Chapter Four
CHAPTER FOUR
Heartthrob trots into the house at nearly eight p.m. with Lydia behind him. He makes a beeline for the dish I set out for him in the kitchen while she stumbles through the door. “What a day,” she mutters. “Sorry I’m so late.”
I don’t say anything, watching from my place on the couch where I’ve been parked waiting for her the last two hours. I’d left Ooh La Pooch feeling optimistic after repairing the water heater. I found the part to fix my bike, went for a ride, even had a stroke of inspiration when I came home and decided to book us a little getaway. Nothing over-the-top, just a long weekend in the mountains. Lydia’s had so much work stress lately, I thought it might help.
But pretty soon it was five o’clock, then six, and I hadn’t heard from her at all. Two hours ago, I texted asking if everything was okay, and she answered, “Home soon.” Now here she is, waltzing in at eight o’clock like I’ve been in some stasis where I don’t exist unless she does.
“Thought you were going to text on your way home?”
“Oh.” She’s removing her shoes, but her motion slows, and I’m pretty sure she swears under her breath. “I’m sorry. Guess I thought I’d get home faster if I just didn’t stop.”
She slips out of her awful gray hoodie, revealing a snug blue T-shirt and jeans. There is nothing special about this outfit, but the way it hugs her body distracts me, drawing my eyes over the curving lines of her hourglass figure, momentarily taking the sharp edge off my mood. Her hair is up again in its regulation bun, though more of it has escaped now, making me think of how it cascaded over her bare shoulders this morning. Or was that some other time, further back in the past?
“Anton?”
I look up, tracking back to the present. She’s gazing at me with a tired smile. “You still want to go out? Or maybe just order in?”
My fingers curl against my palms. I am freshly shaved and dressed to go, but I don’t have to guess her preference. I rub my hand over my face, then glance at the clock, searching for the easiest path. “Sure. Yeah. We can order in if that’s what you want.”
She exhales, walking by me toward the hall but staying easily an arm’s length away. “Oh, good. That sounds perfect.”
And now, selfishly, I’m kind of sorry I bothered helping this morning. If I were a better spouse, I might ask what else happened and give her a chance to unwind. But I guarantee I’ve heard it all before. If not the water heater, then another thing went wrong at one of the Pooches—our nickname for both her businesses. Someone didn’t show up. She had to fill in. Everything else fell behind. Sometimes the details change, but I’m tired of the story. She comes home like this so often that I might even be suspicious she was having an affair if I wasn’t a thousand percent confident she has less time or interest in sex with someone else than she even has for me.
But as she reaches the bathroom door, I remind myself of my last-ditch effort and call out.
“I booked us a vacation.”
She stops, not immediately turning around. “What?”
I rise from the couch, trying not to notice the stiff set of her shoulders as I approach. “You’ve been working so hard. I thought we could both use a getaway. Nothing big, just a long weekend. We’ve never been to Strawberry Hot Springs.”
She turns to look at me as I move close. “Where is that?”
“In the mountains, near Steamboat. Only about four hours from Denver. ”
Her mouth is tight. “And it’s a place you go...sit in hot water?”
This query is so ridiculous I can’t help laughing. “That’s pretty much what people do at a hot springs, yeah. Sit and relax. This place is supposed to be beautiful.”
She narrows her eyes. I’m not sure if the hot springs itself or the vacation in general is what she’s struggling with, but I’m starting to second-guess my plan. Again.
“Okay,” she mutters after a moment or two. “I guess that might be nice. Later in the summer or something, after Pooch Two is open. Things will be easier then.”
“Actually, we have a reservation next weekend.” I step closer with a shy smile. “They had a great romance package for Saturday and Sunday nights.”
Her jaw drops. “ Next weekend?”
“Yeah...” I say slowly, my misgivings taking more shape. “I figured Tomás would have things covered if we left around noon. And Ooh La Pooch isn’t even open Mondays.”
“Yeah, but—” Lydia blows out a sharp breath. “I have—I just wish you would’ve?—”
Something makes her stop and look at my face. I can’t even pretend to conceal my frustration at this point.
She holds her palms up in front of me. “You know I have an appointment with Mark every Saturday to touch base on construction progress.”
“Yeah, but can’t you miss one? Or reschedule for a different day?”
“I’ve already canceled once. I can’t keep doing that. And today I was late because of the whole water heater thing.” Her voice is rising. “But besides that, I just—I need time to prepare for something like a vacation. Payroll is on Saturdays, that’s when some of the food orders are due, and?—”
“You know what? Never mind.”
I turn away from her to let Heartthrob out the back door, dismay hot in my throat. I’ve bent over backward trying to help her, help us today, but she’s clearly not interested, and now I’m done. Hopefully she’ll go take her shower and leave me the fuck alone .
She follows behind me instead, hovering in the kitchen doorway. “Wait, what do you mean ‘never mind’?”
I clench my jaw. “You’re right. It’s too much trouble,” I say, staring out the back door, watching Heartthrob roll in the grass. “We’ll stay home.”
For a second, I’m sure she’ll walk it back, pretend she didn’t just fight me tooth and nail about booking a romantic getaway. But then I hear her footsteps recede. The shower turns on in the bathroom, and the door closes. Idly, I wonder if she even locked herself in. Just in case I had any lingering romantic aspirations.
I take out my phone, punching the screen to cancel the hot springs and order food. After we eat, she’ll say she’s tired and either head straight for bed or suggest we watch a movie and pass out on the couch. It is Saturday night, after all. Either way, we’ll sleep together for yet another night—literal sleep, lying next to each other in the dark, not touching—wake, and repeat. Tomorrow it’ll be the same, and the next day, and all next weekend, ad infinitum.
If I really get lucky, though, she’ll send me another kiss emoji.
Pizza is the last thing I want to eat after spending the day imagining us out at one of the new Mediterranean tapas places or a farm-to-table steakhouse, but it’s the easiest thing to order. When it arrives she comes down the hall wearing a stretched-out tank top and an old pair of yoga pants, her hair tied in a towel. So strategically un-sexy, it’s like she’s doing it on purpose. Mechanically, I carry the box to the dining table. We sit across from each other, picking up slices, chewing and swallowing. I don’t taste anything. Maybe I should talk, but I’m afraid of what I’ll say. And anyway, all I can think about is how I spent the day. Troubleshooting her problems, trying my hardest to fix them, then waiting foolishly for some kind of reward. And, I shouldn’t forget, planning an unwanted, inconvenient vacation getaway.
“How’s your mom doing?” Lydia asks.
I blink a few times, caught off guard by the new topic. I had been prepared for silence, or for her to fill the air talking about the Pooches. Maybe a play-by-play of drama between the groomers or some story about a customer at the daycare. But her full attention is on me, brows knit with concern .
“Better,” I say.
We both know this is a lie. My mom will not be getting better. But when I finally pinned Seth down today, he told me the bedsores had healed and she’d been less combative with the new staff.
“Great,” Lydia says quickly. She opens her mouth to say something else, then closes it again. She knows how bad things were a few weeks ago. How many hoops Seth and I had to jump through to get Mom into better care. Lydia and my mom used to be close—really close—so it stings that she doesn’t manage to say more than this now.
Heartthrob is already snoring in his bed, and though it’s not even ten o’clock, I decide I’ve had enough and follow his lead. “I’m beat. Think I’ll go turn in.”
“Uh...me too,” she says, jumping up from the table. “That sounds good.”
This makes me hesitate. But I’m confident she’ll disappear into our office before reaching the bedroom. That’s her favorite way to avoid me. She’ll go “check on something” for work, then wait to come to bed until I’ve fallen asleep. I toss the leftover pizza in the fridge and head down the hall, taking my time in the bathroom brushing my teeth.
I nearly do a double-take when I enter the room and see her in our bed, resting against the pillows, covers drawn up like she’s waiting. For me? I fumble taking off my watch and spend an extra moment straightening my shoes, completely on edge.
I slip under the sheets in my boxer briefs, noting the fact that she’s still fully clothed in the anti-sex getup, but I take some satisfaction in the knowledge that she hasn’t found the striped pajamas. On the rare nights we go to bed together, we usually turn away from each other toward our screens. It’s familiar and safe, so this is what I do now, and she takes up the same position facing the opposite way. I exhale, allowing myself to relax a little, settling in with the driest economic news I can find and willing myself to get drowsy. The sooner I fall asleep, the sooner I get to my five a.m. alarm and can leave for the gym.
But Lydia shifts next to me, rocking the bed a little, and the next thing I know she’s crossed the miles between us, burrowing under my arm. I lay stock still, holding my breath, trying to figure out what to do. She’s spent the last hour signaling stay away , so I’m not sure what’s going on, and I’m afraid to get my hopes up. Several minutes pass and then she withdraws, flipping over, turning her back to me again.
Shit...should I have touched her? Made a move? I couldn’t tell what that was about, but now it feels like a missed opportunity. She shifts again, clearly getting comfortable under the covers, and I focus back in on my phone until I become aware of a light pressure against my hip. Lydia’s backside pressing against me. I glance down, deciding she must be cold. It’s not super chilly, but she often jokes about using me for warmth. I stay where I am, letting her take my heat if that’s what she wants.
Until she moves again.
With her back still to me, she reaches behind her, finding my free hand under the covers. I clutch my phone in my other hand as she takes my fingers in hers, guiding them to rest on her hip. After placing them there, she pulls away. My heart beats in my throat. There’s no sound but the two of us breathing. Several minutes pass, but I don’t know what this is. Am I supposed to do something? Then, maybe as an afterthought, she reaches out again. She takes my fingers another step, guiding them beneath the layers of her yoga pants and cotton underwear until she’s placed them against the bare skin of her ass. Her hand retreats again, leaving mine squeezed just inside her pants. And then she goes still. As still as the dead.
All this time, she hasn’t said a word, but now her message is awkwardly clear: access granted .
I’m being given permission. To touch her, climb on top of her, do what I need to do. I know because I’ve been here before. Last time, it was after I’d worked myself up to cup her breast on the couch after we’d finished a movie. When she didn’t turn away, I confused my relief with excitement, not realizing till later that she’d never turned toward me or reached for me either. She just lay back and spread her legs. Not sure how to proceed, I asked if I should continue. She’d said, “Of course,” and helped pull down my pants, then let out a few unconvincing moans while I fucked her for fifteen minutes. So dry and unaroused I actually got a friction burn on my dick.
It’s the same message this time. Not an invitation so much as a concession. Since this is something I want, I can let myself in and meet my needs. She doesn’t even have to be present.
My throat burns.
I pull my hand out, away, launching in reverse across the bed. When the edge of the mattress doesn’t feel far enough, I throw off the covers, shuddering, and storm out of the room. I slam the door behind me, stalk into the living room, and grab my keys. The night air hits my burning skin as I open the front door, and it’s only then I realize I’m standing barefoot in my underwear.
I clench my fists. There’s no fucking way I’m walking back into our room after that , but my options are limited without my wallet or clothes. And where would I even go if I could leave? I close the door and pace the living room, my body shaking. With revulsion. With shame. I work my ass off at the gym, but I might as well not bother for all the desire my body produces in my wife. I’ve bought her negligee, brought home flowers. I’ve tried both seduction and giving her space. I love Lydia, and the frustrating thing is, I know she loves me too.
It’s just clear she doesn’t want me.