Chapter 3
Shannon
“Nice flowers,” Gregor says, coming into the kitchen, loosening his tie.
I’m surprised he even noticed the bouquet on the island.
If it didn’t cost at least five hundred dollars, it doesn’t seem worth his time these days.
He wasn’t always like that, though. When we were dating, Greg was the most romantic man in the world.
But once he checked the wife box on life’s punch-card, he stopped trying.
Now his idea of romance is having his secretary pick out something extravagant and shipping it to the house.
It’s almost nine p.m. and other than calling me at two o’clock to tell me he wouldn’t be home for dinner, we haven’t spoken. He also missed Serafina’s bath and bedtime…again. Most days our daughter doesn’t even recognize him.
After a long day apart, where I’ve spent every second stressing over what to do with my infant, my husband’s first words to me are nice flowers.
“Thanks.” I hear the strain in my voice and try to relax. “I sort of had a meltdown last week when the delivery guy woke Serafina up right after I put her down. He delivered another package today and brought these as an apology.” Even though I was the one that screamed at him.
“That’s a little over the top, but a nice gesture, I guess,” Greg scoffs, flipping through the mail and taking a seat on one of the barstools at the counter as I move to reheat his dinner.
“Maybe he’s looking for a sugar momma,” he teases.
Greg loves having money, but more importantly, he loves flaunting his money.
Image is the most important thing in the world to my husband, which is part of the reason I agreed to have a child in the first place.
I thought if I compromised, he’d slow down, stop chasing the title of partner for his law firm so aggressively, and perhaps the child would bring us closer together, potentially pulling us from the downward spiral we’ve been on for a few years now.
But I should have known better. Babies don’t make life easier and they aren’t meant to solve adults’ problems.
Choosing to ignore Greg’s comment—because I’m too tired for another argument—I slide the plate of cold food into the microwave.
“Thank you for the earrings by the way.” My voice is robotic, forcing out the words I know I should say, but don’t feel. These days I’m just trying to keep the peace.
I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, it’s just somewhere along the way, Greg began buying me gifts and trinkets as a replacement for spending time with me.
Except he’s completely forgotten that I’m not flashy or materialistic and these earrings, like all the other silver, gold, and gemstones, will end up in a drawer in the bathroom.
What I really want are passionate kisses and gentle caresses that turn frantic with need. I miss the hunger, seduction, and desire. I miss that connection with my husband. Hell, I miss that connection with myself.
Of course, I know things change after having a child—which is one of the many reasons I never wanted kids in the first place—but things in the bedroom haven’t just dwindled, they’ve stopped altogether.
And it’s making me resent my daughter which makes me feel even guiltier than I already do.
I loved my career and giving it up to pursue a role I never wanted has been detrimental to my already suffering marriage as well as my mental health.
“I knew you’d love them,” Greg says, bringing me back to the conversation about the earrings I chucked across the foyer earlier today. “I was hoping you’d wear them to the company dinner this weekend.”
My heart stops.
“What dinner this weekend?”
I swear it takes all my willpower not to storm from the room and drink a bottle of Chardonnay in the bathtub. The damn law firm gets my husband a hundred hours a week and now they want his weekend too? Our weekend?
“Tanner made reservations for everyone at that new steakhouse downtown. He wants to go over a few things in light of the Driscoll incident.”
Ahh, the Driscoll incident. Meaning Peter Driscoll slept with the prosecuting attorney so now everything is on hold while they choose new representation. I have no doubts that my husband will put his name in the hat, despite already putting in far more than an average week’s work.
Gregor has been trying to achieve partner status in this firm for four years and these bastards just dangle the carrot in his face case after case.
“Can’t Tanner do that at a staff meeting on Monday morning?” I snap, punching the button on the microwave harder than necessary to retrieve the plate inside.
“Shannon, what’s gotten into you?” Greg asks, using that high-and-mighty tone I hate so fucking much.
As if I haven’t said it a thousand times before, I’ll say it again.
“I’m tired, Gregor. I miss you. I miss us, who we were before the pressures of getting pregnant and making partner took over our lives.
Between taking care of Serafina all day and your increasing work hours, I never see you and I can’t remember the last time we made love.
I’m starting to feel like a single parent and I don’t want to have to give up even more time to the people you see all day, every day, at the office. ”
Once upon a time, I was a strong, independent, driven woman who lived fearlessly and went after her dreams with an unparalleled amount of determination.
I’ve somehow allowed myself to become a needy, whining, resentful version of her that I barely recognize and don’t even like most days, letting my husband call the shots from where I go, to what I do, to who I see and how much I spend.
Greg spins on the stool and grabs my waist, pulling me between his knees and giving me a hug. I melt into his embrace immediately, my touch-starved body dying to crawl onto his lap.
“I work hard so I can give you everything you want, babe.”
“What I want is to spend time with my husband, sleep in, not rush through our coffee, and take Serafina to the lake or the aquarium together.”
He kisses my forehead in a way that should be sweet, but just feels patronizing.
“I’ll tell you what. Let’s vacation for Christmas this year. I’ll take a whole week off.”
“Christmas isn’t for four more months, Greg.”
I’ll be a shell of myself by then.
“What do you want me to do, Shannon?” he barks in an annoyed tone, dropping his arms and slumping against the backrest of the barstool in an unbecoming pout.
“I have an active court case right now and you know they’re going to ask me to take over Driscoll’s mess.
Hell, there’s a chance that won’t even be wrapped up by December, depending on how long the new prosecutor delays.
And then there’s a new assistant district attorney to deal with as well. ”
He moves to the cabinet where we store the liquor and pours two fingers of whiskey.
“Okay,” I start, trying to be reasonable despite my rising hysteria. “No vacation for a while. Can you at least make it home for dinner a couple nights this week?”
He swallows the liquor in one shot and places the small glass in the sink. Because the dishwasher is oh so far away. I try to dispel the angry thought the second it enters my mind, but it’s there to stay.
“Yes,” I hear Gregor confirm on an exasperated sigh. “Dinner with my girls this week. I’ll be here.”
I smile. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
“Thank you.” I hate how he’s reduced me to begging.
He eats his meal in no big hurry and by the time we head to bed, I’m at a serious risk of falling asleep in the middle of things, but something has to give. Greg and I haven’t been intimate in months and no amount of time with my vibrator will help bridge this gap between my husband and I.
While Greg does his nightly routine at the sink, I wrap my arms around his lean frame and plant my chin on his shoulder. He’s almost too lean these days. Except for when I see him eat at home, I have no idea if he takes the time to eat at all.
“Do you have any interest in making love before we fall asleep?” I cringe at the question. There was a time when he’d have had me naked before I even made it to our room. God, I miss the days of sex in the kitchen or living room simply because we couldn’t wait a second longer to touch each other.
I often blame Serafina’s arrival, but the truth is, Gregor stopped pursuing me shortly after we got married and he was able to throw himself at his career without having to work so hard at maintaining our relationship.
“It’s almost ten, Shan. Rain check?” he asks flippantly as he removes my arms from his waist and exits the bathroom.
“Sure,” I whisper even though he’s already gone.
I know a lot of people would be concerned that their husbands were cheating on them if they behaved like this, but ironically, Driscoll is the biggest reason I know Gregor isn’t sleeping with someone else.
I’m confident there is no pussy my husband would risk his reputation or his career for.
Cheating attorneys are a dime a dozen and Gregor prides himself on being aboveboard, always.
There are days when I dream about starting over, but then I think through the reality of that.
People would never understand that this house, the cars, the jewelry…
none of it is for me. I have everything most people would kill for…
the American Dream…and yet, it isn’t my dream at all.
The version of my husband that others see isn’t the man who comes home to me.
It’s like he uses all the best parts of his personality to win jurors over and by the time he steps through the door to our house, he’s got nothing left to give.
But neither do I.
And two empty vessels can’t fill each other up.
In a previous life, before I met Gregor, I was full of passion and spontaneity.
I’d had more than a few wild encounters and I’m ashamed to admit I’ve resorted to using those memories to keep me company when I get extra lonely.
They also serve as a reminder that I was desirable once, which sounds shallow, but physical touch is the love language I’ve always spoken the loudest.
Sweaty sex on boats and in life guard stands, getting railed on the beach with so much sand and saltwater thrust inside me it’s a miracle I didn’t end up with a flesh-eating-bacteria.
The scent of sunscreen and coconut tanning oil mixed with sweat and the delicious scent of eighteen-year-old surfers whose idea of bathing is a quick rinse in the outdoor shower or another dip in the ocean. Sigh.
The coast was a great place to grow up and I miss it every day.
I thought I’d gotten all the wildness out of my system before I met Gregor, and was ready to settle down, but it’s become apparent that I still crave those moments.
It’s also apparent I won’t be having any more of them.
In a turn of events that shocked no one, Gregor didn’t make it home for dinner a single night this week.
Not even when I texted him at four-thirty on Wednesday to tell him I was preparing his favorite dish and it would be ready at seven.
Candles were lit. Jazz played softly in the background. The wine glasses were full.
And still, Serafina and I ate alone.
It’s now late on Friday night and Greg missed dinner yet again.
I spent the day cleaning the house, getting my car inspected, paying the registration, buying Gregor a custom nameplate for his briefcase and a bottle of his favorite scotch.
I also sent him a text message thanking him for working so hard and telling him I love him, wanting to cover all of my bases, understanding that maybe he needs something different from me.
Acts of service? Words of Affirmation? Gifts? I’m willing to try it all.
Perhaps in all my time trying to find solid ground with Serafina, I’ve added to the distance between Gregor and I. I need to make sure I’m giving my best effort if I’m demanding his.