Chapter 13
Jane
I t starts on Monday morning, which is terrible timing.
After my shower, I come downstairs and find Evan sitting on the carpet by the back door. He’s still working on positioning Watson and a friend. Yes, it appears that our penguin now has company in the form of a plush green frog. Evan puts the small frog on Watson’s head.
“Stay still,” he says.
The frog promptly falls off.
However, Evan’s next attempt is successful. His lips quirk up as he turns toward me, and I feel an unfamiliar spark in my body.
My husband is wearing shorts and a white T-shirt, nothing I haven’t seen him wear many times before. He’s also wearing his glasses.
Why do I find this ridiculously charming? And why am I mesmerized by the sight of his arm? His hand, as he pushes himself up from the floor. They’re just body parts, and yet…
I think I’m experiencing physical attraction?
“Your coffee’s outside,” he says.
For a few seconds, my feet are rooted to the floor, but then I retreat to the table out back, where the caffeine-and-chaos mug is waiting for me. That seems fitting since my feelings are rather chaotic right now.
“How’s your workweek looking?” Evan asks.
I’m weirdly entranced by his lips. Why is this happening? Why am I imagining those lips around my nipple?
“Um. Not too bad,” I say. “Yours?”
I maintain some semblance of a conversation for the next few minutes, but I keep being distracted by the stupidest things, and when Evan smiles, I swear I can feel it inside me.
Having coffee together outside is usually a pleasant, comfortable way to start the day. But now, it feels anything but comfortable, and I don’t want him to know. I’m relieved when I’m able to escape to my office upstairs—two full floors away from Evan—and turn on my work computer. Hopefully that experience was temporary, and when I see him again at lunch, I’ll be back to normal. The only times I’ve felt sexual attraction, I was in love, and that’s only happened twice.
I’m not in love with Evan, am I?
No. Not in the way I was with my exes. But we see so much of each other, and we’re building a life together. I guess that connection is causing this. It certainly isn’t something I expected in my marriage.
Is it happening to Evan, too?
I shake my head, as if the movement will dismiss that thought from my head. It’s probably just me.
It takes several minutes, but eventually, I’m able to get my mind away from thoughts of my husband’s arms and lips—seriously, what’s wrong with me?—and focus on my job.
At noon, I’m still not ready to see Evan, so I send him a text telling him to eat without me because I want to finish my current task. I hear him moving around downstairs, and just after twelve thirty, which is when he usually returns to work, I head to the kitchen. I haven’t heard any noises in a few minutes, so I hope he’s back in the basement.
However, it appears that hope was in vain because I crash into him in the hallway while lost in my thoughts.
“Sorry!” I say.
He sets his hand on my waist to steady me. Nothing he hasn’t done many times before, but this time, it feels different. I don’t think he’s doing anything differently; no, my body is just over-sensitized. When he retreats to his office, I finally feel like I can breathe again.
How do people deal with this nonsense?
By the time we finish dinner, the weirdness of earlier has mostly disappeared. After work, Evan went for a walk and came back a little sweaty, and I didn’t think anything of it, like usual.
Really, it was just like usual. I swear!
As we clean up, I’m extra careful not to accidentally knock into him, afraid it’ll start an unwanted avalanche of thoughts and feelings.
But when we start watching an episode of our current K-drama, I allow myself to snuggle against him. This is how we usually watch TV, and it would be suspicious if I didn’t, right?
We’re two friends being platonically affectionate, that’s all. Nothing more to it than that. It’s something we both enjoy, and we agreed on this before we got married.
At one point, Evan shifts, and his shirt rides up. My fingers brush bare skin, and I can’t help my swift intake of breath, which he hopefully doesn’t notice.
What if I slid my hand up higher, under his shirt, over the smooth extent of his back?
Okay, this is getting out of control. As soon as we finish this episode, I’m going to get myself off. With any luck, once I take care of my needs, these thoughts will stop.
They do not stop.
The next day, when Evan is out for a walk, I call Claudia without texting her first.
“Hey,” I say when she picks up. I suddenly remember that since she’s three hours behind us, she’s probably still working. “Can you talk right now? Just for a few minutes.”
Her brows crease in concern. “What’s up?”
“I think I’m attracted to Evan.”
Claudia, at least, will understand how weird this is for me—and besides, she’s the only one who knows the truth about our marriage. There’s no one else I can tell.
“What happened?” she asks.
“Yesterday morning, he was just sitting there! On the floor! Beside Watson—”
“Wait, who’s Watson?”
“A giant plush penguin. He lives in our living room, and Evan dresses him up every day. Like, with a hat or a lei. Anyway, he was sitting next to Watson, and I thought he was kind of sexy. Ugh.”
“Do you actually want something to happen? Sexually, I mean. Or would you prefer to admire him from a distance?”
“My body wants something to happen,” I admit miserably. “It makes everything so confusing and complicated. I wasn’t supposed to be attracted to my husband.”
Claudia chuckles.
“What?” I’m on edge.
“It sounds funny when you say it like that. Most people are attracted to their spouses.”
“And most people don’t make marriage pacts during a pandemic, but here I am.”
“Well, what are the options?” she asks.
“I could tell him and he could reject me. Super awkward because we live together.”
“Or he could…not reject you.”
“I have no evidence he feels that way.” I pause. “Though to be fair, I’m sometimes clueless when it comes to such things. I don’t always notice.”
My skin heats at the thought of telling him, his slow smile as he kisses me…
“Besides,” I say, pushing aside that silly fantasy, “we’ve kissed. At the wedding, for starters—”
“When else did you kiss?”
“As, um, practice. Anyway, it didn’t do anything for me, though maybe it would be different now. Does that often happen? I have no idea.”
“You’re talking to me ,” she says.
“Right. Yeah.” I just don’t know what to do. When the air conditioner stopped working, I sprang into action and managed it, and I didn’t mind. There was a clear problem to be solved, unlike now. Nothing seems clear.
“Is part of the issue,” she says gently, “that whenever this has happened in the past, you were in love?”
Yeah. Because, like sex, this sort of love wasn’t in my plans. I’d given up on it.
“Why is it so complicated?” I mutter. “I don’t love him like that, but I can feel stuff…changing.”
“Sometimes people fall in love after they get married.”
“But in those cases, they don’t usually know each other well beforehand, right? I met Evan over a decade ago.” I sigh. “What should I do?”
“This just started, right? Wait a few days and see if it lasts. Or if it changes.”
“Yes. That’s sensible. Sorry for talking about this so much.”
She waves this off. “What else is new with you?”
“Um, Max and Kim”—Claudia met them at the wedding—“came over, and they brought a cake shaped like a burger. Well, Kim picked it out. Max thought it looked appalling.”
“Do you like having in-laws?”
“Yeah, I kind of do. His parents brought a hundred dollars’ worth of food over the other weekend.”
She laughs. “So, you’re using them for food?”
“No! It’s not the monetary value; it’s having family who thinks of you enough to do such things. What it stands for.” It sounds cheesy when I put it like that, and I know they were thinking more of Evan than me. But still.
I’d heard of parents giving their adult children things they didn’t need, but it wasn’t something I experienced myself. Asian friends, in particular, might talk about how their parents were always trying to feed them and would bring food rather than saying “I love you.”
Both were completely outside my experience.
Somehow, the conversation segues into Claudia complaining about one of her coworkers. She says that when she mentioned this story to her sister, her sister suggested they go out, and Claudia rolled her eyes so hard that she feared she might have damaged them.
When I hear the front door open, I jump.
“Is Evan home?” she asks.
“Uh. Yeah.”
I feel embarrassed, even though we weren’t talking about him anymore. And Evan returning after a walk is an everyday occurrence. He’ll be sweaty, and he’ll have a shower…
Oh God. Thinking about him in the shower is just making it worse.
I try to scrub my brain of those thoughts. I’ll finish this conversation, then go downstairs and cook dinner. Nothing I haven’t done many times before.
It’ll be okay.
It’s not okay.
Evan comes downstairs after I’ve finished making pesto in the food processor. His hair is slightly damp.
“Did you use our basil?” He tilts his head in the direction of our backyard, and why am I admiring his neck?
Stupid brain.
“Uh, yes,” I say. “Could you cook the pasta while I barbecue the chicken? I have boneless thighs, so it won’t take long.”
“Sure thing.” He smiles.
Ugh, why does he have to do that?
“Did you say something?” he asks.
Oh no. Did I mutter that under my breath?
“Nope!” I grab the chicken out of the fridge—I applied a dry rub before my call with Claudia—and escape out the back door.
My skin is warm and prickly, but I feel a bit better once the chicken is underway. It really is nice to be able to grill in the backyard.
While my attraction to Evan seems like it came out of nowhere, I know that’s not the case. I know something has been happening for a while now, thanks to the thoughtful shit he does. Every weekday, he makes me coffee and dresses up a giant plushie—the penguin is currently wearing a red beret. He’s gotten us patio furniture and a barbecue without spending much money, and without me having to lift a finger. He’s also…
I have to stop making a list. It’s not helping. Maybe these things sound mundane, but I feel like I’m being cared for on a daily basis, which is a luxury.
I flip over the chicken.
“Jane?” Evan appears at the back door.
“What?” I snap.
He looks taken aback by my tone, and something clenches in my chest.
“Sorry,” I say, setting down the tongs.
He steps onto the patio, and even though I’m prepared for him to put his hand on my shoulder, it still shocks me. When he strokes his thumb over my skin—I’m wearing a tank top—it’s almost too much. I want to burrow into him and run away at the same time, but I force myself to do neither.
“Sorry,” I say again. “I, um. I was lost in my thoughts. Did you have a question?”
“Mm. That smells good.” He nods toward the barbecue. “What did you want on the salad? Oil and vinegar?”
“Yep. Just something simple.” I smile to show him that everything is normal with me, but I must overdo it because he gives me an odd look.
As he heads back inside, I think of his words.
Oil and vinegar.
They don’t mix.
But that’s not a good comparison for us. Sure, our personalities are rather different, but we’re similar in many ways, and we’ve been cohabitating in relative harmony for several weeks.
I use an instant-read thermometer to check if the chicken is ready. When it reaches the desired temperature, I take the thighs off the grill and bring them inside. Evan has everything dished out: the salad in small bowls, the pasta on plates. He’s in the process of grating the parmesan.
“Thanks for taking care of the pasta,” I say as I set two thighs on each plate. It’s little things like this, I think, that are helping our marriage work. Showing appreciation for each other.
I have to remind myself not to screw up what we have.
After dinner, I’m more excited about watching a show than I should be. I tell myself it’s because I want to see what will happen, but I know that’s not the only reason.
I take a seat on the couch, on the opposite side from Evan. He turns to me and tilts his head, a question in his eyes.
“It’s warm in here,” I say.
“Do you want me to turn down the thermostat?”
“No, that’s okay.”
We’re on the eighth of sixteen episodes. This particular drama is a romance with a fake engagement, interfering parents, and a chaebol. It’s rather similar to the last one we watched, truth be told, but there’s something comforting in that.
As the camera zooms in on the hero’s fingers brushing the heroine’s, I have a terrible premonition. They’re finally going to kiss in this episode, aren’t they?
“Have you cooled down?” Evan asks.
I jerk my head away from the screen and realize his face is right…there. Without being aware of what I was doing, I cuddled up against him.
It would feel weird to pull back now, so I say, “Um. Yeah.”
Onscreen, the heroine trips and falls into the hero’s lap. Her lips are a hair’s breadth from his, and they look into each other’s eyes for what feels like eternity but is probably just a few seconds.
Is this it? Are they going to…?
I can hardly breathe.
And when Evan shifts against me, I become unbearably aware of him. His side against mine. His hand resting on my waist.
The heroine steps back, and I nearly growl in frustration. Evan releases a huff of amusement—at me, or the antics of the people onscreen? I don’t know, but the rumble of his chest is almost too much for me.
Maybe if I had more experience with these sorts of feelings, I wouldn’t be having such difficulties, but being attracted to someone for the first time in more than nine years is really doing a number on me.
I use all my willpower to focus on the screen rather than the man beside me.
A couple of minutes later, the heroine is having yet another argument with her mom. She leaves in a huff, and I’m both pleased and annoyed when she hightails it out of there and finds the hero waiting for her. He’s leaning against a sleek black car right outside the house. They exchange a few words, and his hand hovers above her cheek for an infuriatingly long time. When his thumb brushes her skin, I’m filled with anticipation. His head dips closer, but still not close enough, and then…and then…
Onscreen, his lips meet hers, and I swear Evan’s hand tightens around my waist. It’s the smallest of movements, and if I wasn’t so attuned to his body, I probably wouldn’t notice.
But I do.
The next thing I know, I’ve launched myself on top of him. He’s on his back now, his head resting on the arm of the couch. For a moment, it’s like time stops—and then my lips crash down on his.
It’s completely different from the other times we kissed, which seem oh-so-long ago now. I’m not thinking about individual body parts this time. No, I’m relieved and exhilarated.
Because he’s kissing me back.
It doesn’t feel like it’s simply an instinctive reaction to having someone else’s lips on his. I don’t know how to explain it, but it feels like it matters that it’s my lips.
When he shifts to the side, my heart sinks. Oh God, he’s realized what he’s doing and…
He sets his glasses on the coffee table and returns to kissing me, his arms encircling my back. I smile in relief against his lips. Experimentally, I touch my tongue against his. He makes a soft moan in the back of his throat, unlike any sound I’ve heard from him before. It spurs me on. I slide a hand into his hair and tug lightly; he likes that, too.
Evan and I have spent a ton of time together lately, but there are so many things that we haven’t done, and I desperately want to do them all. It’s wonderful to have an outlet for all the feelings swirling around in me. I can’t put anything into words right now, but kissing? I can manage that.
He squirms against me, and when I feel his erection against my thigh, I freeze. It’s such an unfamiliar sensation. I mean, this is all so unfamiliar, but for some reason, that’s what reminds me of what I’m doing.
I’m having a hot make-out session with my husband, and this was never part of the deal. Casual touches, a kiss on the forehead—sure. But not this.
I look down at Evan, slightly disheveled below me on the couch. His glasses off, his hair mussed, his lips kiss-swollen. I want to see those lips between my legs, before he…
I glance at the TV, where the show is still playing. Actually, I think it jumped to the next episode. Why are they in the woods? What happened? I have no idea.
“I have to go to the washroom,” I say, then run upstairs before he can speak.
I stay in my room so I don’t see Evan again that evening. At eleven thirty, as usual, I turn out the light, but nothing else about this seems usual.
I kissed him.
He kissed me back.
And it made me want him, physically, even more than before.
Has he been with anyone else since we got married? He’s allowed to do that, but I find myself hating the idea. I’m not sure when he’d have the time, though. On weekdays, he rarely goes out, except for his walks—though it’s possible he’s hooking up with a neighbor, I suppose. On the weekends, I always know what he’s doing if he’s not with me.
I toss and turn, all sorts of confusing thoughts racing through my mind.
Eventually, at one in the morning, I flip on the light and read negative reviews of classic novels in an attempt to distract myself. I’m about to turn out my light again when I hear Evan moving about. Is he unable to sleep, too?
My body gets foolishly excited at the thought of him coming to my room and continuing what we started earlier, though I know he won’t do that. He probably just got up to use the washroom.
But I don’t hear the toilet flush.
The next morning, I push myself harder than usual on the elliptical machine, despite getting only three hours of sleep.
When I head back downstairs after my shower, the coffee is done but not poured, and Watson is wearing the same red beret as yesterday. Such little things, yet fear creeps up my spine. This isn’t our usual weekday routine.
Did I break my marriage?