Slip of the Tongue (33 page)

“What do I look like?” I ask.

“Not yourself . . .”

Instead of distracting me, talking this way is ballooning my arousal. “Is that a polite way of saying ugly?”

“Not ugly, but not pretty. Sexy as fuck, though, like . . .” His breath comes in hot bursts against my nose. He’s getting close. “An animal,” he grates, “whose prey is just out of reach.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and pull myself onto him more furiously. He meets my pace, plunging his finger deeper and faster. His honesty makes me hot. Like my face at the peak of my pleasure, it’s not pretty, but it’s real. That’s more erotic than anything.

He whispers, “You’re killing me. Hurry. I’m going to explode. I won’t finish before you.”

“You can.”

“I won’t.”

He keeps his promise. The balloon pops. When I come, my ribs rattle, my hairs stand on end. He continues to plumb my depths because fingering my asshole turns him on as much as it does me. Inaudible words pass between us. He takes the skin of my neck between his teeth. For a moment, it’s as if he’s going to rip my head off when he comes.

He doesn’t.

When I once again feel my heartbeat independently of his, he detangles from me and steals off into the bathroom. I flop back against the mattress and shut my eyes. Listening to him piss after intense lovemaking is oddly comforting. It’s small, but it’s ours, and it means something to me.

Our bed is a cloud, and I begin to drift, but then Nathan is back, standing over the bed, looking down at me.

“Everything okay?” I rasp. I remember all of a sudden that his things are on the couch, that we haven’t closed this distance yet. He looks torn, as if he can’t decide what to do.

But then he says, “Yeah. Let me just get my pillow.”

I yawn, watching him pick up his suit, put it in the closet, then walk out of and back into the room. We never finished our conversation, but I slide over in bed to let him in next to me. I turn on my side, facing him. His eyes are closed already, so I study his face, the strong, straight nose, the angular, stubbled chin. I drop my eyes. I haven’t had much of a chance to appreciate his body lately. He’s been working out harder, and it shows. His arms are sinewy and strong, his pecs firm. When he turns over, the muscles move under his skin. He’s always been godly to me, but it bothers him when we eat more and do less. He says he likes to know I still find him sexy. It blows my mind he thinks I might not.

Because I’m content enough to have him back, it takes me a moment to register that he turned
away
from me. After this long sleeping apart, and after the way he just owned me, all I want is to burrow into his arms. He doesn’t appear to feel the same way, though, and with that realization, a chill passes through the room.

In the morning, I wake late and to an empty bed. My joints crack when I sit up, my body sore and aching from last night. I warm as the memory oozes over me. The way Nathan lost his thoughts and his control just from seeing my breast. The way he bit and fucked me, then kissed and made love to me.

I pad into the kitchen. I should already be out of the shower, but I can’t bring myself to care about being behind schedule. I find my coffee mug waiting and a note from Nathan.

Ginger already fed and walked, sleepyhead.

I smile to myself at the endearment. My chest aches, and for the first time in a while, it’s in a good way. Maybe I read too much into his distance last night while we fell asleep. He came back to bed, and that’s a start. What’s more, the conversation has begun.

In the fridge, there’s an unopened quart of milk. Nathan must’ve gone to the grocery store last night. I forgot to on Sunday . . . because I was screwing Finn instead. Jarred by the thought, I grit my teeth. He’s been noticeably absent from my mind the last twenty-four hours.
Screw
isn’t really fair to Finn—he cares. He wants me. He doesn’t screw. He loves. And as much as his intensity scares me, it also delights me. Will it still if Nathan and I continue down this path to reconciliation?

I put milk in my coffee and take it into the bathroom. I undress and reluctantly shower off last night. I have to forget about Finn and focus on Nathan. As I shave my legs, I decide I want to do something nice for him, something to build on the progress we made last night. I can feel his guard dropping. He just needs a push over the edge. An idea doesn’t take long to hit me, and when it does, I know without a doubt, it’s the right one. Cook for him. Not just any meal, though. His favorite—barbeque ribs. My imagination blossoms, and I picture him coming home to a candlelight dinner, a sparkling apartment, and a safe, warm environment where we can finally put everything on the table and wipe the slate clean. The more I imagine it, the harder my heart beats.

High on adrenaline, I call in sick to work feeling no guilt as Amelia reams me out. I barely hear her anyway since I’m picturing the shock on Nathan’s face when he walks through the door and sees the spread. I hear his laugh when I admit I played hooky from work to get everything perfect. For dramatic effect, I cough into the receiver before I say goodbye to Amelia, hang up the phone, and get started.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Though I’ve made barbeque ribs countless times throughout our marriage, I stand in the kitchen, reading the recipe over and over. On the counter are bags of groceries from my trip to D’Agostino. They hold ingredients for dinner, a six-pack of craft beer recommended by a young employee, and the best calla lilies in the neighborhood. They’re Nathan’s favorite flower.

I brush the ribs with seasoning. While I work, I try to mentally prepare for the emotional side of tonight. Nate and I still have a lot of work to do, but I’m confident barbeque ribs will get him to talk. I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what he has to say, but I doubt I ever will be. If we don’t fix this now, and it continues to get worse, it’ll eventually send one of us over the edge into madness.

Once I’ve spaced out the ribs on a baking sheet and get them in the oven to roast for the next few hours, I turn and look around the kitchen. Nathan should be home between six and seven, and that gives me plenty of time to scrub the apartment spotless, especially since it’s fairly clean to begin with. I unpack the groceries, get the flowers in water, and pick up any mess I’ve made.

I move into the living room, bundle up Nathan’s sheets and blanket from the couch he’ll no longer be sleeping on, and add laundry to today’s to-do list. As I’m passing the desk, though, I stop. Even though his laptop sits there most days, I notice it now because it’s open and dark instead of shut. The urge to snoop is new to me, thanks to the last few months. Nathan doesn’t keep secrets. He’s terrible at it. But maybe instead of secrets, there are answers there, behind the blackness.

I don’t sit down, but I drop the linens on the back of the chair, lean over, and tap the space bar once. After a second, his spotless desktop appears. I open the browser and check over my shoulder, my heart in my throat. I shouldn’t be nervous, though. I use Nathan’s laptop all the time, and he uses mine. If he were to walk in right now, he wouldn’t think anything of it.

Ginger whines, and I jump, forgetting she’s even here. I glance over at her, and I swear, she shakes her head, warning me not to proceed.

I start with his search history. It’s mostly work stuff. Nathan helps maintain the Family-kind volunteer site on his own time. His dedication to this organization doesn’t surprise me after all these years, but it always awes me. It gives me a sense of pride. And now, it makes me feel dirty for not trusting him. I’m about to click out of the window and shut it down when a folder on his bookmark bar catches my eye.

Brooklyn
.

Brooklyn—are you the key to my husband’s thoughts?
I wonder.
Do you know why he doubts me?
I don’t want to know what’s in it. Except that I do. I click on it, and a list of bookmarks drops down. Craigslist. Zillow. StreetEasy. My palms sweat. How recently was he looking for apartments in Park Slope, Bay Ridge, Greenpoint, Dumbo? I don’t click on any of the links, but I recognize the neighborhoods.

A knot forms in my stomach. I “x” out of the browser quickly, like the computer’ll self-destruct if I don’t. This is why people shouldn’t snoop. You only come away with more questions. Nathan is looking for apartments in Brooklyn, and he knows I don’t want to live there. Is he pulling a Finn and leaving, with or without me?

The room seems suddenly bright. In my flurry to prepare for tonight, I haven’t had anything but coffee today. I make myself a snack and check on the ribs. All I can do is make tonight the best it can be. Brooklyn might come up at dinner anyway.

In the bathroom, I throw my hair into a bun on top of my head and scrub the mirror, the toilet, and the tub. I weed through drawers of makeup, lotions, and sample-size toiletries collected over the years. Nathan has been subtly hinting about the clutter for as long as I can remember. I end up with a trashcan full of expired or half-empty junk. I do the same to my nightstand. I am relentless, tossing receipts I might need and moving every last paperclip to the desk organizer in the other room. He’ll love this apartment when I’m finished, and the woman I am now.

Once I’ve gathered our laundry, I take the plastic basket, made heavier by a bag of quarters at the bottom, to the front door. Ginger comes bounding after me, spinning in circles and sniffing out her leash.

“We’ll go later,” I tell her and grab my keys. “All of us, together.”

As I approach the elevator, the doors split open with a ding. My heart skips. For a frenzied moment, I’m sure Nathan will walk out. It’s not close to five, but what if he comes home early? I’m not ready. The apartment isn’t perfect yet, and I haven’t planned out what I want to say.

It isn’t Nathan who steps out and stops abruptly, though. My heart rate slows a little, as if I’ve been presented with a consolation prize. Finn may be second place, but a consolation prize is a prize nonetheless, and I’m glad to see him. In the back of my mind, though, I know the truth. If I want to make things work with Nathan, and I do, I can’t lead Finn on.

He wipes his hands on his sweatshirt as he looks at me. He’s dirty, his clothing and skin stuck with something gray and tacky. “Just got back from my first pottery class,” he says, holding up his spackled palms. “Not as sexy as I thought.”

I shift the basket onto my hip. He looks as good in clay as he does in anything else. “Well, I’m not exactly spic-and-span.”

He takes in my hair on top of my head and the laundry in my arms. Nathan’s boxers are on top of the pile. “I don’t know. I think you look pretty hot as a homemaker.”

I blush. “I’m a mess.”

“We’re both a mess,” he points out and smiles. “Maybe next time we can be messy together.”

The elevator starts to close. I lurch forward. Finn catches it before I do, pushing the door back in place, his bicep flexing. My insides wither remembering those strong, skilled hands around my waist, on my cheeks, between my legs.

It’s dangerous. I shouldn’t stand here any longer, letting my imagination run wild. “Can we, um, talk?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says. “Now?”

“Not now.” I wipe my sweaty upper lip on my sleeve. “Maybe tomorrow—”

“I can’t wait that long.”

We look at each other. The elevator screams. We’ve kept the doors open too long. I go inside, and Finn releases the door. “Meet me out front in two hours,” I say. “We’ll go for a walk.”

His forehead wrinkles with his frown. His violet NYU sweatshirt makes his green eyes pop. It’s almost hard to look at him. “Why can’t we do it here?” he asks.

The doors shut. I’m jittery from consuming almost nothing but coffee all day. His puzzled expression stays in my mind. I deflate against the back wall of the elevator. Chores, dinner, and Brooklyn are momentarily unimportant. What I really want right now is to lose myself in Finn’s adoration and warmth, in his big hands, for a few hours. He can help me forget how much hope I’m placing in a basket of dirty clothes.

I can’t, though. I don’t want to surround myself in him as badly as I want to fight through this with Nathan. I’ll tell him we’re through. That he has to stay away. He can’t really argue—he never had me to begin with. He can’t completely own my heart when most of it belongs to someone else. Does he know that it does, though?

I get the laundry going and head back up. When Nathan gets home, the apartment will sparkle, our bed will smell
April Fresh
, and the dining room table will be a spread fit for
bon appétit
. When I picture it, I panic. I can’t remember if we have candles, and lighting’s vital to set the mood. I tear apart our linen closet until I locate two stubby, jarred soy candles. Not ideal, but since they’re unscented, they won’t compete with home-cooked ribs. While I’m there, I unearth and clean placemats and the fine silverware Nathan’s mom gave us when she moved to California. Once the table is set, I run down to move the wash into a dryer, then take the stairs back up. My heart pumps. My face is red with exertion. It feels good to move, to use my legs, to feel blood in my veins.

I drag the dining table out of our plain kitchen and into the living room. The loveseat goes against a wall to make room. I vacuum the carpet with special attention to the indents from the chair.

When it’s time to get the laundry, I wash my hands of grime and check my watch. I have enough time to bring it upstairs, run a comb through my hair, and meet Finn.

An elderly woman comes up from the basement as I go down. I recognize her from around the building and throw her a cheerful
hello
, even though we’ve never spoken. The laundry room machines churn, swish, and whir at full capacity, even on a weekday afternoon. My rubber soles screech against the vinyl floor. I toss the basket between the two dryers I’m using. Nathan’s clothes are done, but the linens are spinning wildly. I’m bent over, emptying the first dryer’s contents into the basket when the door behind me opens.

The air in the room changes. I straighten up. Heavy footsteps cross the floor.