Chapter 14
Evan
W hen I return downstairs, I remove the beret from Watson’s head and put some Mardi Gras beads around his neck. I look up and note with a jolt that Jane is already outside, mug in hand. Owing to my poor night’s sleep, I was a little late getting out of bed this morning, but she’s outside at the same time as usual, and I feel guilty that she had to pour her coffee.
After grabbing a mug, I head to the backyard and take a seat. “Good morning.”
She sips her coffee and gives me a nod.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“I can get my own coffee. It’s fine.” Her voice has a strange edge to it, and I swear there are dark circles under her eyes, even if she still looks lovely. I try not to stare at the lips that I kissed last night.
When I apologized, was it about the coffee or about something else? I don’t even know.
I mean, I’m not exactly sorry about kissing her back…unless she regrets the whole thing. Then I’m sorry. But I don’t know what’s happening, and she doesn’t give me any insight. This is the first time I’ve seen her since she ran upstairs nearly twelve hours ago.
That kiss…
It was nothing like the one on our wedding day. She threw herself at me while we were watching TV, and as stunned as I was, I still kissed her back immediately, my body reacting to something I’d wanted for weeks. The press of her chest against mine. The eagerness of her lips and tongue as she tried to get closer and closer. But when I bucked my hips against hers, she seemed to realize what we were doing and left.
I’m still not entirely sure why it happened, though. Was she overcome by the sexual tension onscreen? That, in itself, seems insufficient.
Does she want me? Has she been thinking about it as much as I have? Something has seemed a little off in the last couple of days, but it could be unrelated. It could have to do with Claudia—I know they spoke for a while yesterday, and they don’t talk on the phone all that often.
No, I can’t let myself hope, especially when she looks distraught. I’m afraid that if I try to talk about it, she’ll freak out again, so I think the best course of action is to pretend we never kissed. We have to live together, after all.
The feel of her on top of me…I’ll just think about that when I’m alone.
“Watson apologizes for not being ready for coffee.” I gesture at him. “He was partying late last night.”
Her lips curve into a cautious smile. There were a couple of times this week when her smiles seemed awkward and forced, but this seems genuine, if a little uncertain.
You see, Jane? It’s okay. I’m still your friend-slash-husband.
“Any plans for the day?” she asks. “The usual?”
“Actually,” I say, “my mom texted me after we…you know. She wants me to come over to move some things and have dinner, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
Does she sound glad to be rid of me? I think so, but I’m scared to ask. She’d probably refute it anyway.
While I have a decent amount of experience with kissing and relationships, nothing has quite prepared me for this.
My mom regards me inquisitively from across the table. “Are you eating enough?”
“What do you mean? I’m eating lots! You keep putting food on my plate, and I’m eating it all.” To emphasize this, I pick up another piece of beef.
We’re sitting in the kitchen of my childhood home, after I helped my parents move some furniture in the basement. My father is to my left, between me and Mom.
She clucks her tongue. “I don’t mean right now. I mean in general. Why are you so hungry tonight? Because you aren’t eating enough at home?”
I’m half-afraid she’s going to accuse Jane of not feeding me, even though that doesn’t sound like my mother. Sure, Jane does more cooking than I do, but I’m capable of feeding myself, and my parents are aware of that. They made sure we all learned to cook.
“I didn’t eat much at lunch because I wasn’t hungry then,” I say, “but I guess I worked up an appetite.”
“Why weren’t you hungry earlier?” Dad asks. “Is something wrong?”
My wife and I kissed for the first time since the wedding and everything is weird now.
“No,” I say, then stuff some bok choy in my mouth.
“Maybe you’re working too hard,” Mom says. “You should really go on that honeymoon. It will be good for you.”
“We don’t need a honeymoon, and my marriage is fine.”
“I didn’t suggest it wasn’t.”
No, she didn’t, not exactly, but I can feel her concern—different from her usual concern about me. The fact that I sound so defensive probably isn’t helping. I’m not normally like this with my parents.
“We’ll go next year,” I say with a sigh.
“You can take another trip next year,” Dad says. “A honeymoon should be within a few months of the wedding.”
“Why are you so keen on the honeymoon?” I ask.
My parents exchange a look. They’ve been married for forty years, and sometimes, it feels like they can have entire conversations without speaking.
“I just think it’s a nice thing to do,” he says at last.
Hm. Clearly my parents don’t want to say exactly what they’re thinking, and I’m too scared to demand they tell me.
I’m still not in a great mood when I head to the car, leftovers and half a dozen egg tarts in a bag. I’m looking forward to seeing Jane and dreading it at the same time.
When I get home, I put everything in the fridge. Since she’s not downstairs, I text her to say that I’m going for a walk and there are egg tarts if she wants one.
I don’t get a response.
I return from my walk to find my wife standing at the counter, eating a tart. A crumb clings to her bottom lip, and I itch to brush it off with my finger—or lick it with my tongue—but I stuff my hands in my pockets instead.
“How are your parents?” she asks.
“The usual,” I say. “They bugged me more about the honeymoon, but…” I shrug. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Are they suspicious that we…you know…”
“I’m not sure what they think now.” I sigh. “I’m going to have a shower.”
“Want to watch a show afterward?”
I study her. Is she trying to act like everything is normal between us? Since we usually watch a show after dinner, it would make sense that we do it now. Or is she thinking of our kiss?
I can’t read her.
I said I was going to have a shower—and I will—but I could use an egg tart first. After all, I didn’t have dessert at my parents’ house. I take one out of the fridge, then push it out of the metal tin and set it on a small plate.
Jane promptly picks it up and pretends to take a big bite.
She doesn’t normally do things like this. I step toward her, wanting my egg tart back, but she moves backward until she hits the counter. The tart—my tart—is still held aloft in her left hand. I reach for it, but she moves it over her head.
Ha! She’s shorter than me, but I have to be careful so it doesn’t fall on the floor.
“Why did you do it?’ I ask.
She tenses. “Do what?”
“Pretend to eat my egg tart.”
She visibly relaxes at those words but keeps the tart above her head.
I take another step closer. My body is flush with hers now, and she doesn’t look quite so relaxed. She’s breathing heavily, and the look in her eyes—I think it’s excitement? I swear something is buzzing in the air between us.
I reach up and gently pry the tart from her fingers. As I take a big bite with lots of custard, some flakes of pastry fall to the tile floor. I’ll clean those up later, once I’ve finished the tart and Jane is no longer avidly watching my lips.
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay, what?”
“We can watch a show. After I shower.”
When I enter the living room, the show is loaded on the screen, and Jane is seated in the middle of the couch. I take my usual seat on the left-hand side, and she presses play. This is the episode that started while we were making out yesterday, but she’s gone back to the beginning of it, since neither of us was paying attention.
I feel the absence of her at my side, but I don’t mention it. If she—
She shifts so she’s next to me and rests her head on my shoulder, and yes, this feels right. I try to focus on the subtitles, though it’s difficult. We haven’t talked about our kiss, but something has changed between us. I feel like we can’t go back, even if we never speak of it—and Jane doesn’t seem inclined to talk about it.
But things have also changed between the characters onscreen, and when, halfway through the episode, they kiss once more, I can’t help looking at Jane. She lifts her head from my shoulder, and her lips are temptingly parted. I try to raise an eyebrow in question, though I think I end up raising both instead.
And then she does something incredible: she picks up the remote and pauses the show.
My gaze drifts to the TV before turning back to her. Yesterday, I made out with my wife, and I’ve been thinking of little else since. My pulse thunders.
Once again, she makes the first move. When her lips meet mine, my eyes flutter closed. I didn’t expect her to want this when we got married, but there’s no doubt that she really does want it. And today, God help me, she settles herself on my lap and straddles me, her lips never leaving mine, as though she can’t bear for them to part. She seems certain of what she wants, but I can’t forget that she bolted yesterday.
Her mouth is soft and insistent, and she runs her tongue along the seam of my lips; I open for her, and she moans. I desperately want to remove her clothes and run my hands all over her skin, but I’m not sure she wishes to go that far.
Then I feel her hands creeping under the hem of my shirt, and the next thing I know, she’s pushed it up to my armpits. I jerk my head toward the door, but the blinds are closed, thank God.
“Sorry,” she says. “I thought…but I shouldn’t…”
“No, no.” I tighten my arms around her. I don’t want her to go anywhere. “It’s good. It’s all good.” I rest my hands on the bottom of her shirt, and when she nods, I whip it over her head.
Since she isn’t wearing a bra, her breasts are visible to me now. I palm them. Her nipples harden, and she arches her neck and shuts her eyes. Emboldened, I kiss her neck and make my way downward, until I pull one of those hardened peaks into my mouth. She hisses out a breath and grinds herself against me.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I set my mouth back on her lips as I press my chest against hers. Every additional hiss and moan she makes is intoxicating. This is a side of Jane I’ve never seen before, and I can’t help wanting more.
“Should we go upstairs?’ I ask, trailing a hand down her back.
“ Yes .”