Chapter 2
LILY
LAST NIGHT . . . I THINK
“Shit.” I stumble, unsteady on my feet.
My laugh echoes down the narrow walkway. The walls are high on either side of me. Old stone buildings with apartments atop of shops that have long since been closed up. Ropes are strung overhead with laundry drying on the lines and a blue shutter on one of the windows hangs at an awkward angle.
“One foot in front of the other, Lil,” I mutter because it feels like my head and my body are not on the same page. “Whoops.” I wobble again.
Are the patrons at the bar I just left talking about me as they watch me struggle to walk a straight line?
The lonely woman clearly vacationing on her own gets so drunk she can’t walk. Pathetic. Sad.
They’d be right in their assumption.
But what’s wrong with using a few drinks to ease the sting of being determined as second best to work once again. I shrug away the true but unwelcome thoughts as a sharp pang of anger hits me because . . . they’re right.
The streetlights cast long, golden shadows on the cobblestones and the fabric awnings ripple with the late evening breeze. Somewhere someone is playing music. The notes float through the night air, but the romance of it bounces right off me.
Didn’t work come first when we decided to get away, just the two of us, last year as well?
A weekend in the mountains sounded like a perfect way to rekindle the heat we had lost. No demands on our time other than our own.
The scenic landscape all around. The cold snow outside and warm fireplace inside.
Nights making love without the need to be quiet because our boys were only a few bedrooms away.
It was good in theory.
Not even an hour after we arrived, the phone calls started.
Some emergency in the Dallas plant that had to be answered.
The site in Michigan missed a delivery. One fire after another after another.
Each one more important than the last. And then there was the fallout over the problems. The personnel that had to be addressed. The . . . who the hell knows what else.
I love Anderson’s drive to succeed. Always have. Always will. It was one of the things that drew me to him in those early days. I knew with him at the helm of our family, I’d never have to truly worry about finances.
What I didn’t know is that it would be a tradeoff for his presence. His time. And some days it feels like, his love.
But that’s okay. We could make up for those missed days with trips like those to the mountains.
But it had been clear as I’d sat alone by the hearth, a book in hand feeling completely alone, that I’d also come to detest that drive to succeed.
I’d pretended not to care about him having to work. He pretended he didn’t see me faking that indifference. We muddled through the weekend in muted voices and expected sex.
Because isn’t that what every man expects on vacation? And yes, I’m all for it, but make me feel alive. Make be burn. Make me know I’m the center of your world for an hour at least.
“That’ll never happen,” I mutter as I press a hand to the wall beside me to steady myself.
The question is, if Anderson were here right now, would I be happy with the scattered attention he’d have given me? Would tonight have been any different?
Honestly, Lily. Would it have been?
We’d have sat at the bar, had a few drinks, have some surface-level conversations, while both of our minds focused on the numerous things we needed to do when we got back home.
We’d have thought about things that could wait a few more days instead of focusing on the whole reason we took this trip: to reconnect, to reprioritize, to recommit.
And the entire time, I would have secretly resented him.
For the way we’ve stopped communicating.
For the trip we decided to take to mask the disconnect that even a blind man could see.
From the way he would’ve asked me what was wrong, and how I would’ve responded with the over-generalized, “I’m fine.” My recent term of choice.
He’d then look toward my wrist to see if I was fiddling with the bracelet. The gift he gave me after our first son was born. It’s a simple gold band with a tiny diamond inlay. Unique. One of a kind. Back then it felt like a promise. Now, it’s more of a tell.
I never take it off but am apt to fidget with it when I lie.
And I would have been doing just that when I told him I’m fine.
“Lighten up,” he’d say. “It’s a vacation. Act like it.”
I’d bite back my response for the sake of salvaging the night, our weekend, and we’d head back to the room where underwhelming sex would ensue.
The same sex we’ve been having for the last fifteen of our twenty years together.
Uncreative.
Routine.
Predictable.
Nothing like the pages folded on my nightstand where men take risks and women burn for them.
And because of the disappointment of the night, the alcohol, and my resentment, I know for a fact I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on the task at hand—an orgasm. The miraculous aligning of stars that must occur to reach my release would’ve been unattainable.
I’d have let him chase his with an excuse that I have too much on my mind so don’t worry about me.
And he would’ve taken my words at face value and not delved further. Not worried about me.
Remember, I’m fine.
And then while his soft snores filled the room, I’d be envious of who we used to be. The times we used to push limits that were considered taboo to this preacher’s daughter. Anderson had a way about him that drew this sexually modest girl from her bubble and dared her to try new things.
He used to kiss me endlessly. Kiss me like a man starved only for me. Now I get a chaste kiss when he says goodnight . . . if he doesn’t drift off to sleep first and forget.
He used to lavish my body with attention—praise, lingering touches as he passed by, open-mouthed kisses that would undo me.
When was the last time he said I looked nice?
Then again, when was the last time I dressed up for him to notice?
But now that modest girl is a middle-aged woman more secure in herself and her sexuality and she wants more from and with the man she loves.
I snort. How times have changed and roles have reversed. I’d give anything to try something new, push boundaries, explore the sexuality I’ve now found and accepted with age. Open us up to new experiences, new toys, and redefine new limits.
Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s the fiction. And just maybe it’s the quiet knowledge that if I don’t start living in my own skin, I never will.
And yes, I do love him. For better or worse were our vows and just because the fire seems snuffed out, doesn’t mean I don’t love him.
I just need . . . more.
I shake my head and the walls of the buildings seem to warp and spin around me.
I’ll give myself a stronger climax using my fingers to get myself off tonight than if Anderson were here. How sad and pathetic is that? The shame is there, sure—but so is the relief that at least I can still make myself feel something. That I’m not completely dead inside.
And what is it that helps me reach that climax? Imagining him doing all of those push-the-envelope things to me.
The problem is I can’t spend the rest of my life deriving satisfaction from thoughts alone. Actions are needed. His participation is wanted. And yet every time I’ve attempted to bring up how to spice up our sex life, he shuts the topic down instantly.
I can hear his explanations now.
“We’re not in our twenties.”
“Our sex life is great, so why change things?”
“This isn’t a romance novel.”
Sometimes each statement is said separately. Sometimes it’s one big rush of one after another. The fact that I know them by heart is a testament to how many times I’ve heard them.
Does he not see how unhappy I am? How I need to push a few sexual boundaries?
I’ve left hints like breadcrumbs—lingerie tucked into his drawer, toys still in their unopened packaging left under his pillow. Not once did he follow the trail.
Our most recent non-conversation on the topic is proof of that.
The one that happened a couple of months ago when he found the box of my personal and definitely out-of-the package toys.
They were hidden in the bottom of my closet—so that the kids wouldn’t find them—but not hidden enough that he wouldn’t notice them.
Subconsciously I probably left them there hoping he might find them, get excited, and ask to use them on me.
God, the look on his face when he walked up with the lid off—brows furrowed and grimace of disgust on his lips—told me all I needed to know.
Nothing was going to change.
“You bought all of this?” Eyes bulging and voice raising.
“It was . . . I just wanted to see what was out there and then maybe experiment some. With you.” I shrug, noting the veins bulging in his neck and the slack to his jaw. “Just try something different.”
“They’re already open. Out of the packages.”
“Yes.” My voice is quiet and my nod is subtle.
“So this wasn’t about us but was more about you.” His jaw ticks as shame washes through me. “Am I not enough for you anymore? Do you not want me?”
“I do want you. Don’t you get it? This is me trying to make things more exciting.”
“Got it. Right. Because I’m not exciting enough for you.”
My dissatisfaction has nothing to do with him not being enough, and everything to do with me coming into my own. I’ve finally hit my sexual prime. My God, it’s taken long enough. And all that means is that I have the confidence and security to ask for what I want.
Does he not understand that he gave me that confidence and security? How does one frame that in conversation to her husband?
And now it’s . . . I don’t know what it is, but I’m not twenty anymore. I know my body. I know my mind, and I’m sick of always being the one to apologize. What’s wrong with wanting more and wanting that more with him?