28. Allie
Allie
I’ve barely seen my husband since the night.
You know, that night. The one where he finally consummated our marriage—if you can even call it that.
Because nothing says "forever and ever, amen" like getting bent over the dining room table, right between a half-eaten steak and a plate of potatoes, like we were starring in an X-rated episode of Hell’s Kitchen.
Romantic? Sure. If your idea of romance is staring at a crusty plate while your husband rails you like, he’s trying to exorcise his inner demons.
Spoiler alert: it does not come with post-coital cuddles. Apparently, table sex isn’t covered under the “spoon me after” clause.
That was a week ago. Seven full days of wedded bliss.
And by bliss, I mean avoidance so extreme it should be submitted to NASA for study.
Rico? He’s evading me. The man moves through this house like a six-foot-three shadow, gliding silently from room to room like Batman—if Batman hated intimacy, conversation, and being legally bound to another human being.
Meanwhile, here I am, marinating in a cocktail of frustration and self-pity.
My brain knows damn well that another round of "table fun" would leave me feeling hollow—like a knocked-over wine glass that once held something worth savoring. But my traitorous body? Oh no, she’s singing a whole different song.
Every time he walks by, all broad shoulders and razor-sharp jawline, with those stupid amber eyes that somehow look both pissed off and devastatingly hot at the same time, my thighs go full traitor and clench.
And as if that wasn’t enough, the evidence of our little furniture-based disaster stayed with me for days.
Bruises blooming on my hips like abstract art.
Finger-shaped marks on my ass, as if he wanted to leave a receipt.
A bite on my neck was so dark I’m pretty sure even Dracula would have been like, “Damn, bro, dial it back.”
So yeah. That’s been my week.
The only proof Rico’s alive and hasn’t, I don’t know, run off to start a new identity somewhere?
The Post-It notes he leaves like some emotionally stunted pen pal, stuck to the coffeepot as if that fulfills his end of our very clear contract.
You know, the one where we agreed to share one personal fact a day?
Apparently, I never clarified how that fact should be shared, and Rico? He lives for loopholes like a lawyer on a caffeine bender.
Today’s gem?
Rico: I hate cats. Not a mild dislike—full-blown hatred. They’re tiny, judgmental assassins with fur.
Wow. Deep stuff.
Naturally, I responded in kind, because two can play this passive-aggressive game.
Allie: Odd. I was just at the shelter. Saw one that could use a home.
For the record, I’m not even a cat person. But would I adopt one out of pure spite? You bet your ass I would. I’d name him Mr. Whiskers, buy him the most obnoxious glitter collar money can buy, and make damn sure he sleeps only in Rico’s bed.
Yesterday’s Post-It? Equally life-altering.
Rico: I don’t trust people who drink sparkling water. It’s an affront to hydration.
Oh. Okay. Glad we’re covering the big issues, Bennetti.
My reply? Naturally, with all the grace and petty precision of a woman hellbent on pushing buttons:
Allie: Sparkling water with lime is delicious. Try one of the dozen I put in the fridge for you.
And yes, I absolutely stocked that fridge like I was prepping for a La Croix influencer brunch. Lime. Lemon. Grapefruit. Some weird fruit combo I couldn’t pronounce but bought anyway because it looked fancy and, let’s be honest, Rico probably deserves to be confused by his own refrigerator.
When Vinnie opened the fridge, blinking at the sparkling rainbow of carbonated rebellion, he looked at me like I’d finally snapped.
"Didn’t he say he hates this stuff?"
I shrugged, casually tossing a lemon one onto the counter. "Yup."
Vinnie snorted, reaching in for a grapefruit. “Eh. They’re not bad.”
Exactly. They’re not. But whether Rico drinks them or stares at them is entirely his problem. He can either hydrate like a lifestyle blogger on a cleanse or drink straight from the tap like some kind of medieval peasant. I’m flexible.
What I haven’t bought? A single bottle of distilled water—aka his pretentious drink of choice—because if we’re doing petty warfare, I’m about to paint my own Mona Lisa of passive aggression.
Honestly, at this point, Post-It War is our marriage. We don’t talk. He sticks his neon notes on the coffee pot, and I fire back like a snarky game of Battleship.
B4, Rico. You sunk my patience.
It’s sad, right? I’ve read more of his handwriting in those little squares than I’ve heard his voice in the entire week we’ve been married. And let’s be real—most of the words that have come out of his mouth were moaned between my legs like I was some kind of stress-relief toy with boobs.
Romantic, isn’t it?
Sure, we technically “eat dinner together” every night as agreed.
If you call me asking how his day went while he grunts into his plate like a cave dweller, “dinner conversation.” I sit there, trying to act normal, while he scarfs down pasta like he’s in a damn speed-eating contest, barely bothering to chew.
Like the faster he finishes, the sooner he can run back to whatever cave he crawled out of.
Not even a “thanks for dinner, Allie.” Not a “this tastes great, Allie.” Hell, I’d take a grunt of approval at this point.
But no. Just a silent wipe of his mouth, a quick rinse of the plate, and his disappearing act back down the hall.
Either to bury himself in work or punch his feelings out like an MMA fighter in training. Every. Night.
Honestly, it’s gotten to where I eye the dining table like it’s betrayed me. Because let’s not forget—that was the scene of the crime. Our so-called “consummation.”
First two nights after? I couldn’t even sit in my chair without blushing like a nun in a strip club.
And yes, I sanitized the hell out of that table the next morning, scrubbing it so hard I’m surprised I didn’t take the finish right off.
Pretty sure my bottle of Pledge was weeping in the corner when I was done.
Fact: Pledge does not, in fact, remove memories of being railed by your emotionally stunted husband.
Maybe they should put that on the label.
But like the idiot optimist I apparently am — a title I didn’t realize I was vying for — I keep trying. Because what’s marriage if not a slow, painful exercise in banging your head against a wall and hoping it turns into a door?
Take last night's dinner, for example. Another shining moment in the Allie Bennetti Attempts to Engage Her Husband highlight reel.
“I was thinking for our date night, we could go to Via Napoli?” I say it as casually as I can, like I’m asking if he wants fries with dinner and not begging him to actually spend an evening with me that doesn’t involve him giving me the silent treatment over rigatoni.
His eyes? Glued to his plate.
I push on, because apparently, I enjoy torturing myself. “It’s my favorite restaurant. I’ve always dreamed of owning a place like that. You know, the food, the decor… It’s perfect.”
Nothing. Not even a blink.
Outstanding. I guess that’s my daily "fact share" for the marriage contract. One-sided, as usual. I talk. He chews. The only thing we do together is chew — and let me tell you, synchronized chewing? Not nearly as fun as it sounds.
And here comes the signature move—the fist clench.
Every dinner, every interaction, the man’s hands flex and tighten, like he’s trying to squeeze his feelings into submission. Or maybe he’s debating if now’s the time to punch through the table. His knuckles? Raw. Red, purple, cracked open like he went twelve rounds with a brick wall and lost.
Because that’s what it takes to survive five minutes with me, apparently—brute force and some solid upper body conditioning.
Nothing says you’re special, like watching your husband’s hands tremble from the sheer effort of not flipping the table while you chat about your favorite pasta place.
Three days ago, I officially gave up, expecting he’d text me back.
And yes, I’m counting. His read receipts pop up like a middle finger from the universe.
He reads them. Oh, he reads them all right.
But responses? Nada. I could text him, “Hey, the house is on fire. Grabbing marshmallows. You want one?” and he’d probably just nod at his phone and go back to whatever weird villain plotting he does in that office.
So now, every time my phone pings, do I expect Rico?
Nope.
It’s always Violet or Sienna — my honorary "Save Allie from her Awkward Marriage" hotline. Checking in, sending memes, and trying to keep me from losing my mind inside this mausoleum of a house.
Still, that tiny flicker of hope sparks every time my phone lights up, and I still text him more than aware I'll receive silence. Because apparently, my inner idiot hasn’t gotten the memo yet.
I press my lips together, pushing down that knot of disappointment that seems to be my new emotional roommate.
Because honestly, I knew who I was marrying.
Rico didn’t catfish me. He wasn’t parading around like Mr. Romantic, only to pull the rug out from under me.
No. He came fully packaged as Emotionally Constipated Mayor of Broodsville.
His family warned me. He warned me.
I mean, technically, I shouldn’t be surprised. But just because you see the train coming doesn’t mean it hurts less when it hits you.
So yeah. This is my life now.
Sitting across from a man who looks at me like I’m an unexpected meeting invite. A man who tenses up every time I speak like I’m a pop quiz he didn’t study for.
And as much as I want to roll with it, pretend like I’m cool with living in a house that feels lonelier than a cemetery after hours, it sucks.