Chapter 17
BECCA
The girls have all filed out, and I am left tossing and turning on my first night in the cabin. I usually love the quiet; need that and blackout curtains for sleep. But nights like tonight? When my mind won’t shut off and the anxiety-induced “what-ifs” kicks in? It’s brutal.
I flip my pillow and press my face into it, trying to count breaths like every article suggests. I even open one of those meditation apps Nessa swears by, but nothing works.
My eyes flick toward the chair outside the window and how he always sands the edges down perfectly for me. I hate that I still notice things like that. I hate that he still feels like relief and comfort.
Sam has always been able to help me on these nights. I try not to wake him as I roll around tossing and turning, but he always seems to feel my tension through his sleep. Whenever I was too much in my head, he was the only one who could get me out.
I’ve never judged another woman for chasing her pleasure. Casual sex? Yes. Toys? Absolutely. Orgasms? Non-negotiable. But me? I’ve never been able to get there on my own when my anxiety is spiraling. Not fully, not until Sam.
Ever since we met, he’s been the one who could unravel me with a whisper, a look, a single touch. And now, he’s not here. And I hate that I need him like this.
I toss in bed, yanked awake by a restless body and a brain stuck on loop. It's past 1:00 a.m., and I’ve officially hit a wall. I grab my phone and stare at his name longer than I should. This is a bad idea, I know it is. But I press call anyway.
He answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep.
“Becca? Are you okay?”
“No.” I’m breathing heavy. “You took away the one thing that used to help me sleep … and I don’t know what to do without it.”
A pause. A rustle of sheets. “Baby …”
“You know how I spiral in the middle of the night, how I can’t escape my thoughts …” My voice wobbles. I hate how broken I sound. “I’ve tried breathing techniques, meditation, but I just can’t. And I hate that you took that away too.”
“Shh. I’m here,” he says, soft but firm. “I know, baby. I’m so sorry. I hate that I’m not there to help you; that used to be my job. It kills me that I can’t be there, but I’ll still take care of you.” His voice dips lower. Warmer. “Tell me what you need, Becca.”
Exasperated, I ground out softly, “You, Sam. I need you to take it all away, even if I shouldn’t.” A shiver runs through me. I want to scream at him, hang up, throw something across the room. But instead, I whisper, “I don’t want this to fix us.”
“It won’t. But I’m still going to help you sleep.”
I look at my phone, thumb hovering over the end button.
Instead, I let out a breath. “Okay.”
I swear I can hear Sam smile from here before his demeanor changes. “Lie back, baby. Now.” His tone shifts—low, commanding, familiar.
My body wants to obey before my brain catches up. I hesitate, just for a second. Then I do it anyway.
“Phone on speaker?” he asks.
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yes.”
“Good girl. Now slide your shirt up, nice and slow. I want those perfect nipples out for me.”
I do as he says, breath stuttering.
“Start with your left hand. Roll your nipple between your fingers. Slow. Not too rough.”
A gasp escapes me.
“That’s it. Now use your right hand—down your stomach, past those soft little curls. You wet yet, baby?”
I let out a whimper. “Getting there.”
“I want more than ‘getting there.’ Let’s check. Touch your clit. Soft, teasing strokes.”
My hips lift into my hand. He knows exactly how I work.
“Are you moving your hips?”
“Yeah,” I pant. “I need more.”
“Then go get my gift. You know where it is.”
I reach for the box in the drawer next to the bed and turn it on. The low buzz of the vibrator makes my entire body hum.
“Good. Now circle it over your nipple. The right one first.”
I moan when it makes contact.
“That’s it. Now the left. I want you aching for me.”
“I already am,” I whisper.
“Now, down to your clit. Just brush it. Light and slow.”
The first pass makes my legs twitch.
“Fuck, the sounds you make,” he groans. “I’ve got my cock in my hand, Becca. Stroking slowly. Thinking about how fucking perfect you look right now.”
“Sam,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“I’ve got you. Keep going. Press a little harder now.”
I cry out. The coil inside me is tight, trembling.
“Now slide two fingers inside. Keep the bullet on that greedy little clit.”
My head thrashes as I obey, every inch of me desperate.
“Faster, Becca. Fuck those fingers. Make yourself moan for me.”
“Oh god—”
“That’s it. Let go. Now, baby. Come for me. I’m right here.”
The orgasm rips through me like a wave, stealing my breath, curling my toes. My thighs clamp down as I ride the aftershocks, the vibrator forgotten as it slips from my hand.
Sam’s voice comes back, rough and reverent.
“You always sound so fucking perfect when you fall apart.”
My chest heaves. For once, my mind is blank. Quiet.
He adds softly, “You still with me, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Barely.” For a second, I forget everything. The money, his words, the pain he has caused, and that is what scares me the most.
As I start to doze off, chasing that blissful sleep I need, I know I need to set things straight.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
Sam doesn’t hesitate when he answers, “I know, and I will keep loving you through it all.”
A beat of silence occurs before I answer, “You hurt me so bad.”
“I know,” he says again, this time quieter. “I’m not going anywhere though, baby. Even if this is all I get, a voice in the dark.”
“You don’t get to be the thing that breaks me and the thing that fixes me.”
Sam inhales sharply. “Of course, you never needed anyone to fix you, just someone there. I promise, I will be.”
With the exhaustion kicking in, I let myself lean into this moment. “Don’t hang up yet.”
“I won’t. I’ll be right here, always. You rest.”
And for the first time in weeks, I do.
I wake up with a smile on my face and warmth between my legs. And then the shame hits. Hard.
What the hell did I do?
I groan, covering my face with a pillow. I had phone sex with my estranged husband last night. Like it was nothing. Like he didn’t blow up our life. Like he didn’t drain our savings behind my back. Like he didn’t make me feel replaceable.
I throw back the sheets and drag myself out of bed, already kicking myself for calling him in the first place. I head into the small shower and crank it as hot as I can stand, hoping the heat will burn away my self-hatred. It doesn’t.
I go to open my front door to enjoy my first morning at the cabin when I stop short in front of a coffee and a bagel. Still warm.
My favorite combo from the shop across town I never splurge on. And a note in his annoyingly familiar handwriting:
Thank you for calling me last night. Best call of my life.
Oh hell no. Does he think we’re just fine now? Like orgasms are apology letters? Like he can just drop a mocha and a blueberry everything bagel on the porch, and I’ll fall into his arms?
Then again, my body is my choice. If I need a release and choose to use my husband for that, so what?
I need backup. I grab my phone and open our group chat.
So… I may or may not have had phone sex with Sam last night. And this morning … bagels and coffee. Like a fucking thank-you basket.
Phi
Why are we mad? You got the orgasm and the carbs?
It’s the principle, Phi.
Phi
Right. The absolute nerve of him. Pleasuring you virtually and feeding you? What a monster.
Mack
Wait. How warm was the coffee? And was it a toasted bagel? Details matter.
Nessa
Tbh? An orgasm and a bagel bringer? Men have done worse.
Guys. What does this say about me? I can't trust him, and I just jump into—well, onto—him the second I get a little lonely?
Phi
Babe. You didn’t jump into bed. You jumped on a call. Technically, you’re still a modern woman with a cell plan and boundaries.
Mack
You are not the problem here. He blew up your life. You deserve orgasms and bagels and not to feel guilty for both.
Nessa
Duality, babe. You can be mad and still need release. They are not mutually exclusive.
Their support hits me like a warm hug wrapped in sarcasm. And they’re right. I bet guys don’t spiral after phone sex and pastries. I won’t either.
I take a big bite of the still-warm bagel and sigh. Okay, maybe nothing is fully resolved, but at least I’m fueled up for the day.
I slide into my car to run some errands and see the gas meter is on F. Wait, when was the last time I filled up my car? I didn’t, Sam did. Of course he did. Fixing things I didn’t ask him to fix, like it makes up for what he broke.
And the worst part? It works.