Chapter Nineteen #2
He reached beneath the covers, pulling out a fuzzy pink sock.
“Still keeping the sock graveyard going, I see?” he asked.
It was something she used to do when they were married.
Every night, Evelyn would go to bed complaining her feet were freezing, and as such, put on a pair of warm and fuzzy socks.
Inevitably, though, at some point in the early morning, she would get hot.
Her feet would get sweaty. She would pull the socks off and swiftly forget about them.
When laundry day came around, and David would go to strip the sheets, he often found several pairs of mismatched socks—sometimes even pens or a Fitbit—which had been lost to the place he deemed the sock graveyard.
“My feet are never the right temperature,” Evelyn said, and took her sock back.
“It’s because your legs are so long,” he reminded her.
“Like a damn ostrich,” she grumbled.
“Yeah, but—” he smiled, faintly “—I always liked ostriches.”
Finally, she laughed. Her gaze returned to him. Her shoulders relaxed. “I hate this, you know? I hate . . . hating you.”
He nodded. Because what else was there to say? He hated himself, too. And then her voice softened. Her eyes met his through the dim haze of the bedroom light. They were only inches away from each other, but on the marital bed that they had once shared, it felt impossible to close the distance.
“Do you remember when my father died?” she asked.
“Of course.” Though he wasn’t sure why she was bringing it up now.
“You came to my house,” she continued. “You and your whole family. I mean, we had some good nights and all . . . great nights, reconnecting . . . but you didn’t have to do that.
You didn’t owe me anything. But you came.
You showed up at the funeral, and every day to shiva .
. . and every day after, and I guess I was just wondering why you did all that. ”
“Why?” He squinted, confused.
She shrugged timidly. “I’m just curious.”
“Because,” he said, reflecting on the memory, “it was the right thing to do.”
“That’s all?”
No, that wasn’t all.
It was because she had been the little girl next door to him growing up, and he could hear her parents screaming through the walls of his bedroom.
It was because she had been his friend, his high school drama club buddy, even though he was far too young to handle her choosing Jackson over him.
It was because that night reconnecting with her had been magic.
They had amazing sexual chemistry. But mainly, it was because every second with Evelyn—when it was good between them—felt like coming home.
“You never made me feel weird,” he said.
“What?” She blinked.
“For being a sensitive guy. For having weird hobbies, like saving animals. For wanting to watch old films over playing sports, for being studious. You never made me feel like I was less than for being different.”
She swallowed. “I liked all those things about you.”
“I know,” he said, thinking back to a conversation they’d had in high school. “You once told me that all the things that make me different, that make me feel like I’m not good enough and don’t fit in . . . that those were all the things that made me beautiful.”
She seemed surprised. “I said that?”
He nodded, shifted in his seat and looked away from her. “Whether you want to believe it or not, Evelyn . . . I have always been on your side.”
Her voice edged into a squeaky whine of adamancy.
“I’m trying, you know? I’m trying to be a grown-up and keep things professional between us.
Believe it or not, I’m trying to get through this week without completely losing my cool on you and everybody else around me, too.
But every time I think I’ve taken a step forward with you, forgiven you, let go of the past and what happened between us .
. . something happens, and then . . . then I just feel—”
She searched for the word. David decided to help her out.
“Conflicted?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, inching closer to him on the bed. “And confused.”
He felt that way, too.
“And then, in between all this anger for you, there’s still this feeling . . .”
“I know.”
“This energy that makes me want to tear off your clothes and have passionate sex with you . . . while at the very same time struggling not to murder you!”
David squinted. “Wait . . . what?”
Her chin dipped back. “You don’t feel that?”
“No,” he said, backtracking. “I mean, I do. I definitely feel that way, too. Not the whole murdering you part, obviously . . . but the chemistry. I think it’s fair to say that the chemistry between us is still, most definitely, there.”
“We always had great chemistry,” she acknowledged.
“Especially after a fight.”
Her gaze caught on his, and he imagined they were both thinking the same thing.
Surely, if makeup sex was good, postdivorce sex would be killer.
Still, it was a terrible idea. An enticing idea, yes, but otherwise, truly awful.
He couldn’t have sex with Evelyn. She was his ex-wife.
And yet they were sitting on their bed—the bed they had made love in countless times—and neither of them was moving.
“Screw it,” he groaned, and kissed her.
Her response was immediate. She returned his desire with a heated passion, pulling him closer, until his body was pressed up against her.
He cupped one breast in his hand, rolling her erect nipple softly between his two fingers.
All the desire he had been holding back since their reconnection flooded the room with energy.
He had forgotten how good she could feel, how good he could make her feel—like picking up an instrument, returning to a craft he was an expert in after many years away.
He played her faithfully.
His hand fell between her legs, and she gasped, and the sound of her want caused his own body to flush with hot and heady need.
He knew he should stop, but his own body was screaming, building with pressure .
. . when the timer on his watch went off.
David was willing to ignore it, but Evelyn began tapping him, repeatedly, on his shoulder.
“David,” she said, as his tongue trailed up her neck. “Stop.”
He pulled back. “What?”
“The flu test.”
In the heat of the moment, he had completely forgotten. David got ahold of himself, of his senses, and quickly rose from the bed. “Right,” he said, adjusting himself so he could walk properly, “I should probably . . . go check on that.”
“Right,” she said, waving him off.
In the kitchen, David took a moment. Her flu test was negative, as suspected.
“It’s negative,” he called out to her.
“Oh,” she called back. “Well, that’s great news. I guess you were right, then?”
“I guess so.”
Standing in her kitchen—their kitchen, his old kitchen—after two years away, he wasn’t sure what to do next.
He had kissed his ex-wife. And then some.
She had admitted to having feelings for him, desire for him, and he had done the same.
Their chemistry was still amazing, and though he knew that the chance for reconciliation was hopeless, impossible, he missed her all the same.
He pulled out his phone and texted Claire. I’m sorry for wasting your time.
She texted him right back. Don’t worry about it. I wish you all the best.
Same.
David put his phone away. Returning to the bedroom, standing in the safety of the threshold, he realized that Evelyn was sleeping. He could hear her breathing, little whistles and snorts that almost formed into a full snore.
Good. She needed rest. He decided to leave her in peace, readying himself to depart before passing by the second bedroom.
A pink mezuzah decorated with a sun and rainbow sat on the upper right-hand corner of a closed door.
He remembered the day they had put it up, wrapping his arms around Evelyn’s growing belly, while they said the blessing together.
His heart broke at the memory.
Disenfranchised grief. It was the clinical term for a loss that was not widely acknowledged or publicly mourned.
That was April. Their little girl, who should have been born perfect, but had never made it past twenty-one weeks.
He would never get over losing April. But maybe—he glanced back toward the bedroom where Evelyn was still sleeping—maybe they could build something different.