The Solitude of Passion

by Addison Moore

  “Not true.” I shake my head as though I were telling the truth. But we both know I’m not. He’s right. I gave away the one thing that meant the most to him: myself.

  “I’m glad you didn’t ditch the surfboard.” He straightens as if the entire exchange never happened. Mitch heads over to the hose and melts five years worth of dust off in one long muddy track. “You think Max has a pair of shorts I can borrow? I’d love to go out.”

  “Sure.”

  Mitch follows me upstairs and stops shy of the bedroom. He looks in from the threshold, but keeps his eyes glued on me. It’s like the furniture—the room didn’t exist.

  There he is, my husband at the door. So many times I thought I saw him lingering in the house, thought I heard him rummaging around downstairs, calling me in the night, and now he is here, hesitating as if he didn’t belong.

  “You can come in,” I say, coaxing him over like a stray cat. It must feel strange, hugely emasculating, to wait for permission to do something he’s done thousands of times before.

  “That’s all right.” He straightens his spine against the frame instead.

  I watch as his gaze falls slowly to the carpet, the dresser. It’s as if he can’t take it in all at once. Just the thought of Max filling in this sacred space kills him on a primal level. I know it would me.

  I riffle through two drawers before holding up a pair of grey board-shorts for his approval.

  “Perfect.” He holds out a hand for me to toss them over.

  “Come and get them.” The words come out staggered as though I’m inadvertently taunting him. “I’m not trying to be mean, Mitch.” I take a breath. “But I need you to come in. This is the heart of the house, the bedroom you built for us. This is where I cried an entire ocean for you, and I don’t want you to fear it or hate it.” I can see the power it has over him, how far down it beats him, and I want him to hurdle that wall.

  Mitch moves his foot into the room as if he were stepping into a fire. He looks up and gives a bashful smile as he makes his way over. His arms collapse around me like a life raft, and I pull him in close.

  “You made it,” I whisper into his chest. “You’re really here, and now I can never let go.”

  “I’m not going to let you out of my sight, Lee.” He warms my hair with his words. “We’ll never be apart again. I swear it.”

  A stillness takes over the room as Mitch holds me in his warm embrace. He runs his lips over the top of my head, my forehead, my temple before glancing over my shoulder.

  “That’s our bed,” he whispers.

  I look back at the malfeasance staring us both in the face. The bed is still unmade. The sheets hold the divot of where Max held me last night.

  “I’m sorry.” I give it in a broken whisper. I’ve inadvertently laid out my betrayal for him. I lured him into the bedroom and force-fed him the most intimate part of my world as Mrs. Max Shepherd. This bed—this unholy witness testifies against me in the worst possible way. Mitch rests his head on my shoulder. He sears his breath into my neck, his wanting emanates thick as vapors. I close my eyes and take in the moment. Mitch holding me in our bedroom as my flesh cries out for his. I need Mitch to cover me like a blanket, to wipe the pain away with his body moving over mine. I’d give anything to savor that feeling just one more time. Mitch has become my carnal addiction, and it severs the final cord of who I thought I was, what kind of person I thought lived inside me.

  His deep, calm breaths rake over my skin, and I close my eyes, soaking it all in. An entire waterfall of tears purge from me. I’m ashamed at how far I let the man Mitch hated most penetrate our lives, but it was Max. Max who I loved deeply while Mitch was away, and still do.

  I glance up to find his eyes lost in a series of crimson tracts.

  “I didn’t do it to hurt you,” I whisper.

  “I never said you did.”

  “You think he did it to hurt you,” it comes out accusatory.

  Mitch doesn’t respond, just wraps his arms tighter around my waist and presses a kiss above my ear.

  “I need you back, Lee.” He touches his forehead to mine and closes his eyes.

  It’s so still, so quiet. I can feel the words he wants so desperately to hear trembling just shy of my lips, but before I can own them the sound of heavy footsteps race up the stairs. Max appears at the door, and I jump back from Mitch like a teenager caught in the backseat with her boyfriend.

  My mouth falls open as I hold up the shorts. “He wants to borrow these.”

  Max takes us both in—his eyes wild with disbelief.

  “Go ahead.” He glowers over at Mitch.

  “Thanks.” Mitch takes the shorts and heads downstairs. Max spears me with a look before doing the same.

  It’s slicing me in two, this schizophrenic love. It’s reducing Max to dust while I blow Mitch in his eyes like smoke.

  Stella, Eli, and I sit on the sand as Mitch surfs in the distance. He paddles out and straddles his board waiting for the perfect wave, but, for the most part, it’s flat today. The sun lost the battle with the clouds, and a fog bank as tall as a mountain moves in over the horizon.

  Max stands a few feet away, hidden behind the veil of smoke from the barbeque. He volunteered to make dinner, and I didn’t stop him. He pulls the burgers off the grill then carefully throws on the buns to toast them.

  It’s all oddly comfortable. Sort of the way I envisioned my life here on the shore with Mitch. Of course that version never included Max, and I guess that would paint Eli out of the picture, but I can’t imagine a world without my precious son or husband.

  I pull my sweet, dark-haired boy over and let him sit on my lap while he shovels sand onto my thighs.

  Max lands on the blanket next to me—his cologne as warm and sweet as he is. “Dinner’s ready.” He presses out a dimpled smile, but the sorrow penetrates right through. Max wears his heartbreak on his sleeve, and it destroys me.

  “Thank you.” I push the words out in lieu of tears.

  In the distance, I catch Mitch disappearing into the horizon until he’s just a speck. It’s as if he’s sailing back to China because I couldn’t get rid of Max, and my heart shatters thinking this might be true.

  “What the hell are we going to do, Lee?” Max whispers it out like a secret, while Eli plays with his sister. The warble in his voice lets me know this is his worst nightmare.

  “Mommy!” Stella calls and we glance over. “We’re going to dig to China!”

  “That’s nice,” I say.

  Max’s chest rumbles with a dry laugh. I already know he’d like to toss Mitch in that hole. He’ll probably buy them each an extra gift at Christmas if they can figure out how to send Mitch back permanently.

  “Come here,” I say, pulling him in by the back of the neck. Max lights up like lantern. It’s as though Mitch were a smothering scarf, and now with my affections, he could breathe again.

  “Lee.” He comes in with his eyes as deep as the ocean and blesses me with a kiss. I let Max wash over me, and my entire person sings. There is nothing secondary about our love, nothing in me whatsoever that wants to hoist Max to the curb like an old newspaper. Max crashes his lips to mine, and we drink our kisses down like an ancient wine reserved for this very moment—precious, and few, and God forbid fleeting.

  “Thank you for loving me,” I say as I blink back tears.

  “You can thank me later.”

  It’s not until after we get the kids to bed and Max is in the shower that I’m left thinking maybe having Mitch take up permanent residence downstairs isn’t the most pragmatic solution.

  I pace the floors like a prisoner on death row awaiting a reprieve. Max and his lustful desires, those sidelong glances, the seductive half-smile over dinner—it’s all about to culminate, I can feel it.

  It made me nauseous to have Mitch at the table witnessing the display. Mitch and those sad forsaken eyes, the hollow of his person resonating his grief as wide and long as an afternoon shadow.

&nbs
p; The pipes sound through the room like a death rattle. Max and Mitch under one roof unnerves me. I stop shy of the window and press my hand to the cool of the glass. My reflection stares back at me—a lost girl in a white gown. My face trembles and distorts itself as I make my way over to the bed. I just need to recalibrate, refocus myself, and then I’ll figure out what to do.

  Max emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair slicked back, wearing nothing but a wicked grin as he makes his way over to bed.

  “Hey beautiful,” he whispers, dotting my ear with his lips.

  It occurs to me, as Max sizzles his lust-filled kisses down my neck, that I forgot to tell them about Dr. Van Guard at dinner. Of course, with the kids at the table begging for more of Mitch’s horror stories, it wouldn’t have been the greatest idea. You would think he had been on some amazing adventure the way both Stella and Eli squealed with delight as he recanted his interment. It was nothing but horror, and, now, I want to scrub my brain clean with an ice pick at the imagery he drew up.

  Max glides his lips over mine, and all thoughts of dinner and the kids—Mitch—evaporate like smoke. He pulls my dress off in one easy stroke, and I let him. A small ache in my chest writhes at the thought of never making love to Max again. I’m not ready to stop. I’m not ready to surrender all of my heart to Mitch if it means cutting Max out with a hatchet.

  Never in our entire marriage have I asked Max to stop, to put it off for another night, and yet Mitch lingers beneath my lids like a poltergeist. I try to push Mitch away, submerge him into the deepest part of my heart where I buried him these past few years, but no matter how hard I try, he pops up like a cork.

  I push my hands into Max’s chest before things get too far.

  “I’m not sure,” I whisper.

  A seam of moonlight falls over him, and he needles me with an intense gaze. He knows what I’m thinking. He knows I’ve propped myself up on the fence, and I can’t seem to find my way down. He’s going to think Mitch won if I tell him I need to clear my head before sleeping with anybody else. I’m not in the habit of depriving Max of his testosterone release, and with his defenses up this probably isn’t the best time to start.

  “You think we should do this?” I ask, weak, hardly audible over Max’s heavy breathing. I doubt Max heard me with all that blood pulsating through his veins. He pulls me to the bed with the impression of a smile.

  “You’re my wife, Lee,” he whispers it hot in my ear. “This is all we should ever do.” He pulls his hands down over my shoulder, drips down to my thighs, slow as a week in jail. He lands over me gently and distracts me with mind-numbing kisses, his tongue comforting mine in a poetic lingual exchange.

  There’s nothing subtle about making love to Max. You can hear his desire—feel his cravings. His heart-stopping good looks, his outright nobility has always been like the most potent aphrodisiac. Women fall to their knees around Max Shepherd, always have, always will.

  Max pulls his hot mouth down my chest and lands a soft bite over my nipple. His hand dives between my thighs as his fingers work their soft, easy magic. He rolls on top of me, kissing a trail all the way up my ear as he guides himself inside me with one smooth plunge. It’s easy for me to get wound up in this sub-primal carnality—an aggressive barrage of wild copulation as he buries himself in my body. He pushes into me over and over and the headboard picks up his cadence. It knocks into the wall with a violent clap in rhythm with his thrusts.

  My eyes spring wide open, and I take in a breath. Shit.

  Max wants the entire house, the walls that Mitch constructed, to applaud his efforts.

  “Are you kidding?” I hiss, digging my fingers into his back. The headboard continues to explode against the wall as I try to catch my bearings. The noise shoots through the house like a series of gunshots, and Max doesn’t put any effort into softening the blows.

  Up until tonight, we had a pillow stuffed behind the headboard because the clatter has the tendency to wake Eli. Never mind the fact Stella once asked why we knocked on our wall all night long. I had to make up some story about Santa’s Elf trying to get inside to see if she was on the naughty list. But tonight, at this moment, the pillow has been forcibly removed, and something tells me this Morse code is being played out especially for Mitch.

  “Max,” I shout his name then cringe at the thought of Mitch mistaking it for a fit of passion. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m loving you, Lee,” he pants into my ear, never breaking his stride.

  Shit. A boiling anger rips through me. My arms and legs are pinned under his like he’s done a thousand times before but this feels different. He’s making a point and using my body to do it.

  He plunges his tongue into my mouth to somehow convince me to go along with the fornicating display of affection, but I can’t. I go limp and wait for him to finish, all the while thinking of Mitch and the horror of having to listen as Max Shepherd has his way with me in his bed.

  Every charged knock sends a spiral of grief through me, although I’m not sure I could ever be mad at Max. A part of me wants to hate him for his childlike tantrum, but I’ve defiled our marriage with Mitch, and all Max ever wanted was my devotion.

  “You’re using me,” I whisper in short staccato breaks.

  Max collapses over me throbbing and shaking, and I roll him off with no real effort.

  He pulls me in and takes in a sharp breath. His chest rumbles, and at first I think he’s laughing. He gives a hard sniff into my neck before pressing in a gentle kiss.

  “I’m so sorry, Lee.” His voice breaks as he says it. The shallow reserve of light slices in through the blinds and highlights the wet slick on his cheek as his bright lips quiver in this dim light.

  I wrap my arms around his scorching body and release a river of tears into his chest.

  It was Mitch who was tortured, and yet here Max and I were sobbing into one another like a pair of infants. The three of us had emerged from Mitch’s captivity damaged beyond recognition, and now nothing will ever be the same.

  Mitch

  The coffee tastes like it was filtered through cigarette butts. I head outside onto the back patio where I thought Lee and I would log hours, years, sitting side by side staring at the waves. The salted sea air greets me, thick and sticky just the way I remember.

  I settle my cup on the table and watch as the surfers try to contend with tiny breaks. The surf is always better down the beach a good mile away at Needles.

  My board lies on the side of the house, staring at me, wondering how in the hell life decided to discard us both so efficiently. I’d hit the water to at least sit and think, but after last night’s battle of the rattle, sleep was about as easy to find as Bigfoot. Besides, if I did go out, the only way I might truly find some inner peace is to drown.

  The steady thump that trembled through the house buzzes in my mind like a horror movie. I can still hear the slam of drywall cracking overhead, the vibrations shot through the wood beams like a tuning fork. I tried not to think about it, but the visual came at me like a flashflood, and I couldn’t get out in time to escape.

  Shit. I slap my hand down over the table and my mug startles to attention.

  Did Lee want that? Did she really want him fucking her in our bed while the walls belted out a tune for me? Hell, what about Stella and Eli? I don’t doubt for a minute it didn’t wake those kids. For a moment I thought about grabbing a butcher knife and dismembering Max for the hell of it. Although, I doubt a jury of my peers would believe Max was attacking her, but it might have been worth a shot.

  I toss my bagel across the sand at a flock of pigeons nearby, nailing one in the head.

  What the hell is Lee thinking? If the roles were reversed and I had married some other woman—correction, some other woman who I knew was using me as a means of posthumous revenge—I would’ve happily filed for divorce by now. How is the math so different with Max in the equation? I would have thought she’d kick him in the face trying to get him out
the door, toss his crap out the window in a river of wardrobe vomit. What in the world is keeping him safely tucked in my bed at night?

  I flex my hands behind my neck and sink into my chair.

  I bet his witch of a mother cast a spell over Lee, and with my luck the damn thing is working.

  “Morning.” Lee clanks her coffee down next to mine. Her hair is tousled in vanilla waves, and she’s sporting dark half moons beneath her eyes. I’m not sure why, but they offer me reassurance. Maybe she lost some sleep in the aftermath or maybe they just figured out how to turn the bed on mute and Max continued with his aggressive assault.

  I inspect her further, her face swollen and red in patches. Hell, maybe she was crying. Not that I want Lee up all night weeping rivers, but a night or two of abstinence would sure as hell be nice. Or maybe this is the part where she tells me she hates me and wishes I would leave. A part of me half-expects Max to clock me before throwing me into the shallow grave Stella confessed to digging for me.

  “You look beautiful.” My voice breaks like the pussy I’m panning out to be as I brace myself for the news.

  She falls into the seat next to me before running her finger over the rim of her mug. Her eyes have a difficult time connecting with mine, and my stomach explodes in a vat of bile over what it might mean.

  “I’m exhausted,” it comes from her hoarse, threadbare from a wild night in another man’s arms. Actually, I would have preferred just about any other man. At one point last night I thought I heard her shout his name. I told myself it was just the wind—that Lee would never lose herself in ecstasy to anyone but me, but Eli refutes that theory, and apparently so did the headboard.

  “I was up kind of late, myself.” I stretch my arms over my head a moment and take in the brine. “Maybe we can catch a nap.” I don’t mean for it to come out as sarcastic as it does. Truth is, I miss the mornings we spent in bed after a long night of our own passionate exchanges. We would make breakfast and just hang out.