Cheater

1. Chloe Turner

“Hall pass granted,” my fiancé Adam announces as he hands me a piece of paper.

“Huh?”

Adam used to drop one-liners constantly. For a beat I think his sense of humor is returning. But he’s not wearing that silly smirk that I miss so much.

“Read it, Chloe. Marinate with it today and we’ll talk it over tomorrow.” He presses the joystick on his wheelchair and motors away from me, out of the bedroom, leaving me holding the piece of paper with the words Hall Pass on top, underlined.

He’s not joking.

He actually handed me this piece of paper and said what he said before wheeling away like he’d handed me a menu and told me to pick what I want for dinner.

I force myself to swallow as I take in the list and ending paragraph.

Hall Pass

Who? Chloe and anyone I don’t know.*

What? Just sex.

Where? Just not in our home.

When? When you need it.

Why? I don’t want to lose you.

*I ask that it’s never the same person twice. Nobody you’ve been with before, so no emotional attachments. We won’t talk about it and discretion is sacrosanct.

He signed the bottom with his actual signature and today’s date.

I’m rooted in place while reading the paper a second time with trembling hands. And now I’m angrily stuffing it into the nearest drawer, which happens to be the drawer of my nightstand.

This means it’s beside my vibrator, which lies there innocently despite the fact that the vibrator was the catalyst for all this.

I slam the drawer and aggressively finish making the bed instead of doing what I want to do – follow Adam and pick a fight with him.

We haven’t fought in over half a year. Because Adam was in a horrific accident and suffered a spinal cord injury, I tiptoe around, trying to make everything sunshine, flowers, and rainbows.

But the reality is that I’m not sure if our relationship will ever be anything close to what it was. And the piece of paper he just handed me makes me feel like a complete asshole.

It's been six months and three weeks since we’ve had sex. I made a wine-fueled mistake two nights ago by pulling out the vibrator while he was in bed beside me, and now here we are.

He didn’t want to help by using it on me. He didn’t want to watch me use it. Doesn’t want anything to do with anything sexual. Doesn’t want anything to do with any intimacy at all. Because things don’t work for Adam the way they used to.

I asked questions about intimacy at a doctor’s appointment a few months ago and was given a stack of literature that Adam refuses to read or discuss. He gave me the silent treatment for three days afterwards because my questions embarrassed him. While the doctor says he might eventually regain sensation, might gain full function (and if not, there might be things we can do to help), Adam won’t talk about it.

Sperm collection and IVF could also be an option if we want to have kids. The doctor was very willing to answer my questions, was the one who encouraged me to ask questions. But Adam cut him off, so the doctor handed me the pamphlets.

And now he wants me to marinate on him giving me a license to cheat on him?

And I absolutely will not.

He gets himself from his chair into bed and I stop myself from remarking on how fast he’s getting at what used to be much more of an ordeal. He’s getting more and more independent. Moving here almost a month ago has helped significantly, since everything is calibrated for accessibility.

Since he dropped the hall pass into my hand a few hours ago while I was changing the sheets, I’ve been cleaning our spotless townhome needlessly while he’s been in his office. He wanted to eat his dinner in there, too, telling me he wanted to work on his novel. Funny how the last two days he’s so entrenched in writing that novel that he’s been blocked on for as long as I’ve known him. I suspect it’s a tool to avoid me.

Adam is a journalist, and the novel has been something he’s talked about working on since we met a year and a half ago. He won’t let me read it, won’t tell me what it’s about, and I don’t know if it’s dozens of pages, hundreds of pages, or a series of paragraphs because he won’t even say.

He barely looked up when I put his plate down beside him, but he did switch screens so I couldn’t see anything in the document he had on screen.

I ate my dinner over the sink, did the dishes, and watched some television alone while mindlessly scrolling on my phone after that. And now I’m on my side of the bed, he’s on his.

“Goodnight,” I say softly, but it sort of comes out like a question.

“Goodnight,” he replies without turning over to kiss me.

The chasm between us has never been more gaping.

“Are you marinating?” Adam asks a while later.

He knows I’m not asleep.

I clear my throat.

“Well…” I start.

“Keep doing it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“I just-”

“Chloe, please. Do what I ask. Think about it. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I bite my tongue. Literally. I’m not going to be able to fall asleep any time soon. I’m going to toss and turn because he put this out there and won’t talk about it. And this is typical Adam.

It’s not the first time I’ve gotten exasperated with Adam always being the one to decide when we do and don’t get to talk about things. This isn’t a new problem. He’s been like this since the beginning. I used to point things like this out and he’d listen. Sometimes he’d compromise. Sometimes we’d agree to disagree. I know this is one of his character traits, but until six months ago, it never stopped me from standing up for myself.

Of course I’ve outwardly had the patience of a saint these last months as we’ve adjusted to a new reality. I’ve avoided things escalating into an argument at whatever cost.

I stare at his back. In less than ten minutes, his breathing evens out. He’s always been able to fall asleep in a snap.

I, however, stare into the void between us for half the night. I do it missing how we were together before the accident. I miss the closeness. I miss the banter. I miss our life and I miss who I was, too.

But this isn’t Adam’s fault. The accident changed everything about our lives, who he is, and what life will be like going forward. And it’s nobody’s fault. It’s just… life.

I’ve been unwavering in my commitment to finding the same happiness we’d have had if Adam’s world hadn’t blown apart when his car rolled multiple times after he lost control on an icy night after working late.

But tonight, staring at his back, I’ve allowed a small amount of bitterness to creep in. And now that I’ve done that, I’m worried that the dam might burst.

I set his coffee mug and bowl of oatmeal on the table and ask, “Fruit today or just plain?”

He doesn’t answer straight away; he’s got his eyes on his phone.

“Oh, I got more of those blueberries you like yesterday,” I add, but he still doesn’t look up.

“Hm?” he asks belatedly, then looks at his oatmeal and lifts his mug. “Oh, thanks.”

“So, what’s on tap today?” I ask. “Writing for money or pleasure?”

“If I ever get this novel done, maybe writing will become both.”

“Making progress with–” I start to ask, but he cuts me off.

“I don’t want to know about it when it happens, Chloe, but I just want to know you’ll do it. Accept my offer.”

“Adam,” I say and massage my temples, deflating.

He sets his phone down. “Just tell me you’ll accept my offer. Say it and then we can get on with our lives.”

“Oh, am I allowed to address this now?” I fire back, impatiently.

He looks taken aback. This might be the first time I’ve been coarse with him since the accident.

His eyes search my face.

“You’re angry with me,” he says.

“I’m not accepting an offer to cheat on you, Adam. Give me a break.” I spin to rinse the blueberries, turning the water on full blast over the pint.

“It’s not cheating if we come to an agreement. If you follow the rules I laid out,” he calls over. “I don’t want anyone to know about it, but… can you turn that off and sit with me a second, Chloe?”

I grind my teeth.

“Chloe?” he prompts.

I slap the lever down and tuck a plate under the fruit pint so I can carry it to the table without getting water everywhere.

“It’s not gonna happen, so might as well drop it.” I dump some blueberries into my oatmeal and nudge the pint his way. “Anyway, you did well this morning,” I change the subject the way he often does when he wants to shut a topic down. “Progress. You’re getting more and more ripped, too.” I plaster on what’s probably a poor attempt at a smile and run my hand along his bicep.

He’s got a great physique, always has. I’ve seen more definition in his upper body in the last few months because he’s working so hard at physical therapy. Although he’s worried about retaining muscle in his lower body, so maybe I shouldn’t have remarked on it. Heat floods my face and I worry his mood will take a dark turn. Not that his current mood is good either, but Adam’s dark moods are quiet. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t pick fights. He just shuts down for long periods of time. And with all he’s been through, I’ve been doing my best to keep things light so that if a dark mood descends, it’s not my doing.

He moves back an inch to escape my touch. “Pick one friend to talk about it with if you must. Alannah maybe,” He goes on like I didn’t even speak. “Though she’s a lot to take, she isn’t a blabbermouth. But I don’t want it widely known and make sure whoever you pick to tell doesn’t bring it up around me. Ever.”

I do my best to tamp my temper down while simultaneously feeling the twinge of physical rejection. Again.

He raises his blond eyebrows in challenge. Neither of us says anything for a long moment.

“Are you even here?” he asks.

“What?” I whisper.

He huffs like he’s exasperated with me. And I’m shocked at his attitude.

“I’m trying to have a conversation with you,” he states.

“Why do you think I’m that shallow? Because I pulled out a sex toy you think I want to have an affair? I already explained that I was trying to open the door for us. Us, Adam.” I gesture between us. “In all that literature your doctor gave me–”

He cuts me off with another huff of exasperation. “And I already told you how I feel about… that. I told you long before the other night that I’ll let you know if and when I might be ready and yet you’re pushing the issue anyway, despite what I asked of you.”

I blink hard and jolt in surprise.

He goes on, “That’s why I’ve come up with the alternative. Because I’m tired of being pushed.”

“Forget it,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I won’t push you anymore.”

He shakes his head sharply. “No. You can’t un-ring a bell, Chloe. Obviously it’s weighing on you. So you have my offer. Think about it.”

God, this is mortifying.

When I pulled out my vibrator, I was looking to open the door to intimacy between us, not have him push me into other men’s arms. I wanted him to participate. I wanted him to take over, or watch. Something. Anything. Anything but agitatedly asking me to take it to another room so he could sleep.

The moment felt like a record scratch. I didn’t take it to another room. I turned it off and put it in the drawer before bursting into tears and apologizing. Explaining. He kept his back turned and didn’t offer any sort of comfort, muttered for me to go to sleep, told me I was drunk.

I took a hot shower and then crawled back into bed. I called his name. I touched his back. He pretended to be asleep. The next day he told me without eye contact that he wanted to have breakfast in his home office and get an early start. He barely looked at me and we didn’t speak all day until dinner time where he talked about his job and an article he was working on. He acted like nothing at all had happened, but I know I don’t have a good poker face.

And then a day later, we’re still not talking much, and he hands me the handwritten hall pass.

“I’m okay to wait,” I insist. “Or I will be if you stop this silliness.”

“I need your needs to be met, Chloe,” he presses.

“Then maybe do something to help meet them,” I mutter.

He jerks back like I’ve slapped him, then says, “I wish I could.”

I shove my chair back as I fly up to standing, then I drop to the floor by his wheelchair, putting my forehead to his knee. “I don’t mean it like that. You know I don’t. Not that way. By letting intimacy back into our relationship. You can touch me. You can kiss me. You can hold me and use one of my toys on me. Or watch me and hold me afterwards. I could try touching you in places and see how you feel about it, too. The pamphlets had some suggestions for bringing intimacy back into our relationship.”

He sighs like he’s absolutely exasperated with me.

“Then we can fall asleep together cuddling afterwards, Adam, like we used to do. We don’t even snuggle anymore. We don’t even kiss other than a quick peck. I don’t need the whole nine yards to be satisfied. I was just trying to open the door for something… not meaning for it to turn into… this. I just need some kind of intimacy between us. Just… a… ”

I want to crawl into his lap, but of course I can’t. I realize I’m leaning on a body part he can’t even feel and he’s making no move to offer comfort whatsoever, so I straighten up.

He’s gripping the arms of his wheelchair. He’s gritting his teeth.

Seeing me this upset, he doesn’t even have it in him to stroke my hair or offer some words of comfort?

My belly pitches and I feel a chill creep over me slowly. Reality sinks in. And it doesn’t feel nice.

I don’t bother to finish my sentence.

Finally, he says, “I feel nothing from the waist down. I can’t fake that, Chloe.”

He’s not willing to try. He’s unwilling to try any level of intimacy with me but wants me to have it with someone else.

I’m crushed. I’m embarrassed. I don’t know how to fix this.

We were happy. Okay, sex wasn’t as often as I’d have liked and it was kind of predictable, but we had intimacy. Talking quietly in the dark about our future with warm, naked bodies pressed together. Affection. Snuggling. And he looked at me with lust or at least appreciation when he saw me undress or wearing something new. All that’s gone now, and after six months of hoping it would come back to some degree, any degree, I try something to stir things up and wind up hurting him.

I feel like garbage.

Selfish garbage.

And also hopeless. Because he’s not even reaching for me right now.

I’ve done my best to be a supportive partner to him, to be the partner I’d want if I were in his position.

I slept in a chair at the hospital, not leaving for days. I’ve been to every specialist appointment. I’ve been at his side constantly. I took a leave of absence from work and my job was more than accommodating to ensure I could be here to look after him by letting me take months off without canceling my medical benefits, which he’s on as well, and which were crucial for Adam’s recovery. They’ve been very flexible about my hours and workload.

We cleared both of our savings out to buy this modern townhome because his mom knew the realtor who told her about it – that it was built for someone in a wheelchair who passed away before the closing date. It’s nothing I thought I’d ever live in, all modern and sterile feeling with not much of a yard, but it works well for Adam’s mobility issues with wide doorways, an accessible kitchen and bathroom, with everything on one level.

I do my very best to be here with empathy and support, along with hope in my heart. Hoping I’ve been a comfort to him through the worst days of his life. Because they’ve been some of the worst days of my life, too, tied with when I lost my brother in my teens. I’ve done my best to hide the pain and strain. I’ve been more than patient when he wasn’t easy to be around. Forgiving when he got frustrated and took those frustrations out on everyone around him. I’ve been willing to do whatever I can do to be a supportive partner to him. Because that’s what you do. That’s what I’d hope for if the roles were reversed.

After six months in this new reality, I can’t help but count that I haven’t had more than a peck on the mouth from him even after my hinting at making out a while ago, which was met with a chilly eyeroll. As much as it hurt, I’ve tried to be understanding, to let it go.

All these pamphlets they gave me talked about how he might have some sensation return, that we should experiment and not get discouraged. That medical aids and even procedures exist that could help if he doesn’t get to a point where he can get an erection on his own.

I’ve been trying so hard not to be selfish, but I guess I’ve failed. Maybe the idea of me getting sexual pleasure when it isn’t in the cards for him is just unthinkable, but it’s about so much more than sex.

“Don’t look at me like that, Chloe. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“I know that,” I say softly. “Sorry.”

And I’ve apologized for not being able to see things from his perspective on a variety of issues at least a hundred times.

“I didn’t intend to make you feel bad, Adam. I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was trying to open the door for us to try things. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He’s been in counseling since almost the beginning. I went to a session with him last week at his counselor’s request. She point-blank asked if my needs are being met in our relationship. I stammered something to the effect of being more worried about Adam at the moment than myself and she asked if I wanted to see her separately, if I wanted to explore my feelings, since I’m allowed to have them. She asked me if I’ve become someone I’m not in order to support Adam in his recovery. Adam snapped at her stating I’m who I always was, that I’ve always been supportive and caring and giving in our relationship. She let it go, but handed me her card at the end of the session in case I wanted to explore my feelings.

And Adam has been almost edgy ever since. It’s like he didn’t even consider my feelings until she brought up the fact that I must have some, too. That I might have emotions around the fact that our lives are now different than what I’d signed up for. He’s been so focused on his recovery, on his new reality that I don’t think he’s had a chance to think about me. And admittedly, her words probably, at least in part, spurred action from me with the vibrator the other night.

I haven’t agreed to attend counseling on my own yet. Maybe I should.

Maybe it was partly her words, but also, maybe the fourth glass of wine the other night helped me grow bold. And now that vibrator sits in the drawer beside a piece of paper that he thinks will solve everything.

I have a secret, anonymous sexual fantasy blog I called My Sexy Bucket List that I’ve had for almost a decade, though I hadn’t logged into it since Adam and I got serious, but I thought about that blog after the therapy appointment and re-read some of my old posts in my wine-addled state. The wine and reading my old posts centered around sexual fantasies I used to have were fuel for this firestorm, I guess.

“The hall pass will get you what you want,” he says.

“Adam…”

“And it’ll take the pressure off me.”

“I don’t mean to pressure you,” I say, staring at my feet.

“Nobody does, Chloe.”

Our eyes meet as he continues, “But everyone does. My parents. My physical therapist. My shrink. My editors. You. Friends and relatives. Everyone’s pushing me in whatever way, asking questions, or disappointed I’m not hitting their expectations and I’m tired of being pushed. Of being prodded. Having no privacy or personal space. And not having the ability to go for a run or even a walk to clear my head like I used to do. I’ve got too many people pushing, and I don’t need any more of it, especially not sexual pressure from you when I don’t… when I can’t…” He lets that hang.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Forget it. All of it. I won’t…”

“Stop being a fuckin’ martyr!” he shouts, physically startling me. “God, just stop.” He rakes his hands through his hair with frustration.

I stare, shocked as he blows out an exasperated breath before continuing much more calmly with, “You’ve always had a higher sex drive than me. Frankly, you were hard to keep up with. Now I have no hope in hell of keeping pace. Accept my offer. This way, you get what you need.”

“You’re making me feel like a sexual deviant,” I whisper hoarsely.

He rolls his eyes.

And this feels like insult added to injury. I say nothing for a minute, before I manage to rasp out brokenly, “What I need so much more than orgasms is intimacy with the man I love.”

“Chloe…”

“Connection,” I add, voice getting stronger. “I need to know that I matter to you as much as you matter to me.”

“Are you for real right now? Like I haven’t had enough to deal with. Making it about you?” he mutters, looking at me with disappointment, “When my life won’t ever be the same.”

“You’ve had too much to deal with, I agree, more than anyone should have to deal with. All I need to keep me going is some intimacy. I need to occasionally be kissed in a way that doesn’t leave me feeling like I’m your cousin. I need to know you might someday read those pamphlets and see that there might be options to help. Things worth exploring. For intimacy. For us to have children down the road, to–”

“Try it my way,” he says, “See if it’ll fill the gaps in our relationship for you. ” He shrugs.

I frown.

This feels blasé in a way that’s frankly infuriating.

“Try an affair?” I croak out.

He shakes his head. “Not an affair. Hall pass. An affair would be behind my back, against the rules of our relationship. This is like a backscratcher. Try it before we get married. See if it would be enough.”

“I love you, Adam. I…” How do I express that what I need is much more than to simply scratch an itch.

“I know that. I love you, too. And that’s why I’m looking for a solution. I don’t want to lose you. This takes the pressure off me and gives you what you need. I don’t know when or even if I’ll ever be ready to be anything in the realm of intimate when I can’t… I… I just don’t have those urges and I’m not about faking it. You know that about me, don’t you? I’m not fake.”

I feel like I’ve swallowed broken glass.

“I want you going into our marriage prepared for what our future will be like, Chloe. It’s not all about sex is it? Think about this.”

I swallow down the jagged shards, reality bleak before me. No intimacy, ever? Nothing? Living like roommates? The words why bother bounce around softly, but I fear the volume might suddenly get deafening. And I hate what that might say about me. I’ve had to fake plenty of things to try to be supportive to him. Fake smiles. Faking that I’m okay. For him. But is this what life is from here on out?

“Please,” he whispers. “I need you to think about it. Sweetie, you’ve been a saint throughout all of this. Thank you for that. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you. But now that we’re moving forward and life is hitting a new rhythm, we have to be realistic about what I can and can’t give you. I’m trying to think about you instead of just me here.”

Silence stretches between us.

“Chloe, please.”

“I just need some hope, Adam. Some… ”

He shakes his head. “I’m not gonna bullshit. If I say yeah, gimme six months, it’ll feel like more pressure on me. A ticking clock. I need to know if you can live with things this way. Not saying things will be like this forever, also not saying I can give you any more than what we have right now. Because I just don’t know. I’m taking it minute by minute because that’s all I can do. That’s how I can keep myself from thinking dark thoughts about offing myself.”

I jolt in shock.

He keeps talking like he didn’t just drop a bomb, “What I can do is be okay with you getting what you need if it means you and me are still together, still planning to move forward and be a couple. I’m working on being okay, Chloe. I’m not there yet, but I need to work on it without pressure from the person who means the most to me.”

“I’ll… think,” I manage to say, chin wobbling.

All I want right now is for him to open his arms so I can sink into him. I want him to tell me everything is going to be okay, that we’ll figure this out. I want to tell him those things too. That as long as we have one another and as long as we’re open with one another, it’ll all be okay.

But Adam doesn’t say any of these things. And neither will I. Just a few of the right words would go a long way right now for me, but I know I won’t hear them so there’s no point in saying anything else. He classifies himself as a realist. And right now he’s also being a pessimist, which shouldn’t surprise me after the hand he’s been dealt. But I can’t help but feel devastated when instead of putting his arms around me, he turns his focus to his phone as he dumps the rest of the pint of blueberries into his oatmeal bowl.

I guess this is his way of dealing with things. Of keeping the dark thoughts at bay.

I’d describe Adam before the accident as pragmatic, practical, but still full of life, love, and affection. We were always doing things – biking, hiking, adventuring. I used to tell him he should’ve been a life coach. He was that much of a motivator.

I’m starting to think I don’t know who this Adam is anymore. That the Adam I love is gone.

And it’s not his fault.