Chapter 36
Six months earlier
After his keys jangle in the door, I wait for the sound of the living room TV.
Lately, Liam’s been watching TV instead of coming to bed when he gets home late from the research center.
I can’t say for certain, but I think he’s avoiding me.
That, or he’s got a newfound obsession with late-night infomercials.
But instead of the usual static hum of the TV, I hear Liam’s feet on the stairs.
A second later he appears in the bedroom, a shopping bag in hand.
“Hey,” he says, looking exhausted as usual.
“Hey,” I say back, realizing it’s the first word I’ve said all day.
“You’re up.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Which is true. I’ve barely been sleeping. Time just keeps moving forward with no discernible beginning or end to each day.
Liam steps toward the bed, then pauses, like he’s reconsidering. A protracted silence follows until finally he says, “I got you something.”
I look down at the brightly colored shopping bag in his hands, then back at him, questioning. He hands it over, and after an encouraging nod from him, I push past the tissue paper until I find something soft and feathery at the bottom. Frowning, I pull out a sheer nightgown.
“What’s this?” I ask, holding it up.
He rubs the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “You always loved when I bought you lingerie, and things have been…weird with us, so I thought maybe it would…” He swallows. “I thought maybe you’d like it,” he says at last.
Everything in me pulls tight; my skin instantly feels too hot, too heavy.
Since the night of Kevin’s party, things have indeed been weird between us.
I figured we’d both apologize and the whole thing would blow over, but he got home late, then went into the research center early the next morning, which felt intentional.
Like he was purposefully trying to avoid talking about it.
Since then, everything has felt strained. Including our sex life.
Liam’s tried to initiate a few times—a hand on the inside of my thigh, a kiss on the back of my neck, even a few dirty words whispered in the dark—but instead of the usual pangs of want and need racing through me like a drug, my body feels heavy as though physically weighed down by the pain of grief.
Now it’s been six months since we’ve slept together.
Liam says he understands, but I can feel the carved-out tension between us. The way every interaction is just a little off, like a painting that won’t quite hang straight.
It’s not just that grief is a bitch, and I haven’t exactly been in the mood; it’s also the increasing emotional distance between Liam and me, distance that makes it hard for me to have an intimate connection with him when we don’t seem to have any kind of emotional connection lately.
When Liam has started to feel less like my husband and more like a ghost that slips in and out of the house at odd hours.
“Thank you,” I say, looking down at the gift. “But I’m just not ready yet.”
His hands fidget at his sides. “I understand,” he says, wrapping his mouth carefully around each syllable. “When do you think you’re going to be ready?”
His tone is calm, gentle even, but I can see the disappointment lurking behind his gaze, and a thick layer of shame instantly washes over me. For not being ready to have sex again. For not meeting my husband’s needs. For not being fine again.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
And it’s the truth. The scary truth hanging over both of us. I have no idea when I’ll feel okay again—if ever.
Liam runs a hand through his hair, mouth flatlining. I can feel him trying and hesitating to speak. Finally he says, “I want to help, Ros, but I don’t know how.”
There’s a part of me that wants—needs—to believe he means it. That he genuinely is just trying to help, but another part of me, a deeper, more resentful part, is hurt.
I’m hurt that he keeps avoiding my pain.
That he hasn’t even tried to talk to me about it.
That instead of showing up for me when I need him most, he’s become distant.
And now he thinks he can buy me some frilly lingerie and that will fix the ever-widening cracks between us?
That it’ll make up for the past few months?
“You want to help?” I repeat, my voice fraying. “Then why won’t you sit and talk with me?”
His features widen with surprise, but just as quickly his jaw stiffens like a mask being put back into place. “I told you, I—”
I shake my head, and the frustration I’ve tried to push down rises up the back of my throat, unbidden. “Don’t tell me you’re not good at these types of conversations, Liam. You’re always working late or coming up with some excuse to not spend time with me.”
“I’m not,” he says.
“Okay. Great. Thanks. I guess that’s cleared up.”
Liam sighs. “Ros, I’ve been trying to give you space. I thought that’s what you needed.”
I push out a pfft noise. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”
I wish I could believe him, that he’s just trying to give me space, that he doesn’t know how to talk about my grief.
But what if this isn’t about any of that?
What if it’s me? What if I’m too broken?
What if he opened all my doors, saw all my layers, and now that he’s gotten to the messiest one, he’s decided he doesn’t want it? He doesn’t want me.
I swallow down a stilted breath. “It means that ever since my mom died, you’ve been acting distant and I just feel like…
” My voice cracks as the fear that’s been swimming in the back of my mind for months now finally worms its way to the surface.
“Like you don’t like being around me anymore,” I finally say.
Liam’s shoulders drop as though absorbing the weight of my words.
“Of course I like you. I love you, Ros.” He rubs week-old scruff on his jaw, voice dropping off before he says, “But the past few months have been hard for both of us, and I don’t know what to do, and I thought maybe this…
” His gaze drifts to the lingerie curled under my fist. “Would help.”
His tone tips toward pleading, desperate even, and if I wasn’t so emotionally wounded, I might be able to see that he really is trying to help, that he’s just as hurt and confused as I am, but instead his words land like well-aimed darts, hitting each one of my insecurities with impeccable precision.
“Well, it’s not helping,” I say stiffly, dropping the lingerie back into the bag. “And buying me underwear isn’t an excuse to avoid talking about my feelings.”
Liam steps back like he’s been burned. “I’m not trying to avoid anything, Ros. That’s not—” But his voice breaks with frustration, and he turns away.
For a moment I think he’s going to yell, and a part of me hopes he will.
At least that way we can scream it out and finally have the fight we’ve been needing to have.
The fight that will break us out of this miserable rut.
Instead, he says, “I’ve had a long day and I really don’t want to fight about this, Ros. ”
Then he turns and leaves the room. A few minutes later I hear the hum of the TV downstairs.