Chapter 1 #2
I walked into the bedroom, my steps slowing as I took in the mess that Ryan had made in his obvious haste to pack.
Our bed – which I’d neatly made as always before I left for work this morning – was covered with several empty hangers, stray socks, and a few random articles of clothing haphazardly folded and then tossed aside as if he’d changed his mind about what to pack.
The pants and button-down shirt he’d worn to work this morning were lying in a discarded heap on the floor at the foot of the bed, with his balled-up socks on top of the pile, like the cherry on top of a shit sundae.
He had clearly taken time to change into something more comfortable for the flight but couldn’t take ten seconds to toss his dirty clothes into the laundry hamper in the corner of the room. Typical.
Our bathroom hadn’t fared much better. It appeared that Ryan had ransacked his side of the vanity in his quest to find his toiletry bag and the things he need to put in it, with two drawers not even closed all the way, and assorted items scattered on the normally pristine countertop.
“Un-fucking-believable,” I muttered to myself as I swiftly changed my own clothes and headed back downstairs.
I was going to need a big bowl of ice cream and a glass of wine – or maybe a bowl of ice cream and a big glass of wine – to deal with this shit.
It was barely one-thirty in the afternoon, but it was five o’clock somewhere, right?
Ten minutes later, I was curled up in my plush, oversized reading chair with a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and a glass of my favorite Cabernet.
Knowing Ryan was already mid-flight, I’d sent a text asking him to call me when he landed.
After three bites of the ice cream, I set the bowl aside with a disgusted huff.
My stomach was in knots, and the ice cream wasn’t helping.
I took a drink of wine and decided it was a much better option anyway.
It may not help my stomach, but it might help me relax.
I rested my head on the back of the chair and closed my eyes against the sting of tears. Images of my life – our life together – ran through my mind as I tried to sort out my thoughts.
Practically from the day we’d met, Ryan and I had been inseparable.
My son, Tanner, and his son, Garrett, had been in the same kindergarten class and had quickly become best friends, which is how Ryan and I had met.
We’d bonded over being married and divorced young, and the difficulties of navigating life as single parents.
We’d tried to be cautious and clear-headed, not rushing into anything since we’d both been burned before, plus we’d had the boys to consider.
Still, we’d been unable to resist the intense attraction to one another.
A few months later, Ryan told me that I was the love of his life, and I admitted that I had fallen head-over-heels for him, too.
We’d married a little over a year after that, and life had been incredible. Had, being the operative word.
Twelve years on, our sons were still the best of friends.
So much so that they’d decided to go to the same college and were even sharing a dorm room.
They’d started their freshman year at Indiana University in August, and even five months later I still wasn’t used to the house being so quiet.
Our house had been the hang-out place for them and their friends throughout much of middle and high school, so there had always been some sort of teenaged chaos going on – video games, loud music, laughter, and the never-ending sound of the refrigerator opening and closing as our boys and their friends practically ate us out of house and home.
Now, there was a stillness to the house that left me feeling a keen sense of loneliness.
If I were being honest, that loneliness had started even before the boys had left for college.
It had begun seeping in over the past eighteen months or so, around the time Mitch – one of Ryan’s best friends from high school – had moved back to town.
Ryan was rarely home anymore, and when he was, he wasn’t the same man I’d fallen in love with.
The man I’d married was kind, loving, and attentive.
The new Ryan was often critical, dismissive, and absent, and no amount of discussion on my part seemed to change that for very long.
Oh, he’d make a bit of an effort to be home a little more or take me out for date night if I complained enough, but his attention was soon diverted by golf, or the gym, or going to any of the myriad of sporting events he and Mitch often attended.
Even when he was home, Ryan wasn’t truly present anymore.
He used to help with dinner and cleaning up afterward, and we often spent the time discussing our respective days at work.
We’d go for a long walk in the evenings and used the time to reconnect and chat about the things going on in our lives.
We’d watch TV cuddled together on one end of the couch, his arm around my shoulders and my head resting on his chest. Consideration and affection were freely given – by both of us.
There was an intimacy to our relationship that went beyond sex.
Casual kisses in the kitchen. A quick pat on the butt when we passed in the hallway.
Holding hands on our walks. Random compliments and thoughtful gestures kept the spark alive, and our sex life used to be incredible, too.
Whether it was a weekday morning quickie in the shower as we got ready for work, a slow, lazy Sunday morning spent making love for hours, or a hard, intensely satisfying fuck over the back of the couch while the boys were at a sleepover with friends, we were passionate about each other.
Now, the shows of affection were mostly a thing of the past, unless Ryan was horny.
Then he’d become his old self for a few minutes, complimenting me, hugging me, rubbing my back, or pressing a kiss to my temple, before quickly pushing for sex.
Sometimes, we didn’t even get that far. If we were pressed for time, he’d ask for a blowjob and then zip up and go about his day afterward without giving a thought to some mutual reciprocity.
The old Ryan had never been a selfish lover.
The new one, well, my vibrator gave me more orgasms than he did these days.
By the time I went to bed, hours later, the initial shock and anger had given way to a bone-deep certainty that something had to change within my marriage if it had any hope of surviving.