All Your Perfects(36)

I want so much to enjoy my husband without the one thing I know he needs the most and the one thing I want the least. But he makes so many sacrifices for me; I know I should sometimes do the same for him. I just wish sex wasn’t a sacrifice for me.

But it is. And it’s one I decide to make for him tonight. It’s been too long, and he’s been way too patient.

I lift one leg over the back of the couch and lower one to the floor, just as he pushes into me. His warm breath rolls down my throat as he thrusts into me repeatedly.

Today is the thirteenth.

What is fourteen days from today?

“Quinn,” he whispers, his lips barely touching mine. I keep my eyes closed and my body limp, allowing him to use me to fuck the drunkenness out of himself. “Kiss me, Quinn.”

I open my mouth but keep my eyes closed. My arms are resting loosely above my head and I’m counting on my fingers how many days it’s been since I last had a period. Am I even ovulating? I’m almost finished counting when Graham grabs my right hand and wraps it around his neck. He buries his face into my hair while gripping one of my legs, wrapping it around his waist.

I’m not.

I’m five days past ovulation.

I sigh heavily; disappointed that there won’t even be a chance this leads to anything. It’s difficult enough bringing myself to make love at all anymore, so the fact that this time doesn’t even count fills me with regret. Why couldn’t this have happened last week, instead?

Graham pauses above me. I wait for his release, but nothing about him tenses. He just pulls his face away from my hair and looks down at me. His eyebrows are drawn together and he shakes his head, but then drops his face to my neck again, thrusting against me. “Can’t you at least pretend you still want me? Sometimes I feel like I’m making love to a corpse.”

His own words make him pause.

Tears are falling down my cheeks when he pulls out of me with regret.

His breath is hot against my neck, but this time I hate the way it feels. The way it smells just like the beer that gave him the uninhibited nerve to say those words to me. “Get off me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

I press my hands against his chest, ignoring the immediate and intense regret in his voice. “Get the fuck off me.”

He rolls onto his side, grabbing my shoulder, attempting to roll me toward him. “Quinn, I didn’t mean it. I’m drunk, I’m sorry . . .”

I push off the couch and practically run out of the living room without entertaining his apologies. I go straight to the shower and wash him out of me while I let the water wash away my tears.

“Can’t you at least pretend you still want me?”

I squeeze my eyes shut as the mortification rolls through me.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m making love to a corpse.”

I swipe angrily at my tears. Of course he feels like he’s making love to a corpse. It’s because he is. I haven’t felt alive inside in years. I’ve slowly been rotting away, and that rot is now eating at my marriage to the point that I can no longer hide it.

And Graham can no longer stand it.

When I finish in the shower, I expect to find him in our bed, but he isn’t there. He’s probably so drunk; he just passed out on the sofa. As angry as I am at him for saying what he said, I also feel enough compassion to check on him and make sure he’s okay.

When I walk through the dark kitchen toward the living room, I don’t even see him standing at the counter until I pass him and he grabs my arm. I gasp from the unexpectedness of it.

I look up at him, ready to yell at him, but I can’t. It’s hard to yell at someone for speaking their truth. The moon is casting just enough light into the windows and I can see the sadness has returned to his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He just pulls me to him and holds me.

No . . . he clings to me.

The back of my T-shirt is clenched into two solid fists as he tightens his grip around me. I can feel his regret for allowing those words to slip from his mouth, but he doesn’t tell me he’s sorry again. He just holds me in silence because he knows at this point, an apology is futile. Apologies are good for admitting regret, but they do very little in removing the truth from the actions that caused the regret.

I allow him to hold me until my hurt feelings put a wedge between us. I pull away and look down at my feet for a moment, wondering if I want to say anything to him. Wondering if he’s going to say anything to me. When the room remains silent, I turn and walk to our bedroom. He follows me, but all we do is crawl into bed, turn our backs toward each other and avoid the inevitable.





Chapter Fifteen




* * *





Then


I ate the slice of pie in five bites.

Graham’s parents seemed a little confused by our hasty exit. He told his mother we had tickets to a fireworks show and we needed to go before we missed the grand finale. I was relieved she didn’t catch the metaphorical part of his lie.

We do very little speaking on the way home. Graham says he likes to drive with the windows down at night. He turns the music up and grabs my hand, holding it all the way back to my place.

When we reach my apartment, I open the door and make it halfway across the living room before I realize he hasn’t followed me inside. I turn around and he’s leaning against the frame of the door like he has no intention of coming in.