Chapter Twenty-Eight
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I shove my feet back into my shoes and yank my shirt over my head with limp arms. I might have pushed a little hard on those last four sets. I lifted heavier and completed more reps than I’ve tried in several months. My arms and chest will definitely be talking to me tomorrow, but I can’t deny I’m satisfied with the fatigued, clumsy feeling in my burned-out muscles. I drink about a gallon of water after I finish, but now my stomach is making noise, and in the back of my mind I host a debate between throwing some burgers on the grill at home or picking up Snarf’s on the way there. I grab my bag off the bench and head for the locker room door, but just as I’m fumbling for my keys, I run into Henry on his way in.
“Anton, what’s up?”
“Hey, man.”
I haven’t seen Henry since Carl and Eva’s house, at least a million years ago. Before the hotel, before I ruined everything. He stops in the door like he wants to chat, but seeing him sends me back to that night—the decisions I made, the messages I sent—never realizing Lydia was the “other woman” the whole time. My appetite disappears, and I lose interest in exchanging pleasantries. I try to just wave and push past Henry toward the door, but he keeps talking .
“Sorry we didn’t get a chance to catch up the other day.”
I force myself to look at him, managing a shrug. “How’s things with you and Annabelle?”
“Annabelle...” He flashes a wicked grin. “She was great. Ah, on the rebound, I think. But we had fun. I’m playing a round of golf with her dad tomorrow night.”
I roll my eyes. If my brother is king of the anonymous hookup, Henry rules casual business acquaintance sex. The difference being he picks up women in his work sphere rather than bars, but the “relationships” last just as long. On some level I know he does it for the connections and influence, but it seems he also just enjoys himself. I set my jaw. What would that be like, having sex whenever you want, just for fun?
“How’s business?” I ask, changing the subject. “You still doing the franchise thing?”
“Not anymore, actually.” He leans against the wall just inside the locker room door. “Went out on my own. Bought up a little restaurant chain that was floundering, rebranded, and turned it around. That went so well I’m looking for my next big thing.”
“Cool. Good for you.” I’m not sure what else to say. I’ve barely held a conversation outside of work for the past two weeks, and my ability to form casual sentences, let alone pretend to care, is deteriorating.
“Listen, I owe you a big thanks for your advice. I can’t believe I’m paying for dog daycare, but it has totally saved me from my sister’s beast.” He gives me a funny glance and scratches the back of his head. “How’s Lydia’s expansion going, by the way?”
It’s a completely innocent question. Henry’s known us both since college. He was at our wedding. He’s in business. But because my wife has buried herself in work exactly the way I expected she would since we agreed to work on our sex life, her business is pretty much the last thing I want to talk about. “Going great.”
“Listen, I wondered?—”
He stops short when somebody pushes past us both to get in the locker room, and I seize the opportunity to escape. “I gotta run, Henry.”
He looks reluctant, then nods, holding up his hand as I duck through the door. “Okay, let’s grab a squash match or something soon. ”
The girl at the reception desk waves as I head for the front doors of the gym. I think her name is either Sofia or Britney. She’s young, and always a little too friendly, but this time as she leans forward, angling herself to ensure I get an eyeful of cleavage, I’m happy to slow down and drink it in. I’m not remotely interested in her flirty smile and batting eyelashes, but I haven’t laid eyes on a pair of tits in almost fourteen days—when my “hookup” at the hotel completely blew up in my face—and while my dick has remained downright monastic ever since, my brain is in take-what-you-can-get mode.
I smile back. Not at her, just at her chest. But when I finally tear my eyes away, they land directly on Caprice Phipps across the desk.
Her eyes are glacial, effectively extinguishing any flicker of arousal on its way to my brain. I curse under my breath, but manage a polite nod. She’s my wife’s best friend, keeper of my sins. And I suppose she could still ruin me with the flick of a few words. Caprice stops, openly glaring at me, and it’s clear she saw what I was looking at. I avert my gaze to the screen of my phone, pushing through the doors to the parking lot, hoping I look properly cowed.
As I climb into my truck and start the engine, the latest Come And Get Her podcast picks up where it left off on a discussion of orgasm and the different ways it can be achieved. I hit pause, my thumb hesitating over the phone screen.
We’re nearly halfway to the thirty-day mark and Lydia still hasn’t sent any kind of signal inviting me to touch her, and she sure as hell hasn’t reached for me. I’d been so optimistic when I found the podcast, thinking I could do better—find a way to get her to want me. But it’s started to feel like a waste of time. I can’t blow her mind with orgasms if she never lets me between her legs.
I pull up an email from a lawyer I spoke to yesterday. After days of debate, I decided to have a consult just to put things in place. He explained how we’d divide our assets; that I had a right to half her businesses. But despite his strong suggestions, I said I wasn’t interested. I make good money. And Lydia’s put more effort into the Pooches than she ever has into our marriage. Why would I want a stake in the thing she’s more passionate about than me ?
“You’re lucky you didn’t have kids,” the guy must have said at least five times. I couldn’t reply to that, so I just nodded.
Lydia and the dog aren’t home when I get there. No surprise. But my skin prickles when I see her empty spot in the driveway all the same. Like she’s the one out with someone else. Only we both know the other party in our relationship is her job.
I picked up a couple of sandwiches on my way home because I know she won’t have eaten. I finish mine alone in the kitchen, then leave hers on the table where she’ll see it. I’m just settling in on the couch for the evening when I hear the front screen door creak open and her key in the lock. My pulse spikes. It’s too late to sprint for the bathroom, so I search around for another way to occupy myself. To make it look like I don’t care that she’d rather spend her evening working than connect at all with me.
Heartthrob comes to my rescue, running in the door, playful and hungry. I jump up, grab his dish by the back door, and set about preparing his concoction of dog kibble and fish oil, focusing very hard on mixing it up just the way he likes it.
Lydia follows him in, setting her purse and a few other things down on a kitchen chair.
“Got you dinner,” I say without looking at her. She could’ve figured that out herself just by looking at the table, but I decide to go the extra mile to fill the silence.
“Oh, thank you—” she cuts off like she was about to say more, then just stands there, staring at the sandwich like she’s not sure what to do with it.
I grunt and move past her, putting the dish down for the dog, then heading for the back door. I can’t bring myself to climb in bed when the sun is still up, so yard maintenance it is.
She squeaks awkwardly behind me. “I um thought...”
I wait for her to finish whatever she’s trying to say. She’s holding a black plastic bag in her hands and just stands there, crinkling the material. I reach for the door .
“Do you want to—” she chokes. Then she takes a deep breath and sighs. “I mean, it’s been a while since we...um, stayed in together.”
I close my eyes, trying not to clench my jaw as I realize what she’s suggesting. Lydia’s version of a “date night” is staying in on the couch, watching some period drama while she tries not to come close enough to touch me. My gut twists because I think I’m supposed to see this invite as effort, but I just...can’t.
“Look, I’m not really in the mood for a movie,” I say, pulling open the door.
“ No. I uh...” She swallows, looking at my feet. “That’s not really what I was thinking.”
I turn at the awkward tone of her voice. Taking in her strange, rigid posture. The way she fidgets with the paw print necklace I gave her for her birthday. She looks sincere, vulnerable, clinging to that black plastic bag like it’s a life raft.
Suddenly I realize. This is an actual gesture.
Heartthrob comes and wags his tail in front of me, licking the last of the fish oil off his nose. I look from the dog back to my wife standing there waiting for my response, and I do exactly the wrong thing.
“Dog needs to go out.” I grab some waste bags and slip through the door.
She doesn’t follow.
Outside, I take what feels like the first clean breath of air I’ve had in weeks. Then I take another. And another. Only forcing myself to slow when I start to get lightheaded. Through the windows, I see Lydia moving around, but I’m not sure what she’s doing.
Maybe throwing my stuff to the curb. Closing the blinds. Changing the locks.
Every time she actually reaches for me, I turn into the biggest ass.
But it’s been eleven days. What changed? Why now?
I don’t think I can take another forced effort. Waving her tits in my face, lying back so I can climb on top of her. Spreading her legs without reaching for me.
But there’s a whisper at the back of my mind. An echo of conversation between Jess and Izzy, patiently explaining the way desire works for different people :
Isabella: You know, some of us start with desire—men in particular—they see something they like, and they want it.
Jessica: Straightforward and simple.
Isabella: But for some of us, it’s the other way around. Some of us only experience desire after we’re aroused.
Lydia is no longer visible in the window. Maybe she left to spend the night with Caprice. Maybe she’s having dinner in front of her laptop. But I close my eyes, letting myself imagine her the way I do in my fantasies. Naked under the sheets, back arched, nipples perked. Aroused and reaching for me.
My dick stirs. The sky has darkened, but it’s not officially night as I move toward the door. Heartthrob pops his head up from where he was sniffing a clump of weeds, running happily inside ahead of me. Tail curled high, nails thundering like a freight train across the hardwood.
I let my lust draw me inside, but in the kitchen, I dawdle. Filling the dog bowl with fresh water, unloading the dishwasher, trying to listen and figure out where she is. The rest of the house is silent.
A peek down the hall toward the two bedrooms tells me she’s not at her desk in the little office, and the bathroom light is off. So she either left or she’s in our room. Maybe this is our chance. Maybe I just need to go in there and help her find her desire.
But what if it goes badly? What if it’s the totally wrong thing?
I’m halfway to the bedroom door when a small piece of paper catches my attention, curled on the floor. Just a receipt, probably for takeout or Starbucks, but something makes me pick it up, and when I do, the logo at the top grabs my attention.
Playful Pleasures.
The sex store?
I glance down the hall again, hesitant to trust the feelings stirring inside me. Just the idea of Lydia walking in the door of that place sends blood flowing to my groin. I’ve been there a few times, mostly for lube—an unfortunate necessity—but honestly? I have a hard time imagining my wife ever crossing the threshold. I stretch the receipt out, scanning over the purchases.
BLINDF - 1 @ 11.99
YOU LUB - 1 @ 12.99
RABBIT VIBE - 1 @ 89.99
My jaw drops. Lydia spent ninety dollars on a vibrator?
The sensation in my pants progresses to something more substantial. I try to imagine my beautiful, chaste wife going into Playful Pleasures and making a purchase like that. Talking to a salesperson about her desires, her needs . Instantly, I’m hit by a wave of despairing lust. Was she thinking about us when she bought it? Or maybe about life without me?
And why , after years of frigid disinterest, would she suddenly pursue her own pleasure? I grind my teeth, trying not to feel bitter. Why couldn’t she have done this earlier? Was it my attempt to cheat? Or does it turn her on to think of being free of me?
I swallow hard, forcing myself to stop. Lydia bought herself a sex toy. I don’t care why; I just want to know if I’m invited. I think of our awkward interaction when she got home, of how she clearly tried to get something going in her own dysfunctional way. And the whole time she was holding that black plastic bag. I grasp the receipt in my hand, wishing I hadn’t snapped at her so hastily.
It’s dark in the house now. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, but I can just make out the walls and shapes of the furniture. I glance back at the empty couch, then ahead of me to the dim light coming through our open door.
If Lydia has a new toy, I want to play.