back against the chair. There’s silence between us and I fill the time by finishing my beer.
“I suppose that’s true,” he finally says with a laugh. He looks at me. “Hadn’t ever really thought of it, not about the timing and consistency thing. But yeah, I don’t go wanting. In one way or another, she makes sure I’m completely satisfied.”
The way he says this, there’s the slightest hint of him lording it over me. I can’t blame him for taking a bit of pleasure in the fact that he’s got an incredible sex life. And I don’t begrudge him at all. But then he takes it a step too far.
“So, heartbreaker Conor Quinn is hard up, is he?” he asks with a wicked smile.
“Very funny,” I say without humor.
“And is this why you’re always muttering fuck me? It’s a plea, is it?”
“Enough, Gav.”
“Jesus, do you think she’s taking her cues from Celia? She’s got the ring and the babies. What does she need your cock for anyway? Oh, you’re done for, man!” He covers his eyes with one hand, tosses his head back, and laughs until he’s breathless.
“Fuck off.”
Wiping at his eyes, he looks at me with a pitying smile. “It’s okay, Con. I, too, was once the King of Wank. Only, it was ‘cause my wife and I were separated. As in not even on the same continent and headed toward divorce.”
“I’m sorry I said a word.”
“Ah, come on,” he says, finally letting it go, “I’m sure it’ll all right itself soon enough.”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
Gavin’s still amused by it all, smiling and staring at some middle-distance. I ignore him as I try to decide whether I should cut thi
ngs off here and go home or if I should get another beer. It’s almost ten o’clock. I realize I’d better get going and stand.
“I’m away,” I say.
He looks at me and recognition that he’s helped make my decision to leave colors his face. Standing, he slaps me on the back.
“Just fucking go all out and romance her, man,” he says. “I’m sure with a bit of that, along with your pretty face, she’ll be powerless to resist you.”
My pretty face. Gavin’s held onto calling me pretty since we were kids. Felicity has always said it was because he was jealous of my good looks. Jealous over how he thinks it’s given me an advantage in life. The only problem with that theory is that he’s a good-looking guy. On top of that, he’s got a singing voice dripping with sex, not to mention an ability to charm a fish out of water, and a bleeding heart, fix-me magnetism. He’s done just fine for himself. After all these years, there is absolutely no reason for him to be jealous of anything I have. For him to revisit this kind of thing somehow feels related to his feelings toward me over what happened with Sophie.
“Hey Gav?”
“Yeah?”
“You got the fucking girl.”
He squints at me. “What’s that mean?”
“It means you can relax. You and me, we got no issues. Let it go.”
The emotion drains from his face as he examines me. I’ve never—not really—asked him to let go of the damage I did to our friendship when I slept with his wife. He’s made strides toward forgiveness in his own time. There have been setbacks along the way, but the forward momentum has always been there. At this point, however, with us each well past that episode, I need him to drop it. I’ve got bigger things to deal with, anyway. Like a wife who can’t seem to decide whether she’s fully committed to our marriage.
When Gavin nods, there’s hesitation in it. “Yeah, sure,” he says.
“Listen,” I tell him, “you told me once that I was your brother. I don’t know if you remember that because you were fucking wasted.”
He eyes me for a moment. “I do. It was when that Vanity Fair article came out about my mother.”
“Well, I haven’t always lived up to that. I will always regret the ways I fucked up. But, no matter what, you’ve always been my only brother. That goes beyond any of this.” I gesture to the studio we’re in. “It goes to my dying day, man. You are my brother.”
His eyes drop from mine but only for a second. When he speaks, I can tell it’s coming from the heart. “I know that, Con. I do. You’re right, we’re good.”
“Thanks.” In the past, I would have been dripping with relief over this, but I’m just too tired to give more than I have.
“Go on home. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow’s the day we finish this fucking song.”
“No doubt.”
* * *
It’s not all that late when I get home but all I want to do is get into bed and sleep.
My family has other ideas for me, however.
I hear the crying coming from the monitors sitting on the kitchen island. A glance at the little screen shows me a night vision picture of what’s happening. Felicity’s there in the kids’ room, holding a child in each arm while they both wail. She’s swaying back and forth and shushing them.
Taking a deep breath, I exhale and go to help.
When Felicity turns to me, I see the babies aren’t the only ones crying. She’s got tears running down her face.
All I can think is, not again.
“Ella’s been crying for over an hour. I think it’s gas, but I can’t get her to burp,” she says in a rush. “And Romeo’s . . . just crying. I don’t know why. I can’t seem to make it better. I can’t make it better.”
“It’s all right,” I tell her, taking Ella from her arm. I kiss the baby’s cheek. She’s got the softest skin, but now it’s slick with her tears. I put her against my shoulder and tap her firmly on the back. I don’t suddenly have the magic touch. Ella keeps crying but with Felicity giving Romeo her full attention, he soon quiets. I start singing my little song to Ella about everything being okay even as she cries on.
Felicity puts Romeo down in his crib, gives Ella a kiss, squeezes me on the bicep, and shuffles out.
With my burping technique going nowhere, I shift Ella forward into the crook of my arm and examine her for signs of hunger. Not that I can tell that cry from any other. Still, I wonder if Felicity has somehow failed to realize that’s what Ella needs. Second-guessing her this way doesn’t feel very good, but I can’t stop from doing so.
I offer the tip of my pinky finger to Ella’s lips and she eagerly suckles it. A wave of anger passes through me. This must mean the baby is hungry, but Felicity has withheld milk from her for some unknown reason. The fear that she’s incapable of properly providing for our kids comes at me full force once more.
And then I realize that my finger isn’t the only reason Ella has calmed down. She’s apparently not hungry at all and had been simply unable to calm down from her discomfort. Now she’s sleeping and only sucking on my makeshift pacifier as a reflex. Felicity has been adamant that we don’t give the babies pacifiers, having read all kinds of literature decrying the damage they do to not just the child’s teeth but to the soft palate as well. I’ve always deferred to her in these matters. But I’m beginning to realize that things like pacifiers and formula are not the enemy. And that Felicity may be making some of this harder on herself than it needs to be.
Once I’m confident that Ella is in a deep enough sleep to put her down, I gently remove my finger and place her in her crib.
I find Felicity exactly where I had wanted to be when I got here: lying in bed.
She’s not asleep, but rather staring at the wall, letting her own tears fall over her face and onto the bedding.
I strip down to my boxer briefs and climb into bed behind her, pulling her into my arms.
“How was your night?” she asks with a weary, tears-congested laugh.
“I’m sorry you were on your own with that. You could have called me.”
“I had my hands full.”
I laugh but she isn’t after joking about this.
“You weren’t there, Conor. You aren’t there when it matters.”
I close my eyes and press my forehead to the back of her neck. “You don’t mean that,” I whisper.
She takes in a deep, shaky breath. “I’m all on my own. I’ve got no one.”
“You have me, honey. You do.”
She’s quiet.
I’m quiet.
My heart aches at the blame she’s casting. I try to think of a reason to excuse it. I’ve accused her of pushing me away, but wouldn’t I have to be there for her to do that? I have prioritized the studio. I come and go on my own terms. Am I to blame for the troubles she’s had?
Then I feel her hand gripping my forearm. It’s not much, but it’s enough reassurance for the time being.
* * *
I’m mostly asleep and only really wake when I feel Felicity forcefully push me away from her. It takes me a moment, but I realize I had been rubbing myself against her backside. I’ve got an enormous erection straining against the front of my boxer briefs. She’s asleep or pretending to be asleep. Either way, I’ve made yet another unwanted advance and am left aching.
I turn onto my back and glance over at the bedside clock. It’s just past two. The house is quiet. Felicity is still and breathing steadily. Might as well finish what I started in my dreams.
Pulling down my underwear, I free my cock, fisting it firmly. I can’t remember what kind of fantasy I had been having that made me this hard in my sleep, but I definitely won’t take long to finish.
I’ve quickly resorted to imaginings of what I had wanted to do to Felicity the other night, conjuring up the throaty moans she’s so good at giving in response to how I tease her. For a second, I think about trying to ease down her panties so I can make my fantasy a reality, but I remember that she�
��s more likely to respond by kicking me in the face than writhing her thighs against me. Still, I indulge in the idea of it. In the idea that she’d respond to my tongue toying with her by grabbing my hair and pushing herself against my mouth.
I hear the bedsheets rustle but don’t think much of it, too invested in the quickening pace of my strokes. But then I feel Felicity throw her arm around my waist. I stop and listen in the dark. Her breathing isn’t coming at its usual sleeping pace.
“You awake?” I whisper.
She snuggles into me, burying her face into my neck and taking in a deep breath. Just when I think she’s fallen asleep, I feel her lips on my skin. She’s giving me slow kisses and soon her hand has replaced mine on my cock.
Jesus. Finally.
The only problem is I’m already so close to coming that it’s hard to pull back. I reach for her but she mumbles, “It’s okay.”
“Honey,” I say when she starts pumping me faster, “you’re going to make me come—”
She bites the skin under my ear. “That’s the idea.”
“I want more,” I insist. I mean I don’t want just a hand job from her. I need more of her. I want my cock deep inside her, to feel our hips against each other, to lean down and take her nipple into my mouth as I grind on top of her. But she misinterprets what I’ve said because she squeezes my balls with her other hand and then it’s all too late as I can’t stop from coming with a low moan.
Releasing her hold on me, she pats my chest and moves back onto her side, facing away from me. As if she’s done her duty. As if she had only wanted to appease me. As if she’s checked that box and now her part is done.
What. The. Fuck.
Did any of that even turn her on?
I grab several tissues from the bedside table and quickly clean myself up. Then I move closer to her once more and put my hand on her hip. She’s wearing basic cotton bikini panties but all I want to know is if she’s wet. Sliding my hand over the curve of her ass, I slip my fingers between her legs. She doesn’t recoil or push me away. Instead, she parts her thighs to give me better access. So I can discover that she is definitely wet.
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