Chapter 4 #3
Brett's face was pale now, like he was finally understanding that this conversation was bigger than he'd realized. That I wasn't just having a bad day or being unreasonably emotional.
"What do you want from me, Lauren?"
"I want you to want me," I said simply. "I want to feel like I matter to you as more than just the person who manages your household and raises your children. I want to feel loved instead of tolerated."
"You are loved," he said, but it sounded automatic. Like something he was supposed to say rather than something he felt.
"Show me," I whispered.
That night, Brett tried. I'll give him credit for that.
He came to bed earlier than usual, turned off his phone, and tried to touch me like he used to.
His hands moved over my body with the familiarity of twenty-three years together, hitting all the spots that used to make me forget everything else in the world.
But it felt forced. Obligatory. Like he was checking items off a list rather than making love to someone he actually desired. His kisses tasted like duty instead of passion, and he moved like he was just going through the motions.
I closed my eyes and tried to lose myself in the sensation, tried to pretend this was what I'd been missing and not a pale imitation of what we used to have. But my body knew the difference between being wanted and being accommodated. My heart knew the difference between love and guilt.
After it was over, Brett rolled away and was asleep within minutes, his breathing deep and even like he'd solved whatever problem my earlier outburst had created.
I lay there looking at the ceiling, tears sliding down my cheeks onto the pillowcase, feeling more alone than I had before he'd touched me.
Sex without emotional connection wasn't intimacy. It was just two people using each other's bodies to avoid having real conversations about what was broken between them.
I got up and took a shower, washing away the evidence of our empty attempt at reconciliation. In the mirror, I looked like exactly what I was. A woman whose husband had just had sex with her out of obligation rather than desire.
Monday morning, I went to the bedroom to grab my earpiece from the nightstand. Brett was already dressed and moving around his walk-in closet, probably looking for whichever tie would make him look most successful at today's meetings.
I was almost to the door when I heard him on the phone, his tone lower than usual but still audible through the closet opening.
"Alison, we need to reschedule it for next week," he was saying, and something about his manner made my stomach drop like an elevator with cut cables. "The Bradshaw meeting is running longer than expected."
There was a pause while he listened to her response.
"I know, I'm disappointed too," he continued, and his tone had a tenderness I hadn't heard in months. Not when he talked to me or the kids or anyone else in his actual life. "But I promise I'll make it up to you."
I stood frozen by the nightstand, my hand still reaching for the earpiece I no longer cared about. Alison. He was talking to someone named Alison with the kind of intimate familiarity that made my blood turn to ice.
"You too," he said softly, and I could hear the smile in his tone. "I'll see you soon."
I grabbed the earpiece and left the room as quietly as I'd entered, my heart pounding so hard I was surprised Brett couldn't hear it from inside his closet. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall and tried to breathe normally while my world rearranged itself around this new piece of information.
Alison. A name to go with the blonde woman Kimberly had seen him with. Someone who made him sound happy and engaged and alive in ways he hadn't been with me in years.
I walked downstairs on unsteady legs and made myself coffee with hands that shook only slightly. Through the kitchen window, I could see Mrs. Patterson working in her garden, normal suburban life continuing around me while mine fell apart one phone call at a time.
Brett appeared a few minutes later, straightening his tie and checking his phone like it was any other day. He kissed my cheek in that automatic way, his lips barely making contact with my skin.
"Have a good day," he said, already moving toward the garage.
"You too," I managed, sounding almost normal.
After he left, I remained in the kitchen island with my coffee and the camera I'd bought with such optimism just a few days earlier.
The woman who'd felt so empowered taking pictures of pigeons seemed like someone I'd read about in a book.
Now I was just a wife whose husband was cheating on her, calling other women with promises he didn't make to me anymore.
But I didn't cry. Didn't scream or throw things or call Robin to sob about my marriage. Instead, I picked up the camera and scrolled through yesterday's photos, looking for something beautiful enough to post on the Instagram account no one was following.
If my life was falling apart, at least I could document it artistically.