Chapter 5
LILY
EIGHT DAYS AGO
The refrigerator hums louder than normal. Probably because it’s asking me why the hell I’m loading it up with so much damn food. Its shelves are lined with tight-lidded containers, each labeled with my Sharpie handwriting. Lasagna – Monday. Chicken and rice – Tuesday. Enchiladas – Wednesday . . .
Because apparently if I don’t prep meals before I leave, the entire house will fall apart and starve.
“Mom? Where’s my jersey?” Justin’s voice cracks from the hallway.
I purse my lips and tighten the lid of Thursday’s meal. “Which one?”
“My home jersey. White. You know that.” He barrels into the kitchen, hair still damp from the shower, and pulls up when he sees Kate there. He nods in greeting. “I need it for practice tonight.”
“Then you should’ve given it to me to wash. Probably still in your hamper.”
“Seriously? It’s dirty still?” His eyes widen.
“Yeah. Seriously.”
He frowns. “But isn’t that part of your job as a mom?”
The words punch harder than they should, but I paint a smile on my lips. “Not my job to be responsible for your things, Justin.”
“Dad was right. I think you’re beginning to lose your memory.” He huffs and stomps back down the hall, leaving me staring after him and slightly embarrassed.
When I glance up, Kate’s leaning her hip against the counter, iced tea in hand, and eyebrow arched so high she looks like a cartoon character. “Do you really put up with that?”
“He’s a teenager. Everything is dramatic.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” she says.
“Anderson’s right. A lot of things have slipped my mind lately.”
“Maybe because you’re busy taking care of every damn thing in the world. It’s only normal to be human and forget a thing or two every now and again.”
“Not when you’re a mom, it’s not.”
Her lips purse but she doesn’t say any more. Just lets the silence speak volumes while I write on the container what’s inside.
“Almost done,” I say and wipe my hands on a dishtowel.
“This coming from the one-woman circus act. You do realize that the boys aren’t going to starve while you’re in Italy if you stop cooking, right?”
I give her a side-eye. “Easy for you to say. You’re not leaving two teenage boys with your mother-in-law who still thinks Chef Boyardee is a proper food group.”
She laughs, curls bouncing as she sets her glass down. “Fair point. But, Lil, you’ve earned this trip. Fifteen years is a long time to celebrate.”
“Fourteen years and three hundred and sixty-four days longer than you,” I tease to my perpetually single, never having kids or getting married best friend.
“No shit.” She snorts. “But just think, that means you get to celebrate accomplishments like this that I don’t. You’ve spent so much time researching and planning this out.”
Because this trip has to be perfect. I nod and move the next dish into the freezer. Because we have to rekindle what we’ve slowly been losing year after year.
No pressure.
“Italy. The Tuscan hill. Incredible wine and sunsets. Homemade pasta. Sexy time without the kids around,” she goes on, oblivious to how much I have riding on this trip for my happiness.
I snort. “Clearly you’ve never had kids.”
“What does that mean.”
“Sexy time?” I scoff. “We’re in the scheduling sex phase of our marriage.”
“Wait. What?” she screeches.
I sigh and toss the towel down. “Yep. Nothing says passion and spontaneity like having to schedule sex.”
“Shut. Up.” Her eyes widen. “Lilian Archer, you actually schedule it?”
I nod. “Tuesdays.” God, that sounds pathetic. “After Josh’s practice. Before Anderson’s late-night call to Tokyo. Right after the boys go to bed and before I meal prep for the next day.” I toss a spoon in the sink with a little more force than necessary.
Kate laughs. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. That’s awesome. Half the women I know would kill for that kind of consistency.”
“For sure,” I deadpan. “Because nothing screams passion like penciling in SN for sex night right next to kids’ orthodontist appointments.”
She covers her mouth to stifle her laugh. “C’mon. At least you can say you orgasm once a week. That’s more than I can say.”
“Uh-huh,” I say dubiously. “On a schedule, just like paying taxes. Orgasm not guaranteed. Uncle Sam always gets his though.”
Kate snorts. “Did you just refer to Anderson as Uncle Sam?”
“I did.” I bury my face in my hands. “Sorry. Ignore what I’m saying. It’s been a rough stretch lately. Stress and too much to do and—”
“And that means you need more attention paid to you in that department. Let me guess, you’re getting less?”
“Can I just live vicariously through you? Please? I’m just old and married and needing more excitement in my life. Clearly. Tell me you’re having all kinds of hot sex and toe-curling orgasms.”
“Please. Dating apps are not all they’re cracked up to be. Dick pics aren’t exactly the best way to win me over to say yes for a date.”
I bark out a laugh but it feels hollow and edged with envy.
She reaches across the counter and squeezes my hand. “Lil, Italy is it. Cobblestone streets. Balconies overlooking the Arno. Anderson’s tongue between your thighs every damn chance you get. That will spur on those orgasms. If there’s ever a place to bring the spark back, it’s there.”
I want to believe her. I really do. When is the last time Anderson got me off with his tongue? It’s the surefire way to do it for me and yet . . . missionary it is.
“Maybe,” I muster.
“Your marriage isn’t another casserole that just needs some spice added to make it palatable. It’s the dessert. The sex? It’s the whipped cream and cherry on top. Revel in it. Savor it. Fight for it. And tug on those ears while he’s sticking his tongue—”
“Point made,” I say loudly as I hear one of the boys clomping down the hall.
“Promise me you’ll fight for more,” she says.
But that night with the house finally quiet, the conversation comes back to me. The nagging notion that my husband knows what I need to achieve an orgasm and still, he doesn’t make the time to give that to me.
At least you’re getting some.
Promise me you’ll fight for more.
Both feel like futile comments given by a best friend who simply doesn’t understand—by no fault of her own.
I trace the gold bracelet on my wrist, the one Anderson gave me after Justin was born. Back then it felt like a promise. Now it feels like a reminder of how long it’s been since he’s really appreciated me.
Maybe in Italy, he’ll finally notice me again.
Maybe he’ll finally see the woman still waiting for him.
Maybe . . .