8. Oliver
— ? —
Oliver
Maya won’t look at me.
I found her in the guest room after the gala disaster, curled on her side, facing the wall, still wearing that burgundy dress. She didn’t respond when I said her name. Didn’t flinch when I sat down beside her on the mattress. Didn’t acknowledge my presence at all.
But she’s still here. She didn’t take Chloe and leave.
That has to mean something.
The house is quiet now. Chloe’s been asleep for hours.
Amelia is in her room. I made sure of that, told her to give us space tonight, that Maya was upset and needed time.
She cried, of course. Said she never meant to cause trouble, that she would leave tomorrow if that’s what it took to give us peace.
I told her that wasn’t necessary. That Maya just needed time to calm down.
Now, standing outside the guest room door at midnight, I’m not so sure about anything.
I’ve been pacing the hallway for twenty minutes, trying to talk myself into going in. Or out of it. I can’t decide which would be worse, pushing when she doesn’t want me there, or leaving her alone when she might need me.
The thing is, I don’t know what she needs anymore.
I don’t know when I stopped being able to read her, to anticipate what she wants before she has to ask.
There was a time when I knew her moods like weather patterns, when I could tell from the set of her shoulders whether she needed space or comfort.
Now I can’t even tell if she’s asleep or just pretending.
I push open the door.
The room is dark except for moonlight streaming through the window, illuminating the curve of her body under the thin blanket.
She’s changed out of the gala dress. I can see it draped over the chair in the corner, replaced by one of my old t-shirts.
The one she used to steal and sleep in when we were first married, before we had a daughter, before everything got so complicated.
My wife. My beautiful, furious, heartbroken wife.
I’ve fucked this up so badly.
I cross to the bed and slip under the covers behind her, pressing my chest to her back. She’s warm through the thin cotton. She smells like the expensive shampoo she uses, like home.
My mouth finds the curve of her neck.
“Maya.”
Nothing.
“I know you’re awake.” I press a kiss to her shoulder. “Your breathing changes when you sleep. It gets deeper, slower. Right now you’re holding your breath.”
Silence. Then, flatly: “What do you want, Oliver?”
“To apologize.”
“You’ve already apologized. Multiple times. It hasn’t fixed anything.”
“I know.” My hand slides over her hip, settles at her waist. “I’m sorry about tonight. I shouldn’t have dismissed you like that. Shouldn’t have marched you out in front of everyone like you were a misbehaving child.”
“But you still don’t believe me.”
I hesitate. This is dangerous territory. “I believe you believe what you saw.”
She laughs, and there’s no humor in it. “That’s not the same thing.”
“I know.”
“So what are you doing here? What do you actually want?”
What do I want? I want to understand what happened to us, when we stopped being partners and became adversaries. I want my wife to look at me the way she used to, like I was her whole world. I want to stop feeling like I’m losing her one day at a time.
Instead, I answer honestly: “I want you.”
She goes still.
“That’s not a solution…”
“I know it’s not a solution. I know sex doesn’t fix anything.” My hand slides higher, finding the hem of her shirt. My shirt. And the warm skin beneath. “But I miss you, Maya. I miss us. And I don’t know how to get back there, but I know this is the one place we’ve never been broken.”
“We’ve been broken everywhere.” Her voice catches. “You just don’t notice because you’re never looking.”
“Then let me look now.” I ease the shirt up, press my lips to the newly exposed skin of her spine. Feel her shiver despite herself. “Let me see you.”
She turns in my arms. In the darkness, her eyes glitter, tears or anger, I can’t tell which.
“This doesn’t change anything.”
“I know.”
“I’m still furious with you.”
“I know.”
“Words aren’t enough anymore, Oliver. I need more than apologies and promises that never…”
I kiss her before she can finish.
She resists for one heartbeat. Two. Then her hands fist in my shirt and she’s kissing me back with a desperation that matches mine, fierce and starved, like this is the only language left that either of us still speaks.
I roll her onto her side so her back is to my chest. Moonlight cuts across the bed in a pale stripe.
She’s still facing the wall but her body is arching back into mine.
I reach around and cup her breast through her shirt, thumb brushing her nipple until it tightens.
She makes a small sound that could be pleasure or could be another thing entirely. I tell myself it is pleasure.
I kiss the back of her neck, then lower, pushing the fabric aside so I can reach the skin between her shoulder blades.
My hand slides down her stomach and between her legs.
She’s already wet. I stroke her slowly, two fingers circling her clit while I press against the curve of her ass.
She pushes back against me and I take that as permission.
I ease inside her from behind in one long push. She gasps and I go still, giving her time.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper against her ear. “I’ve always got you.”
She doesn’t answer at first. Her fingers dig into my hip, urging me on. “Then prove it,” she says, so quietly I almost miss it. “For once in your life, prove it.”
I start to move, shallow at first, then deeper. One arm is wrapped around her waist. My free hand stays between her thighs, rubbing in time with my thrusts. I kiss the top of her spine, the nape of her neck, the shell of her ear.
“I want to memorize this,” I whisper. “Every sound you make. The way you feel around me.”
She doesn’t answer. She reaches back and grips my hip, urging me faster. I give her more. My fingers work her clit in tight circles. She starts to tremble. I keep my mouth on her skin, kissing and biting lightly along the line of her shoulder.
“You’re everything,” I breathe into her hair. “You and Chloe. Everything.”
She comes with a low, broken moan that she tries to swallow. Her body clamps down around me and I follow, thrusting deep and holding there while I spill inside her. I stay buried in her, arm tight around her middle, breathing against the back of her neck.
After, she lies against my chest. Her breathing slows. Her body softens against mine.
But her lashes are wet. I notice in the moonlight, notice the tears tracking silver down her cheeks.
She was crying. During, or after, I don’t know. I didn’t notice. I was inside my wife, and she was crying, and I didn’t even notice until it was over.
I tell myself it’s release. Emotion. Connection.
I don’t ask her if she’s okay. I don’t ask what the tears mean. I just hold her and let her drift toward sleep and tell myself that tomorrow will be different.
I wake at dawn to cold sheets.
Her pillow is gone. The indent where her body lay is already cool.
I sit up, disoriented. The guest room is empty except for me and the rumpled sheets that smell like sex and her shampoo.
She’s gone.
Not gone gone. Her dress is still over the chair, and I can hear movement elsewhere in the house. But she’s gone from the bed beside me. She slipped out and left me sleeping alone in the guest room while she… what? Went back to our bedroom? To Chloe’s room?
Away from me. That’s the point. She wanted to be away from me.
It’s the first time in seven years she’s left my bed.
I lie back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling, a cold dread pooling in my stomach.
She was crying. I made love to my wife. Fucked my wife, if I’m being honest, because there was nothing gentle about what we did. And she was crying the whole time.
And I didn’t notice until it was over.
What kind of husband doesn’t notice his wife crying?