Part-Time Husband

by Noelle Adams

  As vague as the words are, they make me feel better. I smile against his shirt. “You don’t ever act confused about anything. Don’t you know everything about everything?”

  He chuckles and brushes his lips against my hair. “I know everything about most things. But there are a few things I’m still learning about.”

  It feels like that means something significant, but I’m too scared to work it all out. So I finally pull away, and this time he lets me.

  I’m afraid he’s going to ask me again what I’m feeling. I’m afraid he’s going to demand answers that I’m not ready to give him.

  But he just gives me a fond little smile. “Chelsea seems like she’s going to be okay, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. She will. She’s pretty resilient.”

  “I think tonight helped her. It’s good that you had her over.”

  I give him a look and wonder if I should bring up what he said about her before.

  He gives an exaggerated sigh. “Are you going to make me say it? Fine. You were right about Chelsea. And I was wrong. She might be a little silly occasionally, but she’s also pretty great.”

  It was a confusing night, but I have no confusion about this.

  He couldn’t have said anything that would make me happier at the moment.

  THE FOLLOWING WEEKEND, Trevor and I go to a cocktail party at the home of one of his clients.

  I don’t go to a lot of fancy parties. Pop has always been one of Charleston’s upper crust, but he’s not a fancy person and he doesn’t run in fancy circles. Most of the people I know—rich and poor alike—don’t get dressed up for parties very often. But Trevor has a new client who owns a local department store, and he invited us to a cocktail party.

  So here we are—all dressed up and mingling with a rather stuffy crowd.

  Trevor’s wearing a black suit and is looking as sexy and stylish as ever. I have on a knee-length dark green dress and a new pair of heels. We look good, but I’m bored after just an hour. It’s nothing but small talk, and most of the people here I don’t even really like.

  I keep a smile on my face, of course. I’m not about to make a bad impression on one of Trevor’s clients.

  Inside, though, I’m counting the minutes until we can leave.

  Trevor has his hand on the small of my back in a quiet, possessive gesture, and I like the feel of it. I’m on my second glass of wine, but the hors d’oeuvres aren’t very good, so I’m hungry as well as bored.

  Despite my attempt to stay focused on the conversation about someone I don’t care about who’s running for city council, my mind strays back to last night. I had been in my bath for about five minutes when Trevor came into the bathroom and climbed in the tub too. He said he wanted to see what was so special about baths that I had to have one almost every night. He sounded teasing and playful, so I figured he was just having fun. The tub is plenty big for two, but instead of sitting across from me, he settled himself on my end and then drew me between his legs, his arm around me.

  It was surprisingly intimate as we relaxed together. We talked about our days and then he started to stroke my body, idly at first, then more intentionally. I got so turned on he made me come with his hand and then kept going until I came again. By then he was hard as a rock, so I returned the favor.

  I was so warm and relaxed afterward that I could hardly stay on my feet.

  As I’m standing there beside him at the party, I’m wondering if he’ll want to take a bath with me again.

  I’ve lost track of the conversation, but no one seems to care. Trevor is always smooth and charming. He can make these people believe they’re fascinating, interesting, important. He can make them believe it even with people I know he doesn’t like.

  The thought sparks a little worry.

  He makes me believe a lot of things too.

  But that’s different. I’m sure that’s different.

  I don’t think he’s just being charming with me. He’s not just playing a part.

  I’m sure he’s not.

  Right?

  It’s a silly, futile line of thinking, so I push it away. Since I’m not doing any good in this conversation, I excuse myself to find the bathroom.

  After I pee, I’m surprised by the sight of myself in the mirror, by how pretty and elegant I look. I wonder randomly if people think I’m a good match for Trevor.

  I hope I am.

  I want to be.

  I want him to be a good match for me too.

  I’m leaving the bathroom and walking through the back hallway when I find myself face-to-face with a dark-haired man.

  “Excuse me,” I say immediately, although it’s obviously not my fault that I happen to be walking down the hallway at exactly the same time he is.

  “Bentley’s wife,” he says.

  I blink and take a good look at him. He’s familiar with a faint scowl and a dark suit, but I can’t immediately place him. I don’t like his tone, so my voice is cool as I say, “Have we met?”

  “At the cookout at Ralph and Heather’s.”

  I know then who he is. Bill. That guy who was always sending nasty looks at Trevor. I search my memory and recall that Trevor said that he went to the prom with the girl Bill liked and that Bill always thought he was better than him.

  “Oh yes,” I say, my tone even cooler than before. “Bill, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  I wait for him to step aside or say something, but he doesn’t do either. He just looks down at me with that unpleasant look that makes my skin crawl. Finally I ask, “Is there something you want?”

  “What’s a girl like you doing with him?”

  First of all, I’m twenty-eight years old. I’m not a girl. I’ll tolerate the word from a woman who groups herself in as a girl or from a man over sixty-five, but I won’t tolerate it from this guy.

  Second, the question is both inappropriate and rude, and I’m not about to answer it.

  I narrow my eyes. “You’re an asshole.”

  That’s what I say.

  Then I try to get around him and walk away.

  He won’t let me. He puts an arm out to block me. I smell alcohol on his breath, and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s had too much to drink.

  I feel a flash of fear. Of vulnerability.

  I have no idea what this man will do.

  “Let me through,” I say in my coldest voice. “If you don’t, I’m going to scream so everyone in this house will know what you’re doing.”

  He looks surprised in a kind of dazed way and lowers his arm, and my flash of fear fades into relief.

  I start to go around him, and as I do, I hear him say, “Old Trev must think he scored big in you. He was always trying to fuck his way to a big payday, and I guess he finally managed to do it. Too bad you’re too stupid to see through his smarmy act.”

  I’m shocked by the words. Genuinely shocked. I’m not used to people being so openly nasty. Most of the meanness I’ve witnessed in my life has been of the passive-aggressive kind.

  I freeze in the hallway as the words process. Then I whirl around, so angry I don’t even think about what I’m saying. “If anyone scored in my marriage, it was me. Not him. Maybe in your sleazy mind, you see other people through your own nastiness. But Trevor isn’t looking for a payday. He’s a good man, and I’m lucky to have married him. I guarantee no woman will ever say the same about you.”

  Bill gapes at me, and I don’t want to look at him anymore. So I turn back around and stride down the hall. I’m moving so quickly as I turn the corner that I collide with someone.

  Strong hands stabilize me before I fall. Urgent brown eyes scan my face.

  Trevor.

  I reach out instinctively and cling to his lapels, feeling like he’s fresh air, cool water, warm sunlight after confronting that disgusting man.

  He must see something in my face because he wraps his arms around me, and he’s holding me against him when Bill comes back out of the hall.

>   I turn my head to look at him as he walks by us. He’s scowling either at Trevor or me, but he doesn’t stop and he doesn’t say anything.

  Trevor and I watch him disappear into the big room where everyone is mingling.

  “Ugh,” I say, straightening up but still holding on to the lapels of Trevor’s jacket. “You would not believe what that asshole said to me.”

  “I know,” he says in a thick voice. “I heard.”

  “You heard?”

  “Yeah. I was just coming to find you, and I heard you tell him to let you get by. I was about to lay him out, but you took care of it yourself.”

  “Oh. You heard?”

  His face is strange. Still urgent, kind of strained. “Yes. I heard. All of it.”

  “Oh.”

  He takes my face in his hands, cradling it between his palms. “I heard what you said too.”

  “Oh.” I’m saying that too much, so I add, “I was mad.”

  “So you didn’t mean it?”

  I swallow hard. “I guess... I guess I probably did. Mean it.” It feels like a huge risk to admit such a thing. It feels like the ground might start to crumble beneath my feet.

  I should protect myself better, but I don’t want to.

  His eyes kind of melt in a way that makes my heart flutter wildly. “I thought you thought I was smug and obnoxious.”

  “Oh. I do.” I give him a wobbly smile. “But I think you’re pretty good underneath all that.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” I’m almost whispering now. “I do.”

  He tilts his head forward, and I think he’s going to kiss me. He never kisses me outside the bedroom, but I’m sure he’s about to now.

  He doesn’t. He leans his forehead against mine, his face so close I can feel his breath. My fingers tighten in his jacket.

  “Melissa,” he murmurs.

  “Yes?” I’m waiting, so excited, every vein in my body pulsing with anticipation.

  “Melissa, baby.” He clears his throat. “Do you think...”

  When he trails off, I get impatient. I need to know what he’s about to ask.

  “Do I think what?” I prompt, wanting to drag the rest of the question out of him with my hands.

  His breath hitches strangely. Then he straightens up and gives me a sexy, smoldering smile. “Do you think you’re ready to go on home? I can think of something better we could be doing.”

  Oh.

  That’s what he was going to say.

  He wants to have sex.

  I love having sex with him, but I foolishly was thinking something else was happening just now.

  I guess it wasn’t though.

  I try not to be disappointed because I really have nothing to be disappointed about.

  It’s probably better this way.

  It’s definitely safer.

  I’m not really cut out for intimate relationships. I’m still not entirely sure I’m capable of making them work, of letting myself need someone that way.

  And Trevor probably doesn’t want it anyway.

  I smile back at him, pleased when my voice sounds natural and composed. “I think anything would be better than staying at this stuffy party. Going home sounds good to me.”

  We do go home.

  And after we get in bed, Trevor turns out the light and fucks me in the dark. We’re urgent and raw and mostly silent as our naked bodies move together under the covers. Near the end, he’s taking me so hard the bed bangs against the wall and can’t stay quiet anymore. I’m helplessly begging for more as he drives into me. I tell him not to stop, never to stop. I need it so badly. I need it so much.

  My climax tears me apart, leaving me limp and drained, but it’s not enough.

  It’s not enough.

  It’s not what I want the most.

  I know it for sure as we lie tangled up together afterward.

  Trevor is everything any woman could dream of in bed, but what happens in bed isn’t everything I want. It isn’t everything I dream of.

  I go to sleep wondering if there’s anything I can do to bridge the distance between us.

  It’s always made me feel safe, but I don’t want it anymore.

  I don’t want a part-time husband.

  I want him all the way.

  Eight

  THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up sore.

  Very sore.

  I wince as soon as I get out of bed, and it takes me a minute to straighten up and start walking. The muscles of my abs and thighs are tight and painful. Not to mention how raw I am from all that thrusting last night.

  It’s Sunday morning. Just after six thirty. Trevor is still sleeping on his back, his arm stretched out over the covers toward my side of the bed. I take a few slow steps until I can manage to stop wincing, and then I keep going toward the coffeepot.

  I drink a cup and work on my planner, but I really don’t have anything significant on my top-three list this morning. It’s a good thing because, the way my body feels right now, it’s going to be a lazy day.

  During my second cup of coffee, I text Rachel, who is also an early riser. She had a big date last night, and I want to hear about it.

  When I finish my coffee and conversation, I walk slowly toward the second bedroom. I stand just inside the door for a full minute, staring at the treadmill. I should go get into my workout clothes and try to do enough to stretch out my sore muscles.

  But I don’t want to.

  It’s too much effort for this morning.

  I’m not going to run today.

  With that decided, I turn around and gasp when someone is standing right there. Trevor. Right in the doorway. I nearly collide with his lean body.

  “Sorry,” he says, reaching out to hold on to my upper arms. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

  “That’s okay.” I’m flushed and rattled and don’t even know why. He desperately needs to shave, and he’s wearing nothing but his low-slung pajama pants. “You’re not sleeping in?”

  “I guess not.” He looks over his shoulder at the treadmill. “No running this morning?”

  “No. I’m a little sore.”

  It takes him a few seconds to realize what I’m referring to. Then his face softens irresistibly. “Was I too rough?”

  I run a hand down his chest before I realize what I’m doing. “You didn’t hear me complaining.” I pull my hand back. “But I’m paying for it this morning.”

  “Well, we should take it easy today.” He starts toward the kitchen, and I go with him.

  “We? You think you exerted enough effort to deserve a break today?”

  I’m teasing, and he knows it. His eyebrow goes up just a little. “As soon as I have my first cup of coffee, I’ll be able to come up with a clever response to that question.”

  I have a third cup of coffee, and he has his first. I look at news on my phone, and he just sits and tries to wake up.

  After a while, he asks, “What’s your top three for today?”

  I open my planner to today’s page and slide it over toward him. The top item says, “Ask Rachel about her date,” and I’ve already crossed it out. The other two lines are empty.

  He smiles, reaches for my pen, and starts scrawling on the page.

  “Hey!” I try to stop him, but he holds me off until he’s finished. Then he shows me what he wrote.

  2. Go out to breakfast with my husband.

  3. Hang out with my husband for the rest of the day.

  I giggle and shake my head, although I get a ridiculous little thrill at the way he refers to himself as my husband, as if in his mind that’s the way he identifies himself.

  “Isn’t that a good plan for the day?” he asks, chuckling low in his throat.

  “You want to go out for breakfast?”

  “Sure. Don’t you?”

  It only takes me a few seconds to decide that I do.

  WE SHOWER AND GET DRESSED quickly, and then we walk a few blocks down to a cute little breakfast place nearby. We
sit and eat and talk for almost an hour and a half, and then instead of heading right back to the apartment, Trevor puts his hand on my back and walks me in the opposite direction. We wander around for a while, stopping in a couple of shops that are just starting to open up. Then we reach a little craft and produce market that sets up occasionally and I always forget about.

  He buys me some gorgeous pink tulips, and then we pick out some fruit. Most of the crafts are of a country style that doesn’t really appeal to us, but I do have fun looking at some stained glass pieces and some of the jewelry.

  There’s a bracelet I particularly like made of pretty pink and silver beads. When I turn away from it, Trevor buys it for me.

  I tell him he doesn’t need to. I like it, but I’ll probably never wear it. He ignores me, and as soon as he’s paid for it, he carefully clasps it around my wrist.

  “You can wear it now,” he says with a warm look in his eyes.

  It looks nice on my wrist. Pretty and delicate and feminine and not at all like me.

  But maybe I can be the woman who wears this bracelet. At least some of the time.

  “Thank you,” I say at last, dropping my eyes.

  He takes my hand in his and starts to walk again.

  He holds my hand all the way back.

  When we return to the apartment, I’m hit with a sudden wave of fatigue. My body still aches a little, and all the food from breakfast is catching up with me.

  “What do you want to do now?” I ask him as he puts away the fruit we bought and I put the tulips in a vase.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’re the one who decided that the last of my top three today is hanging out with you, so you’re going to have to come up with what’s next.”

  His expression is relaxed, fond, as he steps over and slides his hand down my sides until they’re resting on my hips. “You look tired.”

  “I am a little, so whatever we do can’t be high energy.”

  “Let’s take a nap then.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. It’s Sunday. Why not?”

  A nap sounds perfect to me, but I give him a suspicious look. “If you’re hoping for the nap to turn into anything else, you’re going to be disappointed. I’m still sore.”