Chapter 4 #2
Rory raised his hands, palm sides up to chest level.
“I have no idea. I hate having to take that stuff, though. It knocks me out, robs me of my personality” He changed the subject.
“I thought tonight went well. You, my love, did great. I don’t know where I’d be without you.
” I wished he meant those words, but by that point in our relationship, I was skeptical of any praise at all.
I muttered a thanks and returned to my book.
He walked to the end of the bed, put his hand on my foot, and shook it.
Shook it.
Yep, that was his effort to make physical contact with me. How wonderfully intimate!
If you’re not catching my sarcasm, then God bless you too.
“You and I are dangerous together,” he said, still shaking my foot like it was some sort of…oh, I don’t know. Like my foot was some sort of lever. Was he trying to pump oil?
Moving on, what he’d said was equally telling.
You and I are dangerous together. There it was.
The truth. We weren’t lovers anymore. At least not right now.
We were colleagues. Roommates and colleagues.
Coworkers. Teammates. The power couple of Burlington goes for the win!
Ugh. What I wanted was some cuddle time.
Even a hug would have been nice. Not a freaking shake of the foot!
Not a high five. Not a towel swat on the butt in the locker room.
I’m not your power forward, Rory. Do I look like I’m wearing ice skates?
Gosh! Was I the only woman in the world who wanted to be seen?
Rory undressed in front of his closet, methodically hanging his belt, tie, and slacks. He didn’t scratch his head or grunt as I’d hoped he would, but he pulled out and rearranged each one of his shirts and returned its hanger and color to its proper location.
If committing my little acts of attrition brought satisfaction, seeing him discover them and being forced to correct them was pure rapture.
Rory shook his head as he rearranged his shoes.
How had he noticed so quickly? I could go weeks without noticing a mismatched pair of shoes in my somewhat-organized closet.
Even if I were to notice an imbalance, I wouldn’t bother fixing it for a while.
I wondered so desperately what my husband was thinking.
Did he think he might have Alzheimer’s? Was he worried that age was finally taking its toll?
Did he suspect me even in the slightest?
After he’d brushed his teeth, he returned to the bedroom and asked, “Do you mind if I watch the game for a bit?”
I was feeling better by that point and ready to continue being the awesome wife and partner I’d committed to being. “Absolutely, sweetie. You deserve it.”
I thought he might give me another foot shake for that one. Perhaps a locker-room pat on the bottom or a fist bump. That’s my Superwife!
Thanks, Coach Rory! I might respond.
Or maybe he’d just give me a classic thumbs-up. Actually, if he’d given me a thumbs-up, I would have smacked him six ways to Sunday. As I was learning the hard way this week, I have my limits.
Rory didn’t make much of a gesture at all. A simple head shake and a move to the remote, which meant he agreed. He deserved to watch the game for a while. Have I mentioned that I hate hockey?
As he stood there by his side of the bed and navigated to our recordings, I slipped deeper into the covers.
I might have to pull them over my head to keep from being discovered.
Philippe passed gas, though, which stopped my retreat.
I put my eyes on the book. Rory still hadn’t noticed that my little prince rested peacefully under the covers.
“What the hell?” he muttered.
For all I knew, I might have been looking at my book upside down, but I stared at it like I’d just read some shocking celebrity gossip in People magazine. Brad Pitt is now sleeping with Scarlett Johansson! No, that’s not true.
Anyway, I tried so hard not to smile. He cursed, and I peered over the pages to acknowledge his frustration. “What’s wrong?”
He turned to me. “I can’t find my games. I swear they were here this morning.”
“That’s strange,” I said, going back to my book.
In a rare act of losing his temper, Rory cast the remote to the floor and cursed again. Standing near his side of the bed, he asked, “Are you sure you didn’t delete my games? They were here, damn it.”
Even though I was guilty as charged, I didn’t like being accused.
Overcome with an eruption of emotions, I gritted my teeth and side-eyed him.
He was probably waiting for me to admit guilt.
It wasn’t solely the jealousy from the episode with Kim that instigated my reaction.
Suddenly, all the fury and anger and fear that had been raging inside me for years came to life and shook every molecule of my body.
I told myself to breathe through it. You’ve made it this far, Margot. Don’t collapse now!
This self-awareness helped me grasp control mere seconds before I spat venom at him, even though his claims against me were justified.
He stared at me, waiting for a confession.
He was probably ready to unleash hell on me as punishment.
I breathed and sought control. Oh, that venom though.
My rage forced me to shake under those sheets.
I turned my head to him, ignored his question, and said, “You were an asshole to me in front of the kitchen staff today.” I set my book down and dropped my head to the pillow.
It felt good to tell him like it was, for once.
How in the heck had I buried all these feelings for so long?
Mismatching a pair or two of socks and shoes suddenly felt like an absurd way to find happiness.
Rory looked at me like I’d accused him of cheating. His eyes shot toward the ceiling and then back to me.
I could feel the anger boiling up between us. No doubt we’d both been biting our tongues lately. I saw the fire burning in his upper cheeks.
I don’t give the man enough credit. Rory caught himself before he fell into my trap and into a game he knew he’d never win. His brow smoothed as he answered politely, “I know I let you down. The moment I said it, I wanted to apologize.”
“You should have.”
“I know, I know. It’s hard to admit you’re wrong when you’re supposed to be right all the time. If it had been just us, I swear I would have said sorry. I knew I’d crossed a line.”
“You should especially apologize in front of others. No one is ever going to disrespect you for loving and respecting your wife. And no one expects you to be right all the time.” Are you kidding me? I thought.
In either a beautiful turn to honesty or one of his greatest performances of all time, he put both hands on the bed and said, “I’ve been distracted lately.
I know that I can be a jerk sometimes. Please, please take nothing I say to heart.
I was just nervous about tonight. If you’d like me to, I will be happy to say something to everyone. ”
“I’d like that. You should do it. I’d like for you to call every last one who worked in the kitchen today and apologize.”
“Consider it done.”
Gosh, that felt good. Powerful. Satisfying.
Was Coach Rory, the Poultry Hater, telling the truth?
Was he really going to admit his wrongdoing?
I always had to ask myself these questions, as he was always trying to stay a chess move ahead, making plays, faking charm, offering undeserved compliments, spitting out meaningless apologies, pulling shit out of his hat. Whatever it took to get another vote.
Was it fake every time or was this the real thing? He stood there looking at me for what felt like forever, then finally whispered a “sorry” that could have either been loving and genuine or five letters of full-on B.S.
I decided that he was telling the truth. That he was sincere. That he needed some forgiveness and slack. Swallowing my pride, I said, “I’m sorry too.”
He walked over to my side of the bed, and that’s when he noticed Philippe’s snout poking out from under the covers. Rory didn’t lose his temper. He shook his head and asked, “Is this you crying for help? Is this you telling me I’m being a bad husband?”
God, he was good. I went from all the anger in the world to completely being at peace and in love with this man again. Almost like a pouty little girl, I nodded. For crying out loud, I had reduced myself to a child.
“Did you delete my games as part of this stance?”
Suspicious of his motive, I took a chance and nodded again.
He seemed to swallow back his frustration, then let what could be warmth appear on his face. A lightness in his eyes, a slack jaw, a rise of one corner of his lips. Okay, fine, he could be handsome sometimes.
“You matter more than my games,” he said, or admitted, or lied.
Something. He pinched his chin and locked eyes with me.
“I didn’t mean to be a jerk today. Sometimes I take you for granted, but I don’t mean to.
He leaned down and kissed my cheek, and we hugged.
This is why I didn’t want to lose him. When I could wake him from his daydream, when I could pull the old Rory out of the politician, he was so warm to be with.
While he tried to glean more Sabres information from a sports channel, I dove back into my romance novel. Philippe climbed out, of his own accord, and found his bed on the floor.
I was smiling inside. So much so that after a while, I started to think dirty thoughts. Not the thoughts you’re thinking. Not thoughts of how I could secretly wage more wars on Rory. I had actual sexual feelings surfacing, a volcano long since deemed safe starting to heat up again.
It didn’t hurt that, after a book’s worth of cat and mouse, the lioness in my novel was about to have mind-bending sex with the glorious plaything of her dreams. In my head, he was what happened if George Clooney, Richard Gere, Rob Lowe, and a real-life, time-traveling Roman gladiator all had a baby.
Come to think of it, I would have loved to have been there for that rump fest. Oh, c’mon, stop blushing again. It’s just science.
Anyhow, I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. Ah, the games we humans play.
Rory held his hands behind his head with his elbows flailed out. He was falling asleep. All our years flashed before me, and I was proud that I could see past the yucky parts of this man and still cling to what we had and could have again. I whispered that I loved him, and he said the same back.
Reaching over, I touched his hip under the sheets.
It had been so long since I’d done something so bold that I almost felt uncomfortable.
I feared rejection, but I held my ground.
He opened his eyes and gave one of those smiles that could fall into multiple categories.
Perhaps pleasure? That would be a good one.
Or was it pleased? Surprised? Or was he prepping for a gentle rejection of my sexual RSVP?
I dragged my fingers toward his midsection and found his member, or as I was guilty of calling it against his will, Li’l Rory.
Sorry, not sorry. T.M.I. should be my initials.
Needless to say, he wasn’t fond of the nickname and had offered some entertaining alternatives: The Supreme Leader, Master of the Universe, The North Star, Lord Rory.
But Li’l Rory had stuck. (It just hadn’t stuck me in a while…hahhahha.)
To that end, I hadn’t touched Li’l Rory since the Spanish Inquisition, but he was indeed still alive in there. As the not-so-little guy responded, I eased closer to my husband, hoping we might have some sort of a spark left. I was certainly ready for some action.
Not so fast, though.
In a humiliating barricade from love that I had secretly feared, Rory pushed my hand away. It was like driving seventy-five into a brick wall. Like biting into an apple that was actually made of bronze.
I retracted my hand so quickly that it was almost as if Li’l Rory had become a poisonous snake about to strike. How could he have grown hard in my hand but not want to continue? Was I that repulsive?
“Not tonight,” he said, trying to let me down easily. “Maybe tomorrow? I’m just so tired. I just…I’m sorry.”
Just? You just don’t want to be ravished by your sexually hungry wife? You’re not letting me down easy with this one, Chicken Hater.
My monkey mind went nuts with fear and self-loathing, but I tried hard to keep it in check, breathing out the attacks on my self-worth.
It took everything I had to reply, “Okay, no problem, just thought I’d try.” There was no hiding the sadness in my tone though.
As a peace offering, Rory reached over and kissed my cheek. “Tomorrow, for sure. Please don’t read anything into it. I’m just so—”
Don’t read anything into it, I thought. How could I not?
“You don’t have to apologize,” I finally said. “I’m tired too.”
But I was tired for different reasons. I was sick and tired of our lifeless existence. And I was over being nothing more than my husband’s roommate.