39. Allie
Allie
Why do I text my husband?
It’s a multi-layered, deeply complex, borderline masochistic endeavor at this point.
I tell myself it’s for the greater good—a public service announcement for his cold, unfeeling heart.
A daily reminder that, surprise! He’s still married.
That he’s no longer a lone wolf roaming the concrete jungle of Manhattan, growling at anyone who dares to notice his existence.
But after message number ninety-three gets the same treatment as message one—read, ignored, ghosted into the void—I question my sanity.
Why do I keep doing this? Do I expect him to suddenly develop thumbs capable of typing out a single response?
A word? Hell, I’d even take a period. Just a little “.” so I know he’s capable of interacting with another human being outside of grunting and orgasm-adjacent dirty talk.
I’d love to say I’m above this, that I have some grand reason for my perseverance.
That I’m trying to gently lure him out of his cold, calculated world.
But let’s be real—I also do it to annoy him.
A little retribution hurt no one, right?
I mean, if I have to deal with his emotionally constipated ass every night, he can deal with a few good morning texts and How’s your day going? messages.
It’s called baby steps, people.
And yet… there’s this thing I can’t shake.
This flicker of something unhealthy that blooms in my chest when he walks through the door at night.
Hope? Maybe just moderate insanity. It’s subtle, but it’s there—the way his eyes land on me, warm and assessing, rather than the dead-inside indifference I used to get.
He still doesn’t talk much, but when he looks at me, I feel as though I exist. Maybe I’m not just some contractual obligation or a walking uterus.
Progress? Possibly. Or I’m just that desperate for human interaction that I’m mistaking his resting I-want-to-fuck-you face for affection.
I still haven’t caught him in the mornings, though. The man is a ninja. I set my alarm for four a.m., thinking I had him beat. Nope. Gone by 3:45. I’d bet money he’s sneaking out through an underground tunnel.
He still leaves a note for me every day. Always some random fact or opinion—half of which could moonlight as unhinged Reddit conspiracy theories. He still shows up for dinner, still eats in silence, still nods and shrugs as if his vocal cords signed a non-disclosure agreement.
But he’s there.
And then there’s the other version of Rico. The one who only wakes up when he’s buried inside me. That man speaks. Touches. Worships. He praises my body, vows to wreck it, and dear God, I devour every word—starved and desperate, and he’s the only thing left on the menu.
Turns out, I appreciate dirty talk. Who knew? Not me. But apparently, I am very much not vanilla.
Not that I get too much time to dwell on it, because my husband—ever the mastermind—thinks he’s slick.
That by keeping sex anywhere but the bedroom, he can keep his distance.
That if he fucks me over the dining table or the bathroom sink or the kitchen island (I will never see breakfast the same way again), he won’t have to sleep next to me.
I let him think he’s winning.
Because at least once a week, I leave dinner and go straight to my room. And without fail, he seeks me out. And guess what? If he wants to have sex in my room, he has to stay.
Does he sleep? No. He lies there, stiff as a board, his body rigid. But he’s there, and that’s enough—for now.
Because I don’t want to be a means to an end. A vessel. A contractual obligation.
I know he wants me. That he finds me attractive now.
But that’s as far as it goes.
And maybe… that’s as far as it ever will.
This morning, while staring down at yet another oddly specific, utterly pointless fact from my husband, I wondered—who exactly is getting played here?
Rico: I have a talent for burning toast, no matter the toaster, setting, or level of supervision. It’s a gift.
At first, these notes used to fuel my inner sass monster with ease. I had quippy, borderline genius-level comebacks locked and loaded. Now? My witty retorts take longer to plan, which is not ideal when my entire identity thrives on quick comebacks and dry humor.
I know why. I just don’t want to admit why.
And before I could even form a single coherent thought—let alone a smartass reply—a large, rough hand snatched the note right out of my grip. The other? Wrapped tight around my waist, yanking me back against a wall of solid muscle.
What followed wasn’t so much a conversation as a caveman-sees-woman, caveman-takes-woman situation.
His mouth latched onto my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot that always makes my knees buckle, while my sundress was shoved up around my hips.
My panties? Yanked down in one smooth, practiced move that told me he’d thought about this—a lot.
And then—God help me—he was inside me, thick and hard and filling me in one brutal thrust that knocked the breath right out of my lungs. No warning. No soft touches. Just the raw, desperate way he took me is enough to make my thighs clench thinking about it.
No one spoke—no words were necessary. Because apparently, my body is always on standby for him.
And maybe I should be mad about that. Maybe I should demand more than this hot, frantic claiming.
But when he’s buried so deep, hitting that spot that makes me see stars?
Yeah, good luck getting an argument out of me.
And then it was over. He pulled out, adjusted his clothes as if he hadn’t just wrecked me against the kitchen counter, grabbed his bag, and walked out the door without a single glance back.
Our first—and apparently only—interaction before noon.
It's fine. I'm fine. Everything’s totally fine.
I’m absolutely not fine.
Tonight, I had a different plan. A test. A tiny, ridiculous, I need to prove a point to myself kind of test.
I made Spaghetti Aglio e Olio—simple, light, and strategic. New York summers are a humid nightmare, and a heavy meal on a hot day isn't exactly appetizing. But I left the sundress on. The same one from this morning. A reminder.
And the best part of my test? The wine request.
See, I know my husband reads my texts. He just refuses to respond.
So, I’ve started inserting minor tasks into them.
Pick up a bottle of Merlot on your way home.
The best part? I already have three bottles chilling in the wine fridge.
I don’t need him to buy it—I just need to see if he will.
And guess what? Every single time, he does.
He might not reply, but he listens. Baby steps.
“Dinner will be ready in maybe two minutes,” I call over my shoulder when I hear him come in. Like with the texts, I just keep talking. Even if he doesn’t reply, even if he doesn’t acknowledge me. Because one day, maybe, he will.
I turn around, wiping my hands on my apron, only to find him—right behind me, standing too close, staring too intently.
I yelp. Loudly.
“Jesus, Rico.” I press a hand to my chest, my heart hammering. “Are you—uh—hungry?”
His gaze stays locked on me. Unreadable.
“No.”
Okay… that’s not weird at all.
I know his game. Sometimes, he just sits there, pushing food around on his plate and throwing a silent tantrum. He never had to eat with me—just sit with me. A loophole he clearly enjoys exploiting.
Fine. Be a weirdo.
“Well, I guess I’ll eat. You listen.” I move to untie my apron, but his hand darts out, catching my wrist with surprising gentleness.
“No.”
My brows furrow. “No what, Rico?”
Here’s the thing—I’ve been testing a theory. If I push at his one-word answers, sometimes—sometimes—he breaks.
So I wait.
He exhales, gaze dropping to where his fingers still wrap around my wrist—clearly he just realized he’s touching me. I can see the inner debate playing out in his mind.
Finally, his eyes flick up to mine.
“No dinner tonight.”
I blink. “You’re fasting now? Should I be worried? Are you joining a cult?” Yes, I am a brat.
Nothing. Not even an eye twitch.
“Okay,” I continue, hands on my hips. “I’ll bite. Why are we skipping dinner? And please tell me it’s not some intermittent fasting, alpha-male, ‘I only eat raw liver’ nonsense, because I really—”
“I’m taking you somewhere.”
I freeze.
Somewhere.
Like… out?
Like together? In public? Where people see us and where he might have to acknowledge my existence outside of a contract and sex?
I narrow my eyes. “Define ‘somewhere.’”
A pause. A beat. Then—he smirks.
Not a full one, just a ghost, just enough to make my stomach flip. And then, just as quickly, he walks past me, leaving me standing there, jaw unhinged, brain trying to process whatever alternate reality I just stepped into.
What the hell just happened?
And more importantly…
What exactly does my husband have planned?