by Penny Reid
“Or maybe,” Greg’s eyes widened to their maximum diameter and he adopted his mock serious face, “they are my favorite words, which is why I constantly want you to say them out loud.”
I laughed at his likely theory. He pushed my untouched plate back into my hands. I accepted it distractedly, picked up a baby carrot and took a bite. It tasted like sawdust. I put it back on the plate and surveyed what was left of the party.
We had the weather channel on in the background, and when the meteorologist announced things were going to get worse before midnight, most of Ashley’s work friends had left. We hadn’t yet served the cake.
“Poor Quinn.”
I glanced at my husband, and found him shaking his head mournfully.
“Why poor Quinn?” Kat asked.
“Dan still has his crush on Nico, and Quinn isn’t here to defend his bromance.”
I snorted because this was true. Dan had a bit of a crush on Nico. But then, we all did.
As though reading my thoughts, Sandra mock-whispered, “We all have a crush on Nico. Even you, Greg.”
He didn’t deny it; instead, opting to say, “I’m going to start a rumor that Dan and Nico bought tickets to the Cubs opening game, they’re going together, and are hoping to get on the kiss-cam.”
I clicked my tongue in mild disapproval. “You are a gossip, Greg Archer.”
“Yes. I am. Annoyingly, Alex is worthless at spreading rumors because he’s smitten with Drew.”
“And you’re smitten with no one,” I stated.
“Untrue. I’m smitten with you.”
This earned him an appreciative grin; I lifted my chin. “Well played, husband. Well played.”
Looking remarkably satisfied with himself, Greg bent and gave me a kiss on my cheek, whispering, “How much longer are you looking to stay?”
My heart sank. I wasn’t ready to leave yet. My attention shifted to Sandra and Kat and then back to Greg.
Kat cleared her throat and touched Sandra’s arm. “Come on, Sandra. Help me get another drink.” She turned to us and asked, “Can I get either of you anything?”
“No thanks, Kat,” I answered for both of us, thankful we would have a moment of privacy.
I was torn. On one hand, Ashley was a good friend. She was leaving for good. This was one of the last times I would see her in person, unless it was a special occasion or a vacation. I was going to miss her, having her here.
On the other hand, I hadn’t seen Greg—if you don’t count Skype calls, which I didn’t—since the end of December. His surprise visit was a gift and I couldn’t help feeling like I was being selfish, squandering our time together.
When Kat and Sandra were out of earshot I turned to Greg, “Do you mind if we stay another hour?”
“Not at all,” he said, openly studying me. I didn’t believe him. Something about the way he was looking at me said differently.
“I know you enjoy Alex’s company, but you’ve barely talked to him tonight.” He needed to mingle. Greg had been orbiting or hovering over me for most of the night.
“They’re trying to talk me into a camping and fishing trip over the summer. Drew says I should bring the kids.”
“Oh! You guys should go.”
Greg pressed his lips together in a flat line. “I can’t. I’ll still be on assignment.”
I contemplated his statement for a long moment. It seemed terribly unfair to Grace and Jack. They shouldn’t miss out on a camping and fishing trip because Greg was going to be gone.
So I spoke and thought at the same time, “Maybe I’ll go. Maybe I’ll take the kids and we’ll go.”
My statement surprised him; but his surprise morphed into an unhappy glare before he could disguise it. He straightened and, sounding like he was fighting to keep his voice even, said, “Absolutely. I mean, why not?”
“I like to camp,” I rationalized, my eyes settling on where Drew and Alex were chatting across the room.
“I know.”
Not liking the edge in his tone, I further explained my thinking. “It would be fun with Drew and Alex. I bet Drew could teach the kids all kinds of things about foraging and wilderness survival.”
“I could, too. If you recall, I was a Marine.”
“Yes, you could. But you’re never here.” I winced as soon as the words were out of my mouth, realizing too late how they might be interpreted. “I mean—of course you’re not here. You’re working. I didn’t mean it like—”
“I know. You didn’t say anything untrue. You’re right, I’m never here.” Not looking at me, Greg crossed his arms then uncrossed them, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Honey—”
He cut me off again, pointing a massive frown at the dish full of food in my hands. “Is there anything on the buffet that looks appetizing to you? I’ll get you another plate.”
Not waiting for me to respond, Greg took the food out of my hands and turned toward the kitchen, walking away before I could sort through my mess of thoughts. My words sounded accusatory. Accusatory hadn’t been my intention. Not at all. Not even a little.
At one time, his job—more precisely, the location of his job—had been a source of anxiety in our marriage. But we’d resolved those issues years ago. As far as I was concerned, this subject was closed and I’d moved on, accepted his absence as a constant, inescapable fact of our life together.
“I love how he loves you.” Kat’s statement—imbued with more than a hint of wistfulness—alerted me that she and Sandra had returned. I glanced at her and found her eyes were following Greg’s retreating form.
I paused to examine her before asking, “Because he took my food away?”
“Because he noticed you weren’t eating the food on your plate, and you’re looking a little pale,” Sandra clarified, her green eyes alight with mischief. Though, to be fair, she almost always looked like she was up to something.
“I’m just tired,” I admitted. The last few weeks were catching up with me.
“He noticed that, too. That’s why he asked how much longer you wanted to stay. He’s worried about you,” Sandra said, further explaining her interpretation of Greg’s actions. Sandra’s interpretations were typically correct.
Now I paused to examine Sandra, considering the likelihood that she was correct. I replayed the last several minutes with Greg based on this new perspective.
At length I asked, “How do you do that?”
She lifted her eyebrows. “Do what?”
“We’ve been married for almost one and a half decades and I didn’t pick up on any of that.”
“It’s because you’re tired, and . . . ” she titled her head to the side, her eyes moving over my face, her brows slowly drawing together as she studied me, “you’re overwhelmed.”
“When people are overwhelmed, they can’t see past their own campfire.” Ashley sauntered up to our trio, saying these words like she was quoting someone. She confirmed my suspicion by adding, “My momma used to say that, and if you want my opinion, Greg is right to be worried. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but no sound came out. I didn’t know how to respond, because I’d never discovered a satisfactory response to this kind of statement. Maybe I had been pushing myself too hard, but what was I supposed to do instead? What was the alternative? Not take care of my children? That was lunacy. Not work? We needed the money. Not keep the house running and in working order? None of my obligations were optional. Neglect personal hygiene? I doubt that’s what they were insinuating.
Eventually, I closed my mouth and shrugged. “It is what it is.”
Sandra wrinkled her nose at me. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Fiona.”
“How so, Sandra?” A rueful smile slowly claimed my features as my friend and I studied each other.
“You are so wise. And yet, I think sometimes your wisdom blinds you to the obvious.”
Ashley pushed Sandra’s shoulder. “Stop making those fortune
cookie comments and just say what you mean.”
Sandra and I continued to regard each other, her eyes narrowing by millimeters until they were slits.
Marie chose this moment to jog over and interrupt, her tone infused with urgency. “Okay, all of Ashley’s work people are gone. It’s just us knitters and the husbands-slash-significant others, plus Dan the Security Man and his boring date. I say we go back to Janie’s place and see how she’s doing. If she’s up for it, let’s divide that humongous cake into seven equal parts and chow down.”
Sandra and I stared at each other for another beat before she shifted her attention to Marie, her expression clearing at once as she said, “Yes. Let’s go eat cake.”
Sandra surprised me by letting the matter of my blinding wisdom drop so quickly. Typically, she was like a cat with yarn when it came to psychoanalyzing people for their own good.
But then she stepped forward and looped her arm through mine, turning us toward the kitchen. “Come on, Fiona. I’m taking you to your husband.”
“Why?”
She squeezed my arm with hers and inclined her head toward mine. “Because he’s going to take you home. You need to get laid more than you need cake.”
CHAPTER 5
Dear Future Husband,
Here's the thing, future husband, if I'm marrying you, then you must be a pretty awesome person. I promise to love and cherish you always. But if I annoy you, just walk away, but don't leave. Don't get mad at me and then don't speak to me.
- Kristen
Ohio, USA
~Present Day~
*Fiona*
I fell asleep on the ride home.
We were talking about the night, snuggling in the backseat, and apparently I collapsed against him. He must’ve carried me upstairs and put me to bed, because when I woke up I was naked.
Typical.
I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was 3:04 a.m. and I was awake. I was awake because Greg was home, and the knowledge that he was here made me restless. I typically slept less when he was home because I didn’t want to miss a minute.
Not helping matters, Greg’s equally naked form was wrapped around my body, his hands on my stomach and breast. Slow, even breaths were hot against the back of my neck. Add to this cornucopia of matrimonial extravagance, the super-soft cotton sheets warm against the bare skin of my side and legs, and I was all tingles and hopeful, impatient desire.
And yet . . . I needed to brush my teeth. And I hadn’t shaved my legs in weeks. Or tamed my lady closet as Greg was prone to call it. I didn’t take the time to groom before the party and now I was regretting my inaction. Staring into the darkness, I debated whether to make a move on my husband or take care of business first.
“Fe . . . are you up?” His voice was a low whisper, roughened by sleep, the sound sliding over me like a silk sheet.
It stole my breath. I’d missed him so much. So. Much. The ache was physical and constant, vacillating between a sharp, stabbing pang and a dull, simmering tightness.
“I’m awake.” I closed my eyes, concentrating on where our bodies touched, trying to memorize every texture and sensation.
He moved, released me, and the heat from his body shifted away, causing my eyes to fly open.
I twisted to look at him. “Where are you going?”
“Just a sec.”
I heard him briefly rustling and moving items on his side table before he was back, and his hand reached for one of mine.
“Take this.” He placed a small, smooth rectangle in my palm.
“What is it?”
“It’s that dental chewing gum. I know you’re thinking about getting up and brushing your teeth. Don’t.”
I grinned into the darkness. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” I heard him unwrap his own piece, followed by the sound of him chewing. “You have two minutes.”
I popped the strongly flavored gum into my mouth. “Two minutes?”
“I have questions. And you have two minutes before you’re interrogated.”
I turned to my other side, so now we were facing each other. His hand moved in unhurried circles on my body, caressing me from my shoulder, down my arm, hip, thigh . . .
“What kind of questions?” I whispered, though it might have sounded like a pant.
His movements stilled and I could just make out his eyes by the dark grey light filtering in through the closed drapes. He was staring at me. My palm was pressed against his chest and I felt the uptick in his heart rate, the change in his breathing.
“Fe . . .” He said it like a plea.
“I miss you.”
He gripped my wrist before I could move it lower, guessing my intentions correctly. I didn’t want to talk, not yet. Maybe later.
. . . maybe not.
“I miss the sound of your heartbeat,” I continued, because I did. I missed it. I craved it.
“You must stop,” he growled and groaned.
“Why?”
“Because I am worried. You cannot fathom how much I need you.”
“That sounds like a reason not to stop.”
His hold tightened as I halfheartedly tried to pull out of his grip.
He ignored me, instead clearing his throat and changing the subject. “You know I’m not one of those weird bastards that fixates on my partner’s eating habits, but I can’t help noticing you’re not eating at all. You’ve lost nearly a stone.”
“Remind me, how much is a stone? In pounds?”
“Fourteen pounds.”
“Hmm . . .”
“Hmm . . .” he mimicked, threading our fingers together and bringing our joined hands behind my back.
I hadn’t lost fourteen pounds. It was more like eleven pounds. And the reasons were simple: nothing tasted good and I was busy.
“What’s going on, Fe?”
I shrugged, lowering my eyes to his lips. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Things are . . . busy.”
“So busy you’re not eating? What can I do to help?”
Staring at his lips, my first thought was, kiss me.
My second thought was, touch me.
And my third thought was, hire me a nanny, chef, and housekeeper. . . and never leave me again.
I didn’t give voice to any of these thoughts. I was enjoying his nearness too much. The resultant combined warmth of our bodies wrapped around my limbs, heart, and mind, thawing the frigidity of loneliness.
While he was gone the bed was cold. Even in the summer, I would bring hot water bottles—three of them—into bed with me. I’d knitted them cozies. In a state of mild drunkenness one night, I’d sprayed the knitted cozies with his cologne.
Even though we were married, I had to admit the wool cozies that smelled like Greg were a little weird. I hadn’t told him about their existence. I wondered what, if anything, he did to battle the solitude.
“Momma?” Grace’s sad little voice pierced the blanket of warm silence that had fallen between us.
I lifted my head and waited. When she called out again, my head dropped back to the pillow and I sighed.
“I’ll get her.” Greg was already rolling away.
“She’s been having nightmares. I think she’s growing.”
He pulled on his boxers and grabbed his pajamas. “You think she’s having nightmares because she’s growing?”
“Yes.” I snuggled deeper into the bed, my hand gripping the sheet where he’d been laying, wishing I could grab and hold and keep the residual warmth of his body. “She gets emotional when she’s growing—temper tantrums, crying, nightmares—I think it’s low blood sugar. Give her a banana.”
“I got it.” Pajamas in place, Greg leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “Stay here and sleep. I’ll get the kids in the morning and keep them home from school.”
“No school today. It’s Saturday.” I stretched and yawned, thankful it was the weekend. Jack and Grace would go crazy if they thought Greg was at home without them. I reached for his pillo
w and hugged it.
Greg loitered at the edge of the bed, hesitating like he wanted to say something else. I stared at his greyish outline, blinking tiredly.
“Momma!” Grace’s urgent voice was closer than before. She must’ve left her bed.
“It’s good to be home,” he said finally. Reaching forward again, he cupped my cheek and brushed his thumb across my lips. “It’s good to touch you.”
Then he turned, pushing his fingers through his hair, and left the room. He closed the door with quiet carefulness. I pressed my face into his pillow and inhaled, because the weird wool cozies were paltry imposters in comparison to the lingering scent of him on his pillow.
***
I woke to the sound of the front door slamming, followed by Greg’s voice urging in a harsh whisper, “What did I tell you about slamming the door? Your mother needs her sleep cycles, otherwise she’ll keep malfunctioning and we’ll have to take her to the mechanic again.”
“Dad, Mommy is not a robot.” Jack sounded reluctantly amused.
“I never said she was a robot. I said she’s one-quarter robot. And as I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re one-sixteenth robot—why do you think you’re so good at math?”
“Dad . . .”
“It also explains why your grandmother has no soul. She’s one hundred percent robot.”
“Am I a robot?” Grace whispered her question; she must’ve been standing very close to our bedroom door.
“You have the same percentage as your brother,” Greg responded very gently, “and that’s why you don’t like baths.”
Relaxing into the pillows, I folded my hands behind my head and listened.
“But, Gracie, baths are good for you. They keep your circuitry working. And dirty robots can’t dance.”
“Can they do the robot?” Jack asked, his tone exceptionally dry. He’d been growing more and more sarcastic over the last few months.
“No. Dirty robots can’t even dance the robot, but they can do the skunk.”
“What’s the skunk?” Grace asked.
“It’s where you stand really, really still . . . and then you fart.”
Both children launched into a fit of hysterical laughter, with Grace exclaiming, “That’s not a dance!”