Chapter 2
Fred
I stand up from the table, rubbing the bridge of my nose as the frustration wells up inside me. It always happens on days like this. We have only been married for three years, and yet the distance between us feels like a chasm.
Grace steps out of the kitchen, reaching for the remaining plates on the wood.
“Please put it in a Ziploc bag,” I instruct her, keeping my voice low. “She’ll get hungry later.”
Grace nods, her fingers gathering the utensils as she references my instructions. She carries the food back to the kitchen, leaving me alone in the dining room. I look down at my own half-eaten meal, my appetite lost.
She has been behaving weirdly since yesterday.
“Sex,” I mutter under my breath, the word tasting bitter in my mouth.
I let out a long huff, my shoulders dropping. If only she knew how much I actually wanted that. If only she knew the restraint it takes to stand my ground.
Grace steps back into the room, holding out the transparent plastic container. “Here, sir.”
I blink, caught off guard by her return. “Oh. So fast?”
She nods.
“Come on, let me drop you off at home,” I tell Grace, since her house is not too far from my church building.
“Thank you, sir.”
She tidies up, and then we step outside. I am met with her. My wife. She looks at me as though we are fighting. I know we are, deep down, but I maintain my posture.
After a moment, Grace steps out from behind us.
Ana hands me the car keys, we go into the car.
When we are seated, I start the ignition and begin to drive.
I look behind to see if Grace is paying attention to the space between the front seats, but she isn't. She has her earphones plugged in, her eyes fixed on the window.
“Are you still mad at me?” I turn to look at her, dropping my voice.
But she isn’t saying anything. Instead, Ana is looking straight at the phone screen. I hate this. I don’t like that we have to go through this argument over and over again, circling the same unyielding wall.
“Ba... Ana,” I recall the name, catching the slip before it fully leaves my mouth.
She lifts her head up, blows air from her lips, and then turns to look at me grudgingly. “You’ve tried to call me babe a couple of times today, Fred. But why does the word always get stuck in your throat somewhere?”
I lick my dry lips as I turn the car to the left. “Nothing.”
“What is it?” she asks. I can hear the agitation in her voice vibrating against the glass.
I turn to look at her. “What?”
“Why can’t you, why can’t you see that I need my husband? I am horny. I want sex.”
Panic flares behind my ribs. I look behind me to see if Grace is listening, but she isn’t. I look back to my wife, my chest tightening. I let out a rough huff.
“I—”
“I—”
“I can’t. I don’t... I’m scared you might leave. You...” I run dry, the words fracturing midway, so I just shut my mouth, my jaw locking.
“Stop the car.”
I turn to look at her, my focus torn between the asphalt ahead and the person seated beside me.
“What?” I look ahead, then back at her profile. “No. No, I can’t.”
I turn again to look at her.
“You can,” she counters, her hand reaching for the door panel. “I can’t do this.”
“I said, Fred, drop me off.”
“Why?” I ask her.
“Because I don’t want to stay in the same place as my husband who clearly does not love me.”
“What?”
The shock causes my foot to press too hard on the brake.
The car jerks violently, nearly coming to a halt before I catch the movement of the vehicle ahead and recover, the sudden shift causing everyone to sway over.
I turn to Grace and tell her sorry, then my focus snaps back to my wife.
My hand is already moving across the gap, my palm flattening against her thigh, trying to steady her against the seat.
Grace gives a small nod from the rear, unbothered as she returns to her screen.
...
“Uh, hi,” Grace quips from the back, a small hand lifting into the space between our seats. “You passed my house some time ago.”
I look at the street signs—a route I paid attention to but did not quite register—and smack the palm of my hand against my forehead. “I am so sorry, Grace. Please let me make a reverse.”
“No, no, no. It's fine,” Grace cuts in, her tone flat.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
Grace nods her head, smiles, and opens the door to get down. I guide the car into a proper parking space by the curb, hoping the owner of the house doesn’t come out to say something along the lines of private property.
The door clicks shut behind Grace, leaving the two of us alone in the vehicle.
“I’m tired,” Ana begins, her shoulders sinking into the leather padding. “I need space, Fred. Away from you.”
My heart beats fast against my chest, the sound loud in the stillness, but a baseline courtesy forces me to let her finish.
“Seeing you every day,” she says, her gaze flickering over my clothes. “In that grey sweatshirt and your glasses and your joggers... it rouses me. I want to touch you.”
I turn to give my full focus to her, she looks at me, her eyes pleading across the console.
“I want to be intimate with my husband.”
“But we are—”
“Not according to that timetable on the wall in our bedroom,” she cuts me off, her voice cracking. “And certainly not just to procreate. Just... drive me back home. I need time. I need space. I need to not feel this way anymore.”
Her voice shakes. She lifts her head and rests it against the car seat, her eyelids blinking rapidly to stem the tears threatening to spill.
“Please, Fred. If you won’t give me what I want, then let me stay away from all appearance of evil.”
She lifts her fingers, drawing two distinct quotes in the empty space between us as she throws my own verse back at me.
My heart hammers a frantic marathon against my chest. I do not know what to tell her.
How do I tell her that I feel the exact same way?
That I want to touch her every single day?
That I want to kiss her until she forgets her own name?
How do I explain that I want to make love to her as many times as the hours allow?
That each time she smiles at me, even when she is clad in a bogus, oversized nightshirt, I still look at her while sinful thoughts parade through my mind?
How do I confess that I walk into the sanctuary for confession every time I catch a whiff of her scent because the mere fragrance arouses me when it isn't an intimate day on the calendar?
That I want to bring every hidden thought to life when she is involved?
That I want to kiss her everywhere, every day?
I can't. Because the last time I let myself give in to that rhythm, my late wife left me.
I stare at the woman I have come to love, the absolute terror of loss locking my joints. I conclude it is better for me to starve than to lose her. But a persistent whisper counters the fear from the shadows of my mind. What about her? She wants more of you. Why don’t you speak with her?
I can’t answer the thought. Even though I know I should open my mouth and tell her about the ghosts in his head, the panic of the past keeps poking its head out, whispering what if she leaves.
But she is leaving right now, the other voice reminds me.
A shaky, ragged breath escapes my throat. “I don’t want to lose you, Ana.”
She turns her head toward the window, her mouth puckering as she tries to avoid letting the moisture fall. “Well, you’re on the way to doing just that. Because each time I try to make a move and you push me away, you make me feel unattractive.”
I give a slow nod, the truth of her words stinging my eyes.
I shift in my seat, turning my body toward her before the distance becomes permanent. “Before you go on this... separation. Please give me one day. I’ll tell you why. Just one day to let me sort out my thoughts.”
A sudden, watery laugh bursts from her chest, the sound mixing with the tears still rolling down her cheeks. “You’ve been saying this a thousand times already, Fred.”
She shakes her head, her shoulders shaking with a mix of amusement and sorrow. “I can’t even call you babe. What is the actual reason?”
My lips tremble. The muscles in my jaw want to talk, but the mechanism fails, the words trapping themselves behind my teeth.
“Please. One day. I promise,” my voice breaks, the air leaving my lungs when I think of the stakes. “If I don’t... then you can leave. For a while, hopefully.”
Ana turns back, her eyes pinning me to the seat. “You have this night, Fred.”
She holds my gaze, the finality clear across her features. “You have just this night to change my mind. And if you do not, I will leave, and I am not so sure it will be just for a while.”
We look at each other across the console, the stillness of the afternoon sitting between us in the space the car provides.
“It’s fine,” I murmur, my hand dropping from her leg back to the steering wheel. “This night, then.”
“Are you still... do you want to come with me?”
“Please take me home, Fred.”
I wait, shifting the gear into drive. My insides churn with an intense layer of anxiety, a raw fear that leaves my fingers cold against the wheel.
The questions starting with what if run a continuous marathon in my head, and at the very top of that dark list is the image of her walking away.
Just like my mother did. Just like Celeste did.
With my mind in total turmoil, I turn the car around to take Ana home.