62. Allie
Allie
Honestly? I was done with this exhibit two hours ago, but watching my husband suffer through social interaction is a rare treat.
So, like any dutiful wife, I’m dragging this out for as long as humanly possible.
Unfortunately, that also means I have to suffer through it, and there’s only so much art I can stare at before I question my life choices.
I squint at the painting in front of me. Either I’ve had too much wine, or someone made a serious mistake between the artist’s photo and the work displayed.
The artist—pictured in the little bio section—looks like he moonlights as a cage fighter or is fresh out of a maximum-security prison. His painting? A soft, pastel fever dream of pinks and yellows that appears to be…a unicorn.
Yep. I’m officially drunk.
A long, warm arm wraps around my waist, and I let out an embarrassingly undignified yelp as I’m pulled into a familiar wall of heat and scent—his.
Rico’s head tilts slightly as he examines the painting, his brows pinching together.
“You see the unicorn, right?” I murmur, needing confirmation that I haven’t hit the point of hallucinating mythical creatures.
Rico's frown deepens. He glances between the painting and the artist’s photo. “I think so…”
His grip tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against him, but I fight the urge to smile. He thinks he’s in control here. Cute.
“Done with the torture?” he murmurs, his voice rough and unfairly arousing.
I blink up at him, giving him my best who, me? face. “What torture? We are absorbing culture.”
Total lie. I hit my culture limit an hour ago, right around the time I mistook an emergency exit sign for an abstract art piece.
His nose brushes up the column of my neck, his breath warm and teasing against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine. Goosebumps erupt over my arms like they’re staging a coup.
“You know.”
I inhale, tilting my head slightly. “Do I?”
His lips ghost just below my ear, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss there like a declaration of war.
“I’m owed.”
I swallow hard. “Owed what? This is our weekly date, which—just so we’re clear—we haven’t done since getting married. If anyone is owed, it’s me. Like, a lot of weekly dates.”
His response? Another kiss. This one slower, more deliberate, just above my racing pulse.
“Let’s. Go.”
I barely hold in a whimper. “I still need to see the paintings.”
Without another word, he snatches my champagne flute and his tumbler, hands them off to a passing server, then grabs my hand and drags me through the gallery. Our fingers lace together, warm and firm, and I don’t even pretend to fight him.
We pass Alex and Violet on the way out. Violet looks five seconds from slipping into a pregnancy-induced coma, and when we catch sight of Sienna and Dom near the door, Dom simply raises a brow.
“Leaving so soon?” he drawls, his eyes locked on our hands together because despite us being married three months, this is still a rare sight.
I open my mouth to make up an excuse, but before I can get a single word out, Rico beats me to it.
“I have a wife to impregnate.”
Well then.
Dom, completely unbothered, sips his drink. “You do that, then.”
We step into the cool night air, and I take a deep breath, grateful that the press has mostly cleared out. A few stragglers remain, but none of them seem interested in us. I pull out my phone, firing off a text to Vinnie, letting him know we’re ready to go.
As I lower my phone, my gaze drops to our hands—still entwined.
My right hand in his left.
His wedding band—one he’s never taken off—glowing under the streetlights.
Just because he wears it doesn’t mean he means it.
The drive home is quiet—so quiet you’d think we just buried a body together instead of attending an art exhibit.
Tension simmers in the air, thick with anticipation and, knowing Rico, a solid dose of silent animosity.
I did, after all, make him endure hours of forced social interaction when I fully expected him to throw in the towel an hour in.
But no. The stubborn jackass stayed the entire time.
Maybe out of guilt for missing my event.
Maybe because he actually wanted to be there.
Big maybe on that last one.
There’s a difference between doing something because you want to make someone happy and doing it because you feel bad about screwing up. One is effort; the other is damage control. And I do not know which side of the line Rico’s motives land on.
Not that he’d ever tell me.
The only time he actually opens up is in bed, and only because his mouth is too busy doing things other than ignoring me.
Right now, in the car, I stay silent, waiting—hoping—for him to say something.
I could poke the bear, force him to grunt a response, but honestly?
I want him to try. I want him to be the one to break the silence for once.
For us to exchange words in person rather than through passive-aggressive Post-It notes or mid-orgasm declarations.
But, as usual, I wait. And wait. And get nothing.
By the time we get home, lost in each other’s bodies, tangled in sweat and exhaustion, I should feel euphoric, floating on some blissed-out, post-sex high. Instead, I feel like I just got checkmated in a game I didn’t even know I was playing.
Because this entire marriage? It’s a damn chess match.
And I’m the only one moving the pieces.
Rico pulls away—physically, emotionally, entirely. The second our bodies disconnect, the cord is severed, and he rolls back to his side of the bed. No lingering touches. No whispered words. Just space.
Sure, maybe he’s not a cuddler. Fine. I can live without spooning. But would it kill him to give me something? Some kind of sign that I’m not just here for one reason only?
It took months to see him with his shirt off.
And even then, it wasn’t by choice—I walked in on him.
That’s the problem, isn’t it? He doesn’t trust me.
He doesn’t let me in. If I hadn’t caught him, I never would’ve known his torso is littered with scars, just like I wouldn’t know anything real about him if it weren’t for the rare moments he let something slip.
Even then, the only time he really kisses me—the kind that turns my insides to lava and makes me think, just maybe, I mean more to him than he lets on—is when we have sex.
Every bit of warmth and closeness I felt the night he made love to me is gone.
Because I don’t think he wanted to.
I think he felt like he had to.
Like some deeply buried part of him knew I needed it, so he gave it. Not because he wanted to. Not because he felt anything. Just obligation.
Obligation to be a decent husband. Obligation to show up to events. Obligation to leave his stupid Post-It notes.
And once I’m pregnant?
He won’t even have that obligation anymore.
I’ll be moved to my room, tucked away on another floor like an antique vase he doesn’t want to break but also doesn’t want to look at every day.
Because that’s all I am, right?
A body. A vessel. A checkmark on his damn list.