“She did very well tonight.”
“She did. Thank you.”
“Did you have a nice night?” he asked.
“Yes. I did.” I moved closer to the bed, feeling awkward, unsure of what to do, of what was expected of me. The champagne had made me tired. But then I looked at my husband, his long, lean body sprawled out on the expansive white comforter, and the emotion I felt wasn’t exhaustion at all. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so mostly I stood there, twisting my hands over and over again.
“Sit,” he said presently. “I’ll help you with your boots.”
I sat on the edge of the bed. He got up, kneeling before me and taking the first boot between his hands. His fingers worked the zipper, sliding it down the inside of my calf slowly, careful not to snag the skin. He eased the right boot off, went to work on the left.
I found myself leaning back, feeling his fingers whisper down my calves, cup the heel of my naked foot as he stripped off my sheer stockings. Had he ever touched my legs? Maybe when I was nine months pregnant and couldn’t see my own feet. I swore it hadn’t felt like this back then, however. I would’ve remembered this.
My stockings were off, and yet his fingers remained on my skin. His thumb brushed down the inside arch of my foot. I almost jerked away, but his other hand held my foot in place. Then, both his thumbs were moving, doing positively delicious things and I found my back arching, my breath expelling in a little groan at the decadence of a foot massage after a long night in tight leather boots.
He moved from my right foot to my left foot, then his fingers were working their way up my calves, finding small knots, kneading. I felt his breath behind my knee cap, the whisper of his mouth brushing the inside of my thigh. The sensations kept me transfixed, unable to move, reluctant to break the spell.
If I opened my eyes, he would disappear and I would once again be alone. If I said his name, it would bring him back to consciousness and he would bolt downstairs to the goddamn computer. I mustn’t move, I mustn’t react.
Yet, my hips were beginning to writhe on their own and I was keenly aware of each touch of his rough-padded fingers, the tickling sensation of his wavy hair, the silky smoothness of his fresh-shaved cheeks. The champagne warmed my belly. His hands warmed my skin.
Then he got up and walked away.
I bit my cheeks to stop the moan. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and in that moment, I felt my loneliness more acutely than I had during all of those nights he’d left our bed. It isn’t fair, I wanted to scream. How could you?
Except then I heard the click of the door shutting between our room and Ree’s sleeping area. Another rasp as he tended the chain lock on the main door.
Then the bed sagged as he returned to me, stretching out beside me. I opened my eyes to discover my husband of five years looking down at me. His dark eyes were no longer so calm, no longer inscrutable. He appeared nervous, maybe even shy.
But he said, in that calm voice I knew so well, “May I kiss you, Sandra?”
I nodded yes.
My husband kissed me, slowly, carefully, sweetly.
I finally figured out that my husband had heard me the other night. He wasn’t trying to kill me. He was granting me a second child instead.
There are things you always wished you had known sooner versus later. If you had spoken up earlier, before the lie grew too big. Or if you had braved the conversation in the beginning, before by its very omission it became too much to handle.
I had sex with my husband. Or rather, we had sex with each other. And it was slow, delicate, careful. Five years later, we still had to learn the feel of each other’s bodies, the way one gasp meant I had done something well, and another gasp meant it was time to ease back.
I had the impression that of the two of us, I was the one with more experience. Yet it was important for him to take the lead. If I pushed too hard, moved too fast, it would be over. A switch would be thrown and we’d be right back where we had started, strangers who shared a bed.
So I let his fingers dance across my skin, while discovering the lean outline of his ribs beneath my fingers, the ripple of muscle on his sides, the taut feel of his butt. There were indentations across his back, markings of some kind. But if I tried to touch them, he drew back, so I contented myself with threading my fingers through the light whorls of hair on his chest, the broad, solid feel of his shoulders.
I reveled in the feel of his body, and hoped he found some kind of satisfaction in mine. Then he loomed between my legs and I parted them gratefully, arching my hips, taking him into me. At the first moment of penetration, maybe I cried out, maybe I had wanted him that much.
Then he was moving, and I was moving, and we didn’t have to be careful anymore and we didn’t have to be awkward anymore. Everything was as it should be and it all felt right
I held him afterward. Pressed his head against my shoulder and stroked his hair He didn’t speak, and there was moisture on his cheeks which could’ve been sweat or maybe something else. I liked lying with him like this, our legs entwined, our breaths co-mingled.
I may have had sex with a lot of men, but I have slept with very few of them, and it felt like I should grant my husband that much.
I fell asleep thinking that family vacation was a positively brilliant idea.
And woke up to the sound of a guttural cry.
My husband was rocking beside me. In the dark, I could feel his movements more than I could see them. He seemed to be rolled into a tight ball, caught in the throes of a nightmare. I reached out a hand to his shoulder He jerked back.
“Jason?” I whispered.
He moaned lower, rolling away from me.
“Jason?” I tried again, voice louder now, but not too loud, as I didn’t want to wake Ree. “Jason, wake up.”
He rocked and rocked and rocked.
I placed two hands on his back and shook him hard. He went shooting out of bed, scrambling across the room, crashing against a wingback chair, tripping over a standing light.
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” he screamed, careening into a corner. “I fucking killed you! You’re dead, you’re dead, you’re dead.”
I was up out of the bed, hands out as if to brace myself “Shhh, shhh, shhh. Jason, it’s only a dream. Wake up, sweetheart, please. It’s only a dream.”
I reached for the bedside lamp, clicking it on, hoping the sudden infusion of light would snap him back to his senses.
He turned his face away, grabbing the curtain and holding it across his body as if to shield his nakedness.
“Go away,” he whimpered. “Please, please, please just go away.”
But I didn’t I took one step closer to him. Then another Willing my husband to wake up, even as I willed my daughter to remain asleep.
Finally, very slowly, he turned his face toward mine.
I sucked in my breath as I gazed at his oversized dark eyes, still dilated by fear, wild with terror Something clicked in the back of my mind and all the pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place.
“Oh Jason,” I whispered.
And I realized at that moment that I had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
