Chapter Seven
Chloe
Taking a walk down memory lane is never easy to do. I shake off the thoughts of when I first met my boyfriend. That had been a different time in my life. I needed him more than I realized. He was good for me. I think it’s possible to fall in love, to give a person a piece of yourself, to share a life with them... and then slowly watch that life fade. It’s sad when it happens, but it does happen.
Consuming guilt is what makes us stay. We make promises to this person. We create a life with them. We have history and mutual friends. We know the ins and outs of each other. But does this mean we stay, even when we know neither of us are happy? Is trying to do the right thing actually doing the wrong thing because we’re tearing this person apart who we claim to love?
It’s unfair to both the person we loved for so long and to ourselves. I can’t love Paul the way I should anymore. We don’t see each other. I mean we don’t see anything about each other. We live separate lives. I don’t know if this is more his fault or mine. I don’t know when and why it started happening.
Paul’s an incredibly talented person. The work he does is inspired. But this is hard for me to see now. Where once I saw vivid colors, now I see only black and white. When did this happen? When did he become ordinary to me?
I slowly step from the bus a block from my house. The sun has long set. It’s late. I walk into the house and hear music playing. I set my purse down and stand in the kitchen, looking at the lawn through the large window above the kitchen sink. I hate this neighborhood. I hate my life. I remember the day we moved into this house. Paul carried me over the threshold, both of us excited. We were beginning a new chapter in our lives, away from our small town, away from our parents. We were young adults on the verge of greatness. His large hands cradled me close, and I was so excited. I barely looked around as he made a beeline for the bedroom.
We made love three times that first night. Yes, we’d had sex for years at that point, but we were now on our own, no longer in the back of a vehicle, and there was a frenzy in our lovemaking that night, excitement for our entire first year of living in Portland.
We’re warned that the honeymoon phase won’t last forever. We all know this. We take classes at school and learn about it. They tell us about the different phases of love. But the honeymoon phase most certainly ended, and we didn’t slip into the next phase of our relationship. We simply settled. We each had things to do, and we somehow forgot about each other along the way.
I don’t know how long I stand at the sink looking out over the perfectly manicured lawn. I notice the music clicking off, but it barely registers in my mind. The fridge opens and I turn. Paul is standing before me, pulling out a cold bottle of beer. I glance at him. He really is an attractive man. He was only twenty-two when we met, but now he’s a man.
He’s incredibly fit and has grown a few more inches. His T-shirt hugs his muscled arms and flat stomach. His jeans mold over his butt and thighs. His feet are bare. They normally are when he works. He barely looks at me as he sits at the breakfast bar.
“Hello, Paul,” I say. There’s no kiss, no hug, no excitement at seeing each other after being gone all day.
“How was work?” he absently asks.
“It was fine,” I tell him. I suddenly feel the need to cry. I don’t know why. It isn’t that I’m sad. I don’t feel much of anything. I should at least feel guilty. What if he was the one looking at another person with dark desires? What would this do to me? I don’t think I’d care. This makes me feel even sadder. “How about you?” I finally ask.
“I have a conference in a few weeks, so I’ve been trying to get all of my work done,” he tells me. He isn’t looking at me. He sips on his beer as he glances through his phone. He doesn’t acknowledge the device when he’s in his office. A tornado could sweep through and he wouldn’t notice that phone. He gets that lost in his work. This used to be endearing to me. Now it’s annoying. Why can’t he be this lost while in my presence?
“That’s good,” I tell him. I move to the fridge and grab my own bottle of beer. I sit, not on the stool next to him, but one seat away. I don’t want our legs to rub together, don’t want to be here with him. My entire being seems to be back with Mason. I close my eyes for a moment and feel a fluttering in my stomach.
Should I tell Paul I’m leaving him? Should I walk away? This would be best for both of us. Isn’t it better to rip off the bandage? He finishes his beer, then turns to me and smiles. It’s this boyish smile I’d once fallen in love with. I grin back, almost feeling as if it’s a real smile. My fingers twitch with the need to reach up and caress the five-o’clock shadow on his strong jawline.
But my hand falls away as he stands. Something is still here, a small tingle that makes my heart flutter. This is why I don’t leave, this is what keeps me here. He moves to the trashcan and tosses his bottle, then passes by me, stopping almost as an afterthought. He bends down and kisses my cheek. The tears sting even more.
“I’m going to work late tonight,” he says. And then he’s gone, already forgetting me, his mind back on his job, his true love.
I sit with nothing more than turbulent thoughts running through my mind. I don’t know how long I stay at the counter, sipping on my beer, before I finally move. I’m not cooking tonight. Paul will forget to eat if I don’t feed him. I don’t care.
The weight of the world feels as if it’s resting on my shoulders. I go to the bedroom I’ve shared with Paul for the past seven years and strip my clothes away before getting into the shower. I go to bed but Paul never comes to me, probably for the best.
I don’t sleep well. When I finally manage to drift into a dream world, my anxiety rises. I dream of Mason in the elevator... and this time the lights don’t come back on. This time, the doors don’t open. This time the elevator ride turns into a scene from a romance book. This time he peels my clothes away, lifts me up high, then plunges his thick, hard body into mine, and we both scream with pleasure... I jolt awake.
I’m sweating, my knees spread, and my hand placed between my thighs. I’m shocked to find myself wet and needy. I reach for my boyfriend. I need relief. It was just a dream, a powerful one. But Paul isn’t here. I look at the clock. It’s four in the morning. He never stays up this late. I throw back the covers and stumble to the door, my eyes hurting from lack of sleep, my body aching from a desire needing to be quenched.
I find Paul in his office. The music is off and he’s sitting shirtless in front of his computer. I approach this truly beautiful man. His back muscles ripple, and my sex clenches. I’m so hungry, so needy. I step up behind him and wrap my arms around his narrow waist, my fingers resting on his hard abs. He doesn’t say a word. I lean into him and kiss his neck, letting my tongue slide over the smooth skin as I rub my hand lower, hoping to find him ready for me.
“I’m sorry, Chloe, I really need to get this done,” he tells me, his voice distracted and slightly annoyed.
What’s worse than his words is that he doesn’t even harden beneath my touch. There was a time it didn’t take anything to get him hard. He’d walk in the front door, see me, and be ready to haul me into the bedroom. For that matter, he took me on the kitchen counter many times, unwilling to wait even a few more seconds to sink inside of me. I’d worn a lot of dresses that first year in our new house so it was much easier for him to slide inside me.
My body aches, and my feelings are hurt at his rejection. But I won’t show him my emotions. Maybe I should talk to him. Maybe I should say something. I don’t, though. I turn and walk away. There’s no point in trying to go back to sleep. I strip off my jammies and step into our oversized shower... the one he used to enjoy sharing with me. The hot water drifts over my body, and the strong spray hits my breasts, making the ache inside of me pulse.
I push the shower nozzle from the holder, turn it on the jet spray, and slide it over my breasts, a small moan escaping me. I close my eyes and lean against the shower wall, moving the nozzle lower. As it hits my skin, my stomach quivers. I don’t want the shower. I want a man’s hands on my body. But it seems my boyfriend doesn’t find me desirable anymore. I shake the thought away and can’t help it when Mason appears in my fantasy.
The nozzle goes lower, and the hot spray thrums against my clit. Pressure builds in my body. I ache. I shake. I imagine Mason’s hands sweeping down my body, squeezing my nipples before trailing across my trembling stomach. Then he drops before me.
His mouth is now on my clit, his tongue sweeping along my sensitive flesh. I cry out when an orgasm rips through me. My knees shake, and my legs give out. The nozzle flops from my hand as I slink down the side of the slick shower wall.
I don’t know how long I’m here, hot water cascading over me as I catch my breath. I finally muster the energy to stand on weak legs. Then I rinse off and walk naked into the bedroom. Paul comes through the door and looks at me, circles beneath his eyes as he begins moving toward me. There’s still a raw hunger inside of me, a need to be filled. Maybe he’s changed his mind. I smile as he steps closer.
“I’m going to shower and get some sleep,” he tells me. He leans down, gives me a quick peck on the lips, and disappears into the bathroom. I stand shaking as a tear slips from my eye. I can’t remember the last time he saw me naked and simply walked on by. I move to the large mirror by my closet and critically examine my body.
My breasts are large, not so big they sag, but definitely big enough that I have to think twice about what shirts I wear, especially to work. My waist isn’t as tucked in as it was ten years earlier, but I don’t have rolls. My stomach can’t be called flat, but it isn’t sticking out. It has a natural curve to it.
I turn sideways and continue examining myself. I wouldn’t mind losing an inch or two from my thighs, and I have to be very careful working out because if I even think about doing a squat, my butt grows, making it impossible to fit into a normal pair of jeans.
I take care of myself, work out as much as possible, eat healthy ninety percent of the time, and wash my face regularly. I haven’t let myself go because I’m in a relationship. But none of this seem to matter because my boyfriend has stopped wanting me.
Is it my fault? I hope not. I should talk to him about it, tell him how I’m feeling. But I’m not sure how to do this. We don’t have intimate discussions. Maybe he’s having an affair. I don’t know when he’d have the time. He practically lives in his office, but then again, I’m gone all day. It would be easy for someone to join him, or for him to go out for a few hours. Something’s definitely wrong.
I can’t stare at myself any longer. I have to get out of this house. It’s only five in the morning. An hour can seem like an eternity when you’re feeling terrible. My body still aches. I don’t put my work clothes on. I carefully fold them into my gym bag, and instead, dress for the gym.
I apply a light amount of makeup, not willing to go out in public without it, feeling as down as I am. I leave the house within fifteen minutes, needing to run. It’s early enough that I have no problem getting to the office building in twenty minutes. This gives me a full two hours to work out if I want. I definitely want.
I put on my headphones and climb onto the treadmill. I push myself hard for thirty minutes, not caring if I look like crap. I’m not one of those lucky women who look absolutely adorable after an intense workout. My skin flushes and I sweat... a lot.
I pull up an app on my iPhone and do a weight circuit. This gym has everything a fitness pro would drool over. I work out for an hour and a half straight, and when I step into the locker room I feel better. I’m too exhausted to care about the ache that still resides low in my belly. I shower, thinking about the one I had a couple of hours ago. The workout suddenly seems nil. My body instantly responds to my sexual thoughts, my breasts throbbing and my core tightening. I want to scream.
Instead, I leave the shower, wrap a towel around me, then dress. Like a robot, I fix my hair and do my makeup, taking my time. I still have about twenty minutes before I’m expected to clock-in for work.
I step out to get coffee, tired and needy, but I’ll make it through the day. Only time will tell if I make it through another night.