24. Sloane
Sloane
I’d like to personally thank whichever deity is in charge of lesbian domesticity for the cruel sense of humor that has left me not only a mother but also, as of this exact moment, the owner of the world’s most inconvenient sex drive.
It’s seven p.m. and the Denver sky is already thinking about being night, but the air in our living room is pure drama: heavy, humid, thick with the scent of Eden’s sadness and cold cheese pizza.
Olivia is snoring in her little pod seat on the floor, one fist clamped around a pacifier, the other thrown wide.
Eden is draped over the couch, hair wild, one ankle crossed over the other, and both hands doing the sort of expressive gesturing usually reserved for Shakespearean heroines.
The only thing missing is an open window for her to wail out of.
“My own parents,” she says, for the twelfth time, “have abandoned me for mackerel and mushy peas. It’s undignified.”
“They’re not going to an offshore penal colony,” I point out, but it’s lost on her. She’s doing her best ‘tragic last daughter of England’ bit, eyes bright with tears and tongue lashing out at any target that stands still for more than three seconds. Which, currently, is just me.
I wish I could say I’m the picture of emotional support, but the truth is: my entire body is so alive with want I can’t sit still.
Maybe it’s the months of no sex, maybe it’s the hormonal whiplash of watching your wife feed your daughter.
Maybe it’s just Eden, in all her sweaty, grieving glory, striding around in boxer shorts and a t-shirt that says “Be Gay Do Crime.”
She paces from couch to window and back, muttering about “deficient stateside fish-and-chip options” and “grandparental dereliction.” I track her like a dog following the world’s last hotdog, each step a little flicker in my bloodstream.
Her legs are somehow longer and leaner now that she’s been running after the baby all day, and her hair’s got this witchy, greying-at-the-temples streak that she swears she hates but secretly flexes whenever she posts a selfie.
She’s got a new kind of edge to her, too—a rawness that makes me want to touch her everywhere and also wrap her in bubble wrap so she can never be hurt, ever, by anything.
“Are you even listening?” she says, pausing mid-rant to stare at me, arms crossed and one hip out like a pissed-off substitute teacher.
“Absolutely,” I say. “You were just on ‘cod,’ but I think you’re about to segue to ‘Brexit’ so I’m bracing myself.”
She stares, then snorts. “Unbelievable. Do you know what it’s like to be left behind, Sloane? You probably don’t, because your mum lives four blocks away and brings you muffins every Sunday.”
“She does not bring muffins,” I say. “She brings pastries, and only every other week.”
This, unfortunately, is the cue for Eden to double down. She drops onto the couch next to me, folds herself into a ball so tight her knees almost hit her chin, and fixes me with the look of a person who is one “Everything Happens for a Reason” away from setting the house on fire.
I do what any seasoned partner does and attempt to snuggle her. She lets me, sort of, but her body is all knotted up and vibrating at a frequency somewhere between “I want to fuck” and “I want to murder my entire family.”
“Babe,” I whisper, kissing her temple, “it’s going to be fine. They’re not leaving tomorrow. And you’ll have video calls. And guilt trips. And the entire British Airways loyalty program to work with.”
She’s silent. I sneak a hand under her shirt, stroking her back, and immediately wish I hadn’t because the skin is warm and soft and smells faintly of coconut and baby powder and I am going to combust on this couch.
Eden sighs, loud and theatrical. “You’re just saying that because you want me to stop talking.”
“That’s not—” I start, but she’s already got me pinned with a smirk, and she knows, with the precision of a lifelong manipulator, that she is absolutely correct.
“You’re the worst,” she says, but the words are soft. “I might actually die.”
“No one’s ever died of being sad,” I lie.
She thumps her head onto my shoulder. “They definitely have.”
I wrap both arms around her, pulling her close until we’re a single conjoined mass of sweatpants and self-pity. Her thigh is pressed against mine, and I can feel the heat there, the promise of something that’s going to kill me if I don’t get it soon.
My hand drifts to her knee, then up her leg, then back down in a loop, because I don’t trust myself not to go further and because Olivia is right here, gurgling on a plush narwhal.
I think about what it would take to get Eden to come to bed with me right now.
Two sentences? One? Just a look? But I also think about how she’s been fragile all day, how the bags under her eyes are twin shadows of every bad night we’ve ever had, and how she keeps glancing at the phone like she’s expecting her mum to call and cancel the whole move as a prank.
I want her so badly I can’t see straight, but I want her happy even more. That, I think, is the core of parenthood: wanting things you can’t have and choosing, every day, to want something even harder instead.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” I ask, as if this is a thing we do now that we’re parents.
She shrugs. I keep my hands where she can see them, but my mind is already cataloguing every inch of her: the bruises from her last run, the tiny scar at her hairline, the nervous habit she has of rolling the seam of her shorts between her fingers.
She’s not even trying to be seductive, but she’s never looked more enticing.
Olivia snorts awake and immediately starts to wail. Eden unfolds herself from the couch, scoops up the baby, and shushes her in a tone that’s half-loving, half-resigned.
“Drama queen,” she says, but she kisses Olivia’s head and bounces her until the crying turns to hiccups.
I watch them, mesmerized. I know it’s cliché, but nothing in my life has ever felt more permanent than this: my wife, my daughter, the sound of both of them existing in the same room.
Even when Eden is melting down, she’s all action—never once has she let a single thing fall apart that she can’t pick up and glue back together, even if it’s ugly or crooked or full of gold cracks.
She settles back onto the couch, this time with Olivia propped on her chest, and gives me a look that is half an invitation and half a threat.
“I’m sorry I’m so fucking whiny,” she says, voice raw.
“You’re not whiny,” I say. “You’re grieving. It’s allowed.”
She bites her lip, and I can tell she wants to believe me. “You’re not mad?”
I want to say, “I’m too horny to be mad,” but I know that would backfire spectacularly. Instead, I reach over and brush the hair from her face. “I love you, in all your forms.”
She laughs, and it’s the first time today she sounds like herself. “Even this form?”
“Especially this form.”
Olivia, sensing she is no longer the center of attention, resumes her campaign to shatter glass with her lungs. Eden stands, jostling the baby up and down. I watch the way her hips move, the line of her legs, the flex of her calves with each bounce. It’s almost criminal.
She catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “You good?”
I nod, but it’s a lie. I’m seconds away from launching myself at her.
She walks the baby around the room, stilling her with soft, swaying steps.
I close my eyes and try to focus on the sound of their voices, the warmth of the house, the smell of cold pizza and spilled milk.
But all I can think about is how much I want Eden to fold me in half and keep me there until morning.
Eventually, Olivia gives up and sleeps again. Eden settles back beside me, careful not to jostle her. She leans against me, and for a minute we are both quiet, just breathing. Outside, the sky goes from blue to purple to a kind of bruised charcoal. It’s peaceful.
I risk a hand on Eden’s thigh. She lets me. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t move it away, either.
“I know you’re struggling,” I whisper. “If you need to paint, or sculpt, go ahead. But if you want to…I don’t know…escape for a minute, I can help with that, too.”
She looks at me, really looks, and for the first time today I see the spark that got us through all the bad years.
“Are you saying you want to bone while the baby’s asleep?” she asks, deadpan.
I choke on my own saliva. “Is it that obvious?”
She snorts, then shakes her head, sending hair flying. “You are so bad at subtlety, Sloane.”
“I thought I was being subtle.”
“Nope. Your right eyebrow does this thing, and you keep fidgeting like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
I flush, because of course she noticed. “Is it weird that I want you this much?”
She leans in and kisses me, quick and sharp. “It would be weirder if you didn’t.”
My phone buzzes on the table. It’s Becca informing me she’s on her way over.
Looks like the universe wants me to stay celibate a little longer.
The doorbell rings at 8:18 p.m., which is exactly twelve minutes earlier than Becca’s text said she would arrive and exactly two minutes after I managed to convince Eden to eat a slice of cold pizza with extra ranch.
The window of hope for a quiet, emotionally stable night slams shut. I shoulder the baby and shuffle to the door, bracing for impact.
Becca stands in the entryway holding two bags: one insulated carrier clearly meant for booze and another so massive and woven it could serve as an emergency hot air balloon. She looks at me, then at the baby, then at Eden, and wordlessly hands over the wine.
“I brought Pinot Grigio, Shiraz, and a jar of organic juice for the offspring,” she says, already drifting past me into the living room. “We are going to address this like adults.”
“Does the baby drink juice yet?” I ask, mostly for show.
“It’s for you,” Becca says, not looking back. “You seem low on vitamins and I didn’t want you to faint from dehydration before we fixed your domestic situation.”
“Um…thank you?”