Chapter 8
LILY
THREE MONHTS AGO
The sheets are cool as they slide against my skin, but nowhere as cold as Anderson and his attention. He adjusts the pillows behind his back and head as he scrolls through his phone.
“I was thinking maybe we could take a day trip to Siena,” I say, tracing the patterns on the comforter where it pools between us.
“The piazza is supposed to be gorgeous. And maybe a vineyard tour there?” My head races with all of the research I’ve done.
There is so much to see and do and not enough time to do it.
“Oh, and I already emailed the hotel about arranging a driver—”
“Mm-hmm. Great.” His grunt barely registers, his thumb still swiping.
Hello? I’m right here.
I silence the thought and press on determined to engage him.
“And if we make it to Florence, we have to see Michelangelo’s David.
It’s a bucket list item of mine. Oh, and I found a rooftop bar near the museum with the best view of the Duomo.
I’m sure we’ll get lost trying to find it, but isn’t that half the adventure? And—”
“For the love of God,” he says with a huff.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head and sighs, almost resigned. “So glad you’re enjoying planning. Forgive me for being . . . uninterested but I have a lot of things I’m trying to plan for and . . . nothing. Never mind.”
“Work stuff?”
“Hmm. Something like that.” He scrunches his nose and then sets his phone down, eyes sliding to mine. “Lil? Do you really think all this talk about Italy is foreplay? I assure you talking about wineries and naked statues will not get me hard.”
His words sting. I blink and struggle to find my voice. “I wasn’t trying to get you hard.” I stutter out a laugh.
“It’s Tuesday, though.”
I stare at him blinking. At the expectant smile that slides over his lips as he cups my breast beneath the comforter.
Because this is just what I want after being scolded over being excited for the Italy trip.
“Huh. I thought it was Wednesday,” I say blankly, as Anderson shifts to his knees facing me.
Foreplay’s clearly over.
And just like that, we’re in motion that the schedule dictates. Tuesday is Tuesday, after all.
“Not Wednesday,” I say but he’s already positioning himself between my legs.
Well, obviously whatever was on his phone was able to turn him on. Porn? Pictures of other naked women? Stock prices, for God’s sake?
Whatever it was, it must be his normal Tuesday prep because it’s never anything to do with getting me ready.
What I’d give to have him think of my pleasure, my readiness first . . .
His hand lands on my hip and he pushes my thighs apart with the other. He probes me to see if I’m wet enough.
“I need more to get me ready.”
“Fine.” A huff. A reach over to the nightstand where he pulls out a tube of lubricant and then rubs some on me.
“Foreplay can do the same thing and is a bit more exciting,” I say with a playful smile that I don’t feel.
“Yeah, well, I’m tired. It’s been a long week. I’ll make it up to you next time. Okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Don’t sound so enthused to have sex with me,” he says through a chuckle.
“I am. It’s just—”
“So are we not doing this, Lily? Just tell me if so.”
“No. Yes. We are.” I nod. He’s had a long week. “Next time.”
“Okay.” He kisses the inside of my knee seconds before he pushes inside of me. Each movement from there on is mechanical. Like checking off an item on a to-do list. No kissing. No touching to remind me I’m his wife and not just a warm body in his bed.
My body complies. My mind drifts to how it used to be.
Thrust.
We were twenty-two, tangled up in the back seat of his beat-up Mustang. His lips were pressed against my skin and his hands wandered everywhere I wanted them as the movie played on the outdoor screen. Who cares what the movie was about because his love was so big, it was my whole, entire world.
Thrust.
The picnic on the coast. The sand warm against my back as we made love in the moonlight while the waves crashed around us.
Thrust.
Unplanned, spontaneous nights. Half-finished wine bottles left beside burning candles as we made good use of the kitchen countertop. But it’s his words I remember. His hands and actions that reinforced the love he talked about.
Thrust.
Josh’s birth. His lips pressed against my temple, whispering how beautiful I was when I was swollen and ugly crying and anything but.
Another thrust but now the memories fade. The ceiling above me is blank and the man on top of me clearly doesn’t care to take the time to see me. Doesn’t touch me like he used to.
It’s easier to keep still. To simply disassociate. If I don’t remember who we were, then it’s easier to not have to face who we’ve become.
He finishes quickly—shocker—before pulling out with a sigh and rolling on his side.
“Thanks,” he says.
Thanks.
Like I just handed him a towel instead of my body.
“I know you weren’t that into it. Maybe next time you could act like you at least like it.”
“Maybe next time you’ll actually care if I do,” I say and then get out of bed, wiping away the tear that slips out of the corner of my eye, and heading into the bathroom before shutting the door.
I’m afraid to meet my eyes in the mirror when I wash my hands.
Does he even know he’s lost me?
“Maybe next time you could act like you at least like it.”
Does he even care?
Does he understand that if he showed an ounce of interest in the things I need from him, I’d meet him halfway—hell, three quarters of the way—because that would at least show me he’s willing to try.
To work toward a stronger connection between us.
If only . . .