To Feel Like This Again

Chapter 1

Lisa

I’m not sure why but at the end of every workday when I’ve had to make difficult decisions, handle tough situations, and direct a group of closet misogynists…

I want to get a break from being commander in chief.

I want someone else to be in charge. I want Alex to take control of me.

I want him to do unmentionable things to me.

When the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy came out, I had pretended I was curious about the hype. Yeah, sure.

But then Alex stopped being the man of the house over twenty years ago when my paycheck doubled his. Back then, our salaries were literally paid by check. That was a long time ago.

Alex resents me for my career.

Thirteen years ago, when the chairman advised they were appointing me CEO of State Foods, I had cried myself to sleep because I was afraid to share my accomplishment — that I had achieved my lifelong career goal — with my husband.

He found out a few weeks later on the news and was angry, going as far as scolding me for not telling him.

Later that night we made up and I had hoped that his anger would have sparked hot and passionate make-up sex.

Sex so passionate that I would have been left panting and breathless.

Instead, it was the typical, predictable, boring sex that brought one of us to orgasm — Alex.

As usual I had gone through the motions, arching my back and moaning at the right times, all the while thinking about the meetings I had lined up for the next day.

Many nights, I just lie there, fantasizing about the kind of sex I doubt I will ever experience.

In the picture, my son James, and my best friend’s daughter, Emily, stand on either side of us, their arms locked with Alex. And there is Raggy, my Australian shepherd and jogging partner who died two years ago.

I was twenty-three, barely out of college and with a ballooning student loan when I had James. He turned thirty-three on the weekend. James lives in Milan with his beautiful wife, Aurora, and they are expecting their first child, making me a soon-to-be nonna (grandma in Italian). Yikes.

James, my pride and joy, the banking executive, with the beautiful home and gorgeous wife (who happens to also kick ass in the banking industry), and soon-to-be-born baby boy.

Emily, thirty-two, lost her mother, Mary, fourteen years ago, the summer before she started Columbia University.

On her hospital bed, Mary had gently squeezed my hand, making me promise to “take care of Emily”, knowing her daughter’s estranged father would probably never come around.

Those were her last words, before her hand went limp in mine as the ECG flatlined.

After Mary’s passing, Emily had moved into our home.

She excelled in school, graduating with a BSc in Computer Science — 4.

0 GPA. Shortly after, she aced her master’s degree.

Like her mom, Emily wasted no time in climbing the corporate ladder, but her life took a turn for the worse after she wound up in a toxic three-year relationship with Aaron Sullivan, the son of a billionaire and a son of a bitch (in reference to him, not his mother).

Actually, also applicable to his mother now that I think about it.

Close to a year ago, she finally worked up the courage to break up with the jerk.

By then, she’d already left her role as AVP at a tech giant; quit exercising, slapping on thirty-five pounds on her 5ft 5in slender body; stopped hanging out with her friends; and turned to alcohol for comfort.

And when alcohol wasn’t strong enough for her, she had found stronger options which is perhaps the best way to explain it — forcing me into situations I would rather have avoided.

But thankfully, she turned a new leaf with the help of a therapist and maybe the daily prayers from her adopted grandmother and all the grey-haired ladies in her prayer group.

Beverly, a retired elementary school teacher from the prayer group, makes it her duty to remind me about this when I run into her at the farmers’ market on Sundays.

Intentionally speaking loud enough for nearby shoppers to hear.

I worry incessantly about Emily… and question myself at times whether I had chosen my career over my loved ones. Maybe Alex is right about this.

I let my best friend down.

I love Emily as I would my own daughter and will do anything to help keep her on this path, reminding her constantly (subtly, I hope) that she can always turn to me for help.

And I really mean it… except for maybe one thing: she’s on the wrong side of thirty and itching to get married and start a family.

Unfortunately, I’m of little to no help there.

I wondered (and secretly hoped) some time ago if she and James would have hit it off, but some things weren’t meant to be.

Unlocking the phone with my thumb, the screen lighting up the room, I turn off the alarm set for 5:00am and head towards the bathroom. The alarm is a mere precaution in case I oversleep; but I’m always up by 5:00am.

In the bathroom after washing my face, I get dressed and head for the gym while Alex remains fast asleep.

I had met Alex in a public library, it was near midnight on the eve of Thanksgiving and I was studying for an exam.

The exam was in the following week but I had nowhere to go, plus the library had always been my refuge.

Sad, but true. I was a freshman at Harvard pursuing a degree in accounts and he was a senior, majoring in history at a nearby college.

I never had a high school boyfriend — the boys I had a crush on had no interest in me.

I had talked myself into thinking it was because I was competitive, too focused on getting good grades, but I knew it was really because I was grossly overweight.

So, in a way, Alex was the equivalent of my high school sweetheart — the one I never had.

I was the only person awake in the building that night.

The security guard was sprawled out on a hard metal chair by the entrance with his head tilted back and mouth wide open.

Drooling. The librarian looked more comfortable.

She had placed her head on the front desk and was using her arms as a pillow.

With my eyes glued to a book the size of an encyclopaedia, I sat there overcommitting to the upcoming macroeconomics exam.

Alex had stormed into the library, desperate to finish an assignment that had been due for over a week.

He had strutted over to my table, “Hi, is it okay if I sit here? There’re no other empty seats. ”

Stunned, but playing it cool, I had responded with, “Yea, sure.”

That entire summer I skipped breakfast and began dieting and exercising, and experimenting with the newly released FDA-approved weight loss pills my physician had recommended.

Mary, who turned heads everywhere she went, advised that it was best to exercise while playing a sport, because you burn calories while having fun without realizing how many miles you’ve covered or something like that.

So, I learned to play volleyball (partly to hang out with her more) and played five times a week. And the combination worked!

I lost twenty-seven pounds and could finally wear a bikini at pool parties.

I imagined that one day, maybe, I could wear one on a beach in Jamaica.

My parents had spent their honeymoon on the island and their pictures had made me want to visit for a romantic getaway.

Of course, first I needed the right guy to look in my direction.

Alex sat down, opened his bag, took out a book and began reading. I shifted on the wooden chair and pretended to read, unconsciously using my fingers to curl the tip of my hair. Something I do when I’m anxious, till this very day.

I was nervous. For the first time ever, a cute guy had approached me. What should I do? What should I say? Should I say anything? Should I wait for him to start the conversation? But he had already initiated… Hadn’t he?

I caved and blurted out, “What are you reading?”

He closed the book and with the back of his hand shoved it across the desk, slumped back in the chair, looked me in the eyes and said, “I’m trying to read you… Would you like to get something to eat?”

“Yes, I could eat,” I all but stammered.

And the rest is history… or future.

I miss that confident, charming Alex. It was so short-lived.

Back home at around my usual time, 6:30am, I put on the coffee then go shower. After getting dressed, I head to the kitchen and pour coffee into a thermos before driving off in my SUV.

Of course, I skip breakfast.

Of course, Alex is still sleeping.

I still love Alex, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you exchange vows, right? I just wish he was more driven.

I’m running a company generating annual sales of more than $65 billion, while he works remotely for a mid-sized company owned by his dad’s golf buddy.

He can’t even take the time to come with me on my work-trip to Jamaica even though I asked him three months in advance.

How does that even make sense? He works remotely.

Cancelling my 4:00pm meeting, I leave work early — by my standards — hoping to have a nice evening with Alex before my trip to Jamaica the following day.

Call me silly for still believing that one day things will go back to the way they were in our first few weeks of dating.

When I get in, Alex is in the recliner watching highlights on ESPN, with a beer in hand.

“Hey honey… you’re home early,” he says without even looking up; eyes fixated on the Australian Open highlights. Totally uninterested in me.

He doesn’t even watch tennis.

“Hey sweetie. I was hoping we could go out for dinner. It would be nice to spend some time with you before my trip. Plus, I could definitely use a drink after the day I’ve had. Ugh.” I sigh, as if I had had a genuinely rough day.

Still, his eyes cannot leave the sexy tennis chick in her cute little skirt, grunting after every play.

“Oh right. I forgot about that trip.” Taking a sip of the beer, he continues, “Sorry honey, I can’t tonight. I’m heading over to the Williamses for poker night. When you get back from Jamaica, we can check out that new Greek restaurant you mentioned… last week I think it was.”

By this time, he’s now preoccupied with the English Premier League recap. Still unable to spare a glance in my direction, I go into the kitchen and load the dishwasher. Dirty dishes he has left unattended since yesterday have now piled up in the sink.

He doesn’t even watch soccer.

Ever since the Greek restaurant opened some eight months ago, I’ve been asking him to go. I eventually gave up on him and went — once with a friend, the other for a business meeting.

“Or we can go there for your birthday.” It sounded more like a question and less like a statement.

How convenient that that is the only time we ever go out on a date. And it is always just dinner, never a thoughtful gift in the mix. Or a concert. Or a hiking trip. Or a beach trip.

It’s been this way for over thirty years now, I wistfully tell myself, as I put the last plate in the dishwasher.

At least when my son was younger, we’d go on family outings.

I’d give anything to relive those times.

I’d even sign up for the rollercoaster if it meant spending time with him, even though I almost threw up the last time I went on one of those rides with James, some twenty years ago.

Pouring a glass of white wine, I make my way up to the bedroom to resume binge-watching Bridgerton, alone.

But as I climb into the bed and launch Netflix on the 85-inch TV, one of my all-time favs, Pretty Woman, pops up on Today’s Top Picks for You.

And since I haven’t seen it in at least five years, I press play.

And I watch it like it’s my very first time. Why the hell not?

Shortly after, Alex yells from downstairs, “I’m heading out now, honey. Have a great trip. Send me lots of pictures, okay?”

I pause the movie to respond but can’t be bothered to.

When he closes the door (clearly not interested in waiting for a response), the sound echoes around the house… and I feel lonely.

Well, at least I have my glass of wine and one of my all-time favs to keep me company.

I pull the sheets up to my neck, take a sip of wine and resume watching the movie.

A few sips later, I’m feeling better. I’m feeling downright good.

I pause the movie right before the best part and retrieve my vibrator from the nightstand drawer.