Because (Seven Year Itch #4)(4)
Chapter 2
Before I continue with my story I think it’s safe to admit I’ve always been a romantic, seemly decided on finding Mr. Right while I was young and living out the rest of my life happy and in love.
Okay, I know you’re probably rolling your eyes at my assumption. If I knew now what I knew then I would have run as far away from love as humanly possible. I’d never wish this kind of pain and struggle on anyone else, certainly not someone trying to raise a child.
It’s not like I was giving a rundown of how true love works. I thought if we were sexually compatible everything else would fall into place. We didn’t have to be friends to fall in love, so I assumed.
Speaking of intimacy with my husband…
I no longer expect goodbye kisses or any at all. I’m lucky if we screw while facing one another. Usually he’d get an urge and bend me over, lasting about forty five seconds and then leave me filled with a dripping mess for the rest of the day. Our sex life isn’t spontaneous. It’s more premeditated.
We don’t mutually come together to ravage one another. I often wondered if it means anything to him at all. On most occasions we have sex because he wants to do something I don’t agree with. Apparently he thinks if he gives me sex I’ll give in and let him do whatever his cold-heart desires.
This time isn’t much different from the one before. Brandon has been getting on me about going out with his friends for the past two weeks. When it was originally mentioned he’d been vague about the details. He’d said they were meeting after work and going to happy hour at a nearby bar. The last time he’d done something like this he didn’t come home until early morning, claiming they all got too drunk to drive home. The thing is, I’d called and talked to him, offering to drive out in the middle of the night and pick him and his friends up instead of them having to pay for a room. The mere mention of it set him off. He didn’t speak to me for days afterwards, blaming me for being more overbearing than his own mother.
I was raised that a woman is an equal in the relationship, but also appreciated taking care of her man. I enjoyed doing things to make him happy. I felt as if our marriage would strive if I kept my man at a close arm’s length. In my heart I wanted to be resolved to the fact that him being content would ensure us a future without the worries of infidelity and regrets.
Not a single day goes by where I don’t wonder what goes on in his mind. It’s obvious he doesn’t tell me how he’s feeling. I’ve become accustomed to assuming the worst, because anything else wouldn’t allow for me to recover.
Aside from my everyday concerns, I still strive to satisfy him. If he wants sex, I give it to him. I still take pleasure in pleasing him. While he’s away I’d read about being a better lover, and even explore my body to ensure we’re both getting the pleasure we desire.
Brandon has his own ways of studying our sexuality.
He’d rather watch porn on his cell phone than together with me, and I’m not sure any other scenario will work for me anyway. Not that I’m a selfish person, but I feel like he’s cheating when he does that. I’m jealous those girls are everything I’m not. I’m insecure to a fault. I can’t help it. I want my man to devote his heart and soul to me completely. The idea of him getting turned on by another person irritates me to no end. I’m a hypocrite, because many times I’ve used my bullet to bring myself pleasure while imagining being with other people. Sometimes it’s the only way I can get off.
I’m damaged and he’s to blame.
So damaged I see a shrink once a week, because he says I’m mental. For the most part, I talk my head off and cry for about fifty-five minutes and then she tells me we’ll talk more during our next session. All she’s helping me to see is how much money I’m wasting going to her. She did offer me one piece of advice. She told me if I wasn’t happy I should end my marriage.
Why don’t I leave, you ask?
It’s simple.
He’s everything to me. He’s the father of my child. He’s the future I want to have. I still believe there is hope for us, I just don’t know the first thing about being able to achieve it. I’ve never been one to quit. When the going gets tough, I manage to find a solution.
This too shall pass.
I think.
When I look into my daughter’s eyes I know I can’t give up. There has to be some way to resolve this without tearing us apart. I’m at the end of my rope. This is going to kill me if I don’t do something about it.
I can’t turn to my parents, or his for that matter. They’d never understand. They don’t believe he’s as bad as I say. This has to be something I do on my own.
Later in the night Aberdeen is in bed with me. She always ends up here, and normally her father and I are against it unless he isn’t home to complain. She’s cuddled up against me, her little body full of sweat. I squirm away from her hold and readjust the covers, hoping it will cool her down. After further inspection I realize she’s burning up with fever. Worried something could be wrong, I lightly shake her awake. “Honey, wake up for Mommy.”
Her little eyes are heavy as they open. She’s lethargic, unlike her normal energetic demeanor.
“Sweetie, stay here. I’m going to get you some Tylenol. You have a fever.”