Chapter 12 #3
After we cleaned up the dishes, Brett suggested we watch a movie in the family room, something we hadn't done together in months. He scrolled through streaming options while I curled up on the opposite end of the couch, maintaining physical distance that felt necessary for my emotional survival.
We settled on some romantic comedy that required minimal attention, lightweight entertainment that served as background noise for couples who'd run out of things to say to each other.
He seemed relaxed in a way I hadn't seen in months, like spending time with me was enjoyable instead of just an obligation he fulfilled between more interesting activities.
Around ten o'clock, as the movie credits rolled, he moved closer to me on the couch. Not dramatically, just closing the space between us in a way that suggested intentions I wasn't prepared to handle.
"I've missed this," he said quietly, his hand finding mine where it rested on the cushion between us. "Just being together without work or kids or social obligations getting in the way."
His touch, meant to comfort, felt like a betrayal instead.
These were the same hands that had touched Alison Crawford's face with tenderness in that VIP box.
The same fingers that had probably traced her skin and held her close and made promises about futures that didn't include the wife he was lying to every single day.
"Brett," I started, but he was already moving closer, his intention clear in the way he looked at me.
He kissed me before I could finish whatever objection I'd been forming, his mouth warm and known in ways that made my body respond despite everything my mind knew about where he'd been and who he'd been with.
Muscle memory from twenty three years of marriage, physical chemistry that hadn't died even though emotional connection had been severed months ago.
I tried to pull away, to create space between us that would allow rational thought and reasonable boundaries.
But Brett's hands were already in my hair, and his size was shifting to pin me against the couch cushions, and suddenly we were moving toward something I didn't want but couldn't figure out how to stop without creating suspicion and questions I wasn't ready to answer.
"Not here," I managed, thinking about Devin potentially coming home early and finding his parents in various states of undress on the family room furniture.
We moved upstairs to our bedroom, Brett's hands never leaving my body, his attention focused on me in a way that would have been flattering if I didn't know he was probably thinking about someone else.
Or worse, if this sudden interest in physical intimacy was motivated by guilt over what he'd been doing with Alison Crawford instead of real desire for his wife of twenty-three years.
He made love to me with robotic detachment rather than expressing passion.
His movements were known but detached, like he was going through motions he'd memorized rather than responding to desire.
I closed my eyes and tried to disconnect from what was happening, to treat this as something I needed to endure rather than participate in.
But my body knew the difference between being wanted and being accommodated.
My heart understood that this was duty sex, obligation intimacy, a physical connection that existed without emotional investment.
Brett was present in body but absent in every way that mattered, and the loneliness of that realization was worse than if he'd just left me alone entirely.
When it was over, he rolled away and was asleep within minutes, his breathing deep and even like someone who'd solved whatever problem had been troubling him. I lay awake staring at the wall, feeling more alone than I had before he'd touched me.
This wasn't the first time in recent months that Brett had initiated sex when it served his emotional needs rather than expressing real desire for me.
Usually, it happened after business trips or stressful work situations, like physical intimacy could reset our relationship and eliminate any questions about his commitment to our marriage.
I got up and took a shower, washing away the evidence of our empty encounter while thinking about the difference between making love and having sex.
Brett and I had crossed that line years ago, moving from passionate connection to routine to occasional obligation performed without joy or real intimacy.
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.
Standing under hot water that couldn't wash away the loneliness settling in my bones, I realized that tonight had been the last time I'd allow Brett to touch me.
Whatever happened next in our marriage, whatever legal proceedings and financial negotiations and custody arrangements we'd have to navigate, I was done pretending that physical connection could substitute for the emotional honesty we'd lost years ago.