Chapter Twelve
Jess
I’m not going to lie.
I don’t think I can do this.
He won’t let me tell him everything about what happened. I understand his need for space, for time to mull it over, but he doesn’t have all the facts. Not yet anyway.
And that’s not good.
Because in my head, if he just knew everything, he’d calm down. He’d see it differently. He’d see me differently.
But how am I supposed to explain when he won’t even look at me?
In front of the boys, he’s the picture of a perfect dad. Smiles. Laughter. Easy affection. For a second, I almost believe we’re us again.
Then the boys look away.
And he goes quiet.
Like someone flipped a switch.
The silence is the worst part. Not yelling. Not anger. Just this careful, polite distance. Like I’m a coworker he doesn’t particularly like but has to tolerate.
Another problem is logistics.
He said structured separation like it came with an instruction manual.
It doesn’t.
Where do we sleep?
I know he said we don’t have to talk to sleep but that’s not all that happens in a bed, now, is it?
Do I swat his hand away if he reaches for me in the middle of the night?
Not that he has.
He hasn’t touched me at all.
The first night, I lay on my side of the bed stiff as a board, waiting for him to either roll toward me or roll away. He did neither. He just lay there on his back; hands folded over his stomach like Dracula.
I stared at the ceiling and counted the seconds between his breaths.
Sixty days.
I don’t know if I’m strong enough for sixty minutes of this.
It’s Sunday today. The storm finally passed, the roads are clear, and life goes back to normal tomorrow, school, work, routines.
Which means this weird bubble we’ve been trapped in all week is about to pop.
Laundry has been piling up, and since I’ve been avoiding Logan like the plague, I haven’t exactly stayed on top of it.
So tonight, I decide to tackle at least one problem.
The only issue?
I hate doing laundry. I hate yardwork more, which Logan does, so laundry’s my nightmare chore.
Still, it has to get done.
I gather everything dirty, mine and Logan’s and dump it all into the washer. I’ve basically been wearing the same clothes for days, so those go in too. Socks, shirts, sweatpants… even the bra and underwear I can’t be bothered to wash separately.
Once it’s all tumbling around, I head back toward the bedroom to put on something clean.
And promptly walk straight into a solid wall of chest.
Strong hands grab my arms automatically, steadying me before I can go tumbling on my ass.
“Whoa-”
I freeze.
Logan freezes.
His gaze drops.
Right to my very naked chest.
“Oh,” I say, way too casually for someone standing very much not dressed. “I threw everything in the washer.”
“Of course you did,” he mutters, but it comes out strangled. This isn’t exactly the first time I’ve walked around the house naked after throwing everything to wash but this is the first time he hasn’t followed suit and carried me off to the bedroom.
Logan’s eyes flick over me again before he forces himself to look over my head.
I’d take it badly if his gaze didn’t keep drifting back.
Hope blooms in my chest.
He wants me.
Like, really wants me.
This past week had seriously planted some doubts about that.
How could it not?
Logan and I have always been cuddly sleepers. Real cuddly not fake Ross cuddly. But lately, he’s been so far on his side of the mattress you’d think I had the plague.
But this?
The rigid shoulders. The clenched jaw. The way he suddenly looks like he’s fighting himself?
Maybe things aren’t as final as I’d assumed.
“So,” I say lightly, pretending I don’t notice any of it, “did you need something?”
“Huh?” he asks, still very focused on not looking at me while very clearly looking at me.
“Laundry-wise,” I clarify. “Anything you need washed?”
“Uh-no,” he says quickly. “No. I’m good.”
Then, like snapping out of a trance, he steps away from me and heads straight back toward the living room.
I bite back a smile.
Huh.
Dropping the empty basket to the floor, I walk into the bedroom and open my dresser.
I have plenty of options, oversized T-shirts, cozy pajamas, sweatshirts that could swallow me whole.
But my hand lands on a different drawer entirely.
The one I rarely open.
The “special occasion” drawer.
Before I can overthink it, I pull out a silk camisole I’ve never worn and slip it over my head.
Soft. Light. Definitely not winter-appropriate.
Perfect.
I unclip my hair and let it fall loose, bending my head and running my fingers through it so it lands messy and a little wild.
Then I head back to the hall, grab the empty basket, and make my way to the dryer. The kids’ clothes have been sitting in there since Friday.
Instead of sitting on the couch like I usually do, I drag the armchair a few inches to the side and make space on the floor.
I sit down, not directly in front of the TV, because that would be too obvious.
No.
I make sure I’m in in Logan’s line of sight without being in the way.
He glances over.
Then immediately looks back at the screen.
Smirking to myself, I dump the warm clothes onto the carpet and start sorting them.
Totally innocent.
Logan
Jesus Christ. How long does folding clothes take?
I try to keep my eyes on the TV. Really, I do.
But every few seconds they drift right back to the floor where Jess is sitting, surrounded by piles of laundry like she’s organizing some kind of tiny fabric empire.
First, she separated Myles’s clothes from River’s.
Okay. Fine. That makes sense.
But then she had to sort them by shirts, pants, socks, and God knows what else. Which apparently requires bending forward every thirty seconds.
And stretching.
So much stretching
The black little number she’s wearing definitely isn’t helping.
I mean, I already saw them earlier in the hallway. Full view. No mystery there.
But there’s something way worse about seeing them now, covered, technically, but hidden in plain sight. The silk clings just enough to leave nothing to the imagination.
It’s torture.
No.
I force my eyes back to the screen.
They’re just boobs.
I’ve seen them before.
Touched them before.
Lick-
Nope.
Absolutely not.
Come on, man.
I clear my throat and shift on the couch, trying to get comfortable. Or at least look comfortable.
Structured separation.
That’s the goal.
But wait, Dr Brett never actually said no sex right. I mean…
I grind my teeth and pretend to be fascinated by whatever I was watching before she came in.
She shifts again.
My eyes betray me instantly.
Jess reaches for another shirt, leaning forward just enough that the neckline dips.
I swallow.
This is deliberate. It has to be deliberate.
She knows exactly what she’s doing.
And the worst part?
It’s working.
My body doesn’t care about therapy. It definitely doesn’t care that she lied to me. All it seems to remember is how good she feels and smells.
Licking my lips, I try very hard not to stare at the little valley that forms between her breasts every time she bends to pick something up.
But I do anyway.
Finally, she folds the last of the clothes.
Oh, thank God.
I let out a slow, relieved breath as Jess carefully stacks everything back into the basket and stands.
She heads down the hall, probably to put it all away.
I rub a hand over my face.
Who knew laundry could be this… erotic?
Deciding it’s safer to retreat before she decides to start dusting the living room or something equally dangerous, I push myself off the couch and head toward the kitchen.
Food. I need food.
I’m sure my sudden hunger has absolutely nothing to do with why I’m walking a little stiffly.
Opening the fridge, I grab the container of berries I bought earlier, rinse them quickly, and pop a few into my mouth.
Immediately my eye twitches.
Good God.
These things are sour.
Like… painfully sour.
“What the hell?” I mutter, grabbing a glass of water and trying to wash the taste away.
I glare down at the bowl. “No wonder they were cheap.”
Jess appears as if summoned by my suffering, sauntering into the kitchen while doing that weird twisty thing women do with their hair.
I have no idea what she thinks it accomplishes.
What it actually does is make the hem of that tiny skirt ride up just enough to be borderline obscene.
If I squint, I could probably-
“What are you doing?” she asks.
I snap my eyes up so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.
“Uh, eating,” I say, holding up the bowl like evidence. “Want some?”
She smiles.
Triumphant.
Way too pleased with herself.
“Sure.”
She pops one into her mouth.
Her left eye immediately squeezes shut as she fights not to react.
“How is it?” I ask innocently.
“It’s…” She makes a face. “…fine.”
I bite back a laugh.
Jess studies my expression for half a second and then bursts out laughing.
I can’t help it, I laugh right along with her.
For a moment it’s just us, standing in the dim kitchen, smiling at each other like nothing bad ever happened.
And God… it actually feels nice.
Like before.
Before she…
The thought hits me hard enough to sober me instantly.
The smile slips off my face.
Stepping away from her, I dump the berries into the trash and rinse out the bowl, focusing on the mundane task so I don’t have to look at her.
When I turn to head to bed, Jess reaches out and puts her palm on my arm.
"Logan."
My name on her lips, barely a whisper, stops me cold.
We're suddenly too close, trapped together between the counter and the fridge. Her hand burns against my bare skin, fingers trembling as they grip my forearm.
The silk of her camisole catches the dim light, the thin straps sliding off one shoulder, revealing the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammers visibly.
I can feel the heat radiating off her body.
Without thinking, I grab the back of her neck and pull her in hard, my fingers tangling in her hair.
I don't plan it.
I don't debate it.
I just do it.
My mouth crashes into hers in a desperate, claiming kiss. She gasps against my lips and I swallow the sound, one hand fisting in that silk at her waist while the other tightens at her nape.
For one electric second she melts into me, her body going soft and pliant, her mouth opening under mine, a small whimper escaping her throat that nearly destroys me.
Then reality slams into me like a fist to the gut.
I shove away from her so hard she stumbles back against the counter, and I drag the back of my hand across my mouth like I can erase the taste of her, erase what just happened.
"What are you doing?" I demand, my voice coming out rough and raw.
Jess blinks, clearly stunned. “I was just-”
“No,” I snap, cutting her off. “What the hell, Jess?”
Her eyes widen.
I take another step back, putting the counter between us before I do something even stupider.
“The dress. The show,” I say tightly. “We said boundaries. Remember?”
She swallows. “I wasn’t trying to-”
“Walking around naked,” I interrupt. “Dressing like that. Don’t act like you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Her face falls.
“That’s not fair,” she whispers.
“Fair?” I let out a humorless laugh. “You really want to talk about fair right now?”
The silence that follows is thick and uncomfortable.
Jess looks down at the floor.
“Do you want me to move out?” I ask quietly. “Is that what it’s going to take?”
Her head snaps up. “No. Logan, no.”
“Because I need space, Jess,” I go on, my voice harder than I mean it to be. “Space from you. And if you can’t respect that, then just tell me.”
Her lips tremble.
“I’m trying,” she says softly. “I swear I am.”
There’s so much more I want to say.
That I hate what she did to us.
That I still love her, but right now I don’t really like her.
That every time she looks at me, touches me, even breathes near me, it messes with my head in ways I’m not ready to deal with.
But this isn’t the time for any of that.
So instead of unloading everything I’m feeling, instead of saying something I can’t take back, I do the only thing I can manage.
I turn around.
And walk away.
Leaving my wife standing alone in the kitchen, crying.