9. Ford
FORDCHAPTER 9
E ven though I’d lived with Claudia, and was used to sharing space with a woman, everything about cohabitating with Emzee felt different.
Everything .
Take this morning, even, when I’d rolled over in bed to find that Em and I had slept in past 10 o’clock.
Claudia never would have allowed that, even on a Saturday like today.
She firmly agreed with the science that said sleeping in on the weekend threw off one’s circadian rhythms, setting one up for a sluggish Monday at the office.
I hadn’t slept so soundly in years.
It was all so new and weird.
After the fight last night, and the incredible sex Emzee and I’d had on that stupid desk in my office, I didn’t quite know where my wife and I stood.
Our argument hadn’t actually been resolved, and it wasn’t the kind of thing that was going to figure itself out.
As soon as she was up, we’d have to talk about it.
Right now, though, she was fast asleep.
I eased out of bed gently, careful not to wake her—I figured she deserved as much rest as she wanted.
Still, my fingers itched to touch her naked back, to caress the exposed skin that I knew was soft as silk, but I resisted.
Instead, I got dressed and headed to the kitchen.
Munchkin followed me.
After I put the coffee on, I took him for a quick walk before starting on breakfast.
There wasn’t much to work with, but I had enough of the basics on hand to whip up some sausage and pancakes, which I knew Emzee would like.
It had always been her go-to order on those rare occasions we’d made it to McDonald’s before they stopped serving breakfast.
Pouring pancake batter onto the griddle, I thought more about the contrasts between Emzee and Claudia.
The way, with Claudia, everything had been so rigidly routine.
Every day she’d wake up before me (sometimes even before the sun rose), turn on the coffee maker, and then lay out my agenda next to my cup.
Even on the weekends, there’d be to-do lists or whole itineraries with museum visits or lunch plans detailed on them.
Then she’d go work out.
It was vitally important to her that she get her gym time in before the day started.
I don’t think I ever once saw her sleep in.
And breakfast?
Claudia wasn’t into it.
She’d just choke down a quick protein shake on her way to the gym, even though she hated the chalky taste.
Lazy, mid-morning pancakes with Emzee could be nice.
No stress.
No rush.
No lectures on the evils of various breakfast meats and their saturated fat content.
But of course, I couldn’t let myself get used to it.
My new wife didn’t actually love me; she’d made that abundantly clear.
So I wouldn’t make the mistake of letting her fully into my life.
Which was okay by me.
After all, Claudia and I had gotten along just fine for years without being in love.
It was when she started wanting more—when my parents started demanding more—that I’d realized I had to get out.
Obviously, I’d have to keep Emzee at a distance.
Better for her, and better for me.
The last thing either of us needed were entanglements that would make it any harder to end our marriage in a year.
It seemed doubtful we’d be able to go back to the way things were before, but if we were lucky, we could remain in each other’s lives.
Maybe not as best friends, but I didn’t like the idea of her disappearing completely.
Turning to set the platter of steaming pancakes on the table, I almost tripped over Munchkin, who’d apparently been sitting at my feet while I was cooking.
“You smell those sausages, boy?” I said.
His stub of a tail wagged double-time, and I cut a piece for him to snack on while I was setting the table.
“You’re spoiling him,” Emzee scolded from the doorway, a smirk on her face.
She still looked sleepy, but she’d put on a robe.
The dog trotted over and rolled onto his back at her feet, and Em crouched down to give him a belly rub.
“What a little mooch you are.”
“Morning,” I said.
“I made brunch.”
“It smells amazing,” Emzee said, seating herself at the table.
“Thank you.”
After pouring us each a coffee and tuning the radio to an old-school jazz station, I sat down and we started eating.
I could sense the tension between us, the weight of too many unspoken words.
But I didn’t know where to start.
The shoulder of her robe had slipped down a little, exposing that soft, bare skin, and part of me wanted to throw our breakfast in the sink, bend her over the table, and bang the shit out of her.
To be honest, all I could think about was what we’d done last night.
How wild she’d been when I took her on top of the desk.
I’d expected her to balk at my cruelty, my roughness, but she seemed to love it.
She’d been so fucking wet.
She’d wanted me, wanted everything I’d given her.
Just like she always did.
I was getting hard at the thought.
When we were both done, Emzee put our dishes in the sink.
It wasn’t until she sat back down that she looked me straight in the eye.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“About last night.”
I nodded.
“I guess that was pretty weird. I’m sorry.”
“No,” she said.
“It was fine.”
“Just fine?” I raised an eyebrow.
Emzee blushed.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“It was kinky, but I was into it. I didn’t dislike anything you did. It’s just…”
Leaning forward, I coaxed, “Just what?”
She took a deep breath and then blurted, “I’m not interested in getting involved with whatever thoughts or feelings you have about Claudia.”
“Em—” But she held up her hand before I could continue.
“We might not have an emotional relationship, but you still have to respect me. If you don’t, we have to stop the sex, and I’ll move into the guest room.”
I let her words sink in, nodding slowly as I thought things over.
Maybe having her move into the guest room was the best thing for both of us.
Because all that kink from last night?
It had nothing to do with how I felt about Claudia, and everything to do with how I felt about Emzee.
I wished she was the one who’d left her mark all over my apartment.
That the stories I’d been telling had been about her instead.
I didn’t like any of the memories that Claudia had left behind.
When I looked at that fucking Sri Lankan vase, all I thought about was how Claudia had spent half our trip bitching about the poverty there.
How everything and everyone was so filthy and disgusting.
Emzee never would have said that—she wouldn’t have even thought it.
If we’d been on that trip together, Emzee would have focused on observing the culture and people around her.
She probably would have spent the whole trip taking photographs of everything: good, bad, or ugly.
To her, though, there would have been beauty in all of it.
And another thing—Emzee would never call all the miserable marriages in my family “traditional.” Nor would she ever aspire to have a similar one for herself.
And that painting in the den?
Emzee wouldn’t have needed a fucking painting to remind her to communicate with her partner.
She would just do it.
Like she was doing now.
Instead of pouting and acting passive-aggressive, the way Claudia always did when she was pissed at me for some reason or another.
And that desk.
I knew for a fact that Em most assuredly would have been a lot more fun over drinks in Paris.
All Claudia had wanted to do was shop on the Champs-élysées and buy things that she could brag about to her friends.
That was always all she ever cared about.
Not that it mattered anymore.
But even if Emzee and I did go to Paris or any of those other places now, it wouldn’t change the fact that she didn’t love me.
That if I let her get inside me any more than she already had, I was going to break.
Which was why I should agree to her terms.
Call off the sex and let her move into the guest room.
Problem was, I couldn’t do it.
I was too selfish for that.
“I think it’s for the best,” Emzee was saying.
“I can move all my stuff down the hall today. No one will have to know.”
“No,” I said.
She looked surprised.
“No?”
“I can be respectful,” I told her.
“But as long as we’re in this arrangement, you are my wife and you will sleep in my bed. Understood?”
Emzee scowled at me, but in the end, she didn’t disagree.
I had to believe there was a part of her that didn’t actually want to move into the guest room.
Or that simply didn’t want to give up our intense physical connection.
Either way, we’d reached a truce.