Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
JULIE
This week, Devon turned eighteen. Her first birthday without her mother. I invited Ryan and my sister to celebrate with us. I'd broached the idea of inviting other people, but Devon said that would make her anxious, so I followed her lead.
When the doorbell rings at six, I open it to find Ryan with a woman I don't recognize. She's striking—black hair, warm brown eyes, a genuine smile that reaches all the way up. His dates are honestly always the absolute sweetest.
"Julie, this is Wynona," Ryan says. "Wynona, this is Julie."
"It's so nice to meet you!" Wynona extends her hand.
"Nice to meet you too." I shake her hand and step back to let them in. She's an interior designer, she tells me as we walk to the kitchen. She's working on a renovation in Queen Anne. She asks thoughtful questions about the house, compliments the built-ins in the living room.
She's lovely. Genuinely sweet. And I know better than to get attached. So I'm polite. I smile. I pour wine and make small talk. But I keep my distance.
But tonight, I'm not really focused on anyone aside from the people I live with. So I'm watching Devon and Asher.
Jamie arrives a few minutes later with a salad and a bottle of wine. She pulls me into a hug and whispers, "You look exhausted."
"I am."
"We need to talk later. Just you and me."
Devon is mostly quiet through dinner. When Jamie asks how online school is going, Devon gives one-word answers. Wynona attempts conversation once—something about a documentary she watched—and Devon offers a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes before turning back to her plate.
But the moment Asher speaks, everything changes. She lights up. Leans toward him. Laughs at things that aren't funny. Touches his arm when she talks. I watch it happen. The shift in her body language. The way her entire focus narrows to him and only him. And I watch him too.
The way he looks at her when she laughs. The way his hand lingers on her shoulder when he reaches past her for the wine. The way he smiles at her—soft, indulgent, like she's the only person in the room. My stomach twists. Something is wrong here. Something is very, very wrong.
I insisted on this dinner even though Asher said it wasn't necessary.
I baked the cake myself—cherry vanilla, which she said was her favorite—and spent an hour on the frosting.
When I set it down in front of her, she stares at it for a long moment like she's never seen a cake before.
Then she giggles. "Oh my God. Homemade. How… adorable."
The word hangs there. Adorable. Like a puppy. Like a craft project from a child. Like something quaint and small and beneath her. Jamie's eyes flick to mine and I can tell she’s furious. Ryan's jaw tightens. Wynona shifts uncomfortably in her seat. My cheeks burn.
Instead of telling her she was rude, Asher laughs. "Yeah, you know how Julie loves her normal things. Just ignore the rough icing job, focus on the candles, and make a wish."
Normal things. Rough icing job. I want to pick up the cake and shove it into his goddam face.
I stare at him, angry, but he's not looking at me.
He's looking at Devon. She closes her eyes and makes her wish.
Asher watches her like she's the most important person in the room. My radar is pinging like crazy.
When Ryan and Wynona finally leave around ten, there's relief in my chest. Ryan hugs me goodbye and Wynona thanks me for having her.
She's so sweet. So genuine. And I know I'll never see her again.
After everyone leaves, I'm alone with Asher and Devon again.
Devon excuses herself to bed, thanking Asher profusely for "such a wonderful birthday. " She barely glances my way.
I stay downstairs and clean like I do each night.
Alone. Ignored. I shove the remainder of the normal birthday cake I made into the garbage disposal, never wanting to think about it again.
When I'm finished, I decide to go upstairs.
I normally watch TV, but tonight, I'm tired and need to go to sleep.
I need to put this shitty day behind me.
The shower is running when I reach the bathroom. I can hear water against the tile. I open the door—just the bathroom door—and through the frosted glass of the shower, I can see him clearly.
His hand is wrapped around himself. He's hard and he's about to come. He groans, his forehead resting on the tile in front of him as he jerks off. He finishes with a loud grunt.
So he can get hard. Just not for me.
He doesn't see me. I quietly close the door and leave. I stand there for a long moment, processing. It's not that he can't. It's that he won't. With me.
A horrifying thought slams into me. What if he's thinking about Devon?
There's been a fundamental shift. What began as a slit in the fabric of our lives has become a tear, straight down the middle.
There are only a few stitches left holding the fabric together.
I don't think it will take much more for it to be torn entirely, irrevocably.
I go back downstairs and sit on the couch in complete darkness. No TV, no phone. Just sitting. I think through everything. The distance. The coldness. The way he lights up around Devon. How I'm disappearing from my own marriage. It’s time for me to confront him.
The next morning, I'm waiting for him in the garage when he leaves for work. His briefcase is in one hand, his phone in the other. He's scrolling through it as he comes through the door from the house and walks toward his car, not looking up.
"Asher."
He jerks to a stop, looking surprised when he turns around. "Hey. I thought you went to take a shower."
"I need to talk to you."
Something in my voice makes him pause. He glances back at the door, then at me. "Okay. What's up?"
I cross my arms because I'm tense. I've been awake since four, thinking about what I saw last night. "Do you want a divorce?"
The question lands between us like a stone. His jaw drops. It takes him a moment to recover. "What?"
I note the fact that he hasn't said no. It’s a flashing red light, a giant neon arrow that’s unmissable.
"Do. You. Want. A. Divorce?" I repeat. My voice is steady. "Because it seems like you're done with this marriage."
"Goddammit Julie, what are you talking about?"
Still not a no. So much is said when questions go unanswered.
"Don't play dumb, Asher. It’s not a good look for you, especially when we both know I'm talking about the fact that you haven't touched me in months.
You can't look at me and you come to bed after I'm asleep and face the other direction. You avoid me."
He sets his briefcase down. "Now you do this? Now? When I’m under pressure like never before, you think it’s time to have a temper tantrum. You're acting crazy."
The words come at me in a way that feels a lot like being spit on.
The disrespect is so infuriating I swear I can feel my blood pressure spiking.
"Do not ever make the mistake of calling me crazy again," I seethe.
"I'm not the one ignoring my spouse and spending all of my free time with a goddamn teenager. "
He clenches his jaw, his eyes cold. “Don’t do that. Don’t fucking do that. Don’t blame Devon. There is no problem here that isn’t one you made up. I’m busy, but I'm not ignoring you. Nothing is wrong."
If I were a violent person, I’d punch him in the face. That’s how angry I am right now. And through it all, I’m counting. We're almost two minutes in and he still hasn't said no. He's letting the question hang there. "Can you be serious, or are you just going to lie to me?"
His shoulders sag. "I've been under a lot of stress. My father died. Devon is grieving. I'm trying to hold everything together."
"Funny that everything didn't include me or our marriage." My voice stays level. "Just ball up and tell me you want out, because it’s clear we're broken."
He looks affronted. There's a flash of anger. "I don’t fucking want out, Julie. Stop it. I love you."
"Then why does it feel like I don't exist?"
He runs a hand through his hair. "Things have been hard. I haven't been as present as I should be. But I'm trying."
"You are?"
"Yes."
"That's bullshit. You've checked out. You're here physically, but you're not here. And I don't know if it's grief or if you just don't want to be married to me anymore."
"I want to be married to you."
"Do you?"
"Yes." He steps closer. "God, Julie. I fucking love you."
The words should feel like relief. They don't. They feel hollow. "Then why don't you act like it?" I ask. "Why don't you touch me? Why do I feel like I'm competing for your attention in my own marriage?"
"You're not competing."
"Then what is this?"
He looks away. His jaw tightens. "I'm struggling. You know I'm having physical problems."
This. Motherfucker. He means his inability to get hard. Which is a goddamn lie. "You fucking liar. I saw you in the shower last night."
He goes completely still.
"You were plenty hard," I spit. "So it's not that you can't. It's that you won't. Not with me."
His face drains of color. "Fuck. Julie."
"Who were you thinking about?"
"Stop it." His voice is sharp. Defensive. "Don't do this."
"No. I'm done. Who were you thinking about?"
His jaw clenches. For a second it looks like he might start yelling. "It's not like that. I was thinking about you. About our honeymoon in the Maldives. Months of stress and I can't just turn it off when I want to. You don't understand what I'm dealing with."
"Then explain it."
"I can't." He runs both hands through his hair. "Devon is barely functioning. The company is a mess. My father's estate is a nightmare. You're miserable. I can't fix any of it fast enough. Sometimes I jerk off in the shower and pretend I'm normal."
He's deflecting. I know it. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
I look at him. Really look at him. He won't meet my eyes. "If you were thinking about me," I say, "you'd only need to walk into our bedroom and take me. I'm right there. Every night. Waiting."
He winces. The silence stretches. He has nothing to say because I'm right. "I promise I don't want a divorce," he finally says.
It's been so long since I asked, the answer doesn't hold any weight. "Then what do you want?"
"I want us to be okay."
"We're so far from okay we're not even in the same universe," I answer.
"I know." He reaches for my hand, but I pull back. "Julie, please. I'm asking you to be patient. I've been a terrible husband. I don't want to lose us."
"You're already losing us, Asher. You've been losing us for months and you haven’t even noticed."
He shakes his head. "I notice."
"Do you? Because it feels like you're going through the motions. Like you're staying because you have to, not because you want to."
"That's not true."
"Prove it." I look at him directly. "Stop telling me things will get better and actually make them better. Stop treating me like an obligation and start treating me like your wife."
He nods. "I will. I promise."
It feels empty. I think because it is. "I guess we'll see," I sigh and turn to go back inside.
"Julie."
I stop but don't turn around.
"I mean it," he says. "I don't want to lose you."
I don't respond. I walk back into the house and close the door. And as I make my way up to the bedroom to get dressed for the day, I wonder if anything he just said was true.