60
claire
I lift the lid on the pot and inhale the smell of basil and tomatoes. The water in the other pot is just coming to a bubble and I grab the box of pasta out of the cupboard. After giving the marinara a final stir, I turn the heat down to low and replace the lid. The door that leads from the garage into the kitchen opens. “Wipe your feet,” I say, without turning around. It rained earlier and the kids have been tracking in mud ever since they got home from school.
“It’s me,” Chris says. I didn’t hear his car pull in, and I whip around, surprised that he’s home so early on a Friday.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to land until eight?”
“I wanted to get home sooner,” he says, setting down his suitcase and his laptop. “I had to fly standby, but I got lucky.” Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he joins me at the stove and lifts the lid on the marinara, inhaling just like I did moments earlier. “That smells good.”
“I used your mom’s recipe,” I say. “It’s the best.” I dump the pasta into the water that’s finally come to a rolling boil and set the timer. “I thought I’d be heating it up for you hours from now.”
Chris loosens his tie and says, “Nope. I can eat with you and the kids tonight.” He removes the tie completely, throws it on the island, and unbuttons the top two buttons on his shirt. “Are they outside?” he asks.
“They’re at Elisa’s, playing with Travis.”
I cross the kitchen to the cupboard where I keep my colander and after I locate it I set it near the edge of the sink. I need a bowl for the pasta and I finally spot the one I want on a high shelf, but I can’t quite reach it even when I’m standing on my tiptoes.
Chris walks up behind me and reaches over my shoulder to grab the bowl. His front is pressed up against my back and he doesn’t move after he sets the bowl on the counter. We don’t speak and suddenly the only sound in the kitchen is the sound of our breathing. He uses one hand to brush my hair to the side and then nuzzles my neck.
“I came home early because I missed you, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. The other night, when we talked on the phone—after we hung up I laid in that hotel room bed all alone and I couldn’t remember what you smelled like. How you taste. I couldn’t remember, Claire.”
His words make me feel cherished and I want to stand there in the kitchen with his arms wrapped around me and just bask in them. But then something shifts and I feel him. I feel what he’s saying, and the physical side takes over. The side that wants him the way I always have. My desire pushes his affection away and replaces it with something more primal.
Chris flutters a series of soft kisses along my neck and pulls the collar of my shirt to the side so he can reach my shoulder. And he is hard. Very hard. I can tell how much he wants me and a wave of desire reaches the innermost parts of my body. Turning me around, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me as if his life depended on it. I kiss him with just as much intensity, my tongue meeting his and our mouths moving instinctively into the right position, the right angle, the way they have been since he kissed me for the first time over a decade ago.
The edge of the countertop digs into my back, but I don’t care. Chris is sucking on my neck, biting softly, and I run my hands through his hair and press my body as firmly against him as I can. He lifts me up on the counter and starts unbuttoning my shirt. I help him with the buttons and it takes only seconds with us working together for the job to be done. He doesn’t bother taking my shirt off, but once my bra is exposed he reaches around to unhook it and then shoves it up toward my neck so he can get to my breasts. I nearly scream when his tongue makes contact with my nipple. He licks it a few times and then takes the whole thing into his mouth. He’s pulling gently on my other nipple with his thumb and forefinger, and I grab the back of his head and wrap my legs around his waist. The edge of the hard granite countertop prevents him from grinding our lower bodies together and he finally gives up and pulls on the button of my jeans instead. He plunges his hand inside them before he gets the zipper even halfway down. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, when he touches me and discovers how wet I am. He strokes me and the sound of my whimpering fills the kitchen. This only seems to fuel his desire because his breathing is out of control and he starts making a few noises of his own.
I’m reaching for the button on his pants when Josh bangs on the locked sliding glass door off of the kitchen; I can see him out of the corner of my eye. At the same exact time the doorbell rings. It’s Jordan. I know this by the ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong that reaches the kitchen and will continue until someone goes to the front door. Why don’t they ever use the same entrance? Thankfully, Chris shut the garage when he got home, otherwise they would have burst into the kitchen and caught us in flagrante delicto. The timer for the pasta goes off and the telephone rings, because apparently there’s not enough going on.
Chris groans in frustration and I want time to stand still, because Chris and I desperately need to finish what we’ve started. But instead I remove Chris’s hand, jump off the counter, and quickly zip my jeans and button my shirt, leaving my bra unhooked, focusing only on covering up my nakedness so my children won’t be traumatized. Chris opens the back door for Josh and I go to the front. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong.
“Stop ringing the doorbell,” I say when I unlock the door and fling it open.
“Hi, Mommy,” Jordan says. “Whatcha doin’?”
I step aside so she can come in. “Nothing,” I say. “Just making dinner. Go wash up.”
I turn off the stove, drain the pasta, and combine it with the marinara, then dash into the bathroom to fasten my bra and button my jeans. When I come out, Chris is standing there with rumpled hair and a smile on his face.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“You don’t even know how much,” he says.
I set the salad and pasta on the table and Chris and I transition into parenting mode. Jordan wants butter on her pasta, and a sprinkling of parmesan. “I don’t like Grandma Canton’s sauce. It’s too spicy,” she says.
“It’s not spicy at all,” I say. But Jordan thinks everything is spicy, and I knew this was coming, which is why I scooped some of the pasta into a separate bowl before I added the sauce. I decide this battle is not worth fighting and grab the butter and cheese.
Josh informs us he’s not eating any salad. “I only like ranch,” he says. He points to the bottle of Italian dressing. “I don’t like that kind.”
I get up and grab a new bottle of ranch from the cupboard and hand it to him.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says. Harmony restored. “How come you’re home so early, Dad?” Josh asks.
“I took an earlier flight. I missed you guys,” Chris says, reaching over to ruffle Josh’s hair. “Tell me about what’s going on at school.”
They take turns regaling Chris with their accomplishments and he splits his attention equally between them. At the end of the meal, when he asks them to help clear the table, they do his bidding eagerly, fighting over who gets to carry more dishes to the sink.
I send them off to play while I clean up the kitchen. A thought occurs to me when I’m loading the dishwasher, and I wipe my hands on a towel and open the cupboard. No matter how much I move things around, no matter how hard I search, I can’t find Chris’s bottle of antidepressants. I’d bet money that I will not be able to find the other bottle, the one he keeps in his suitcase, either.
At eight we give the kids a five-minute warning. We can perform this bedtime routine in our sleep: pajamas, brushing teeth, reading, and tucking in. Tonight, Chris takes Jordan and I take Josh. We field requests for one more kiss, a drink of water. Finally, we turn off their bedroom lights and reconvene downstairs.
“Goddamn it,” Chris yells. He’s gone into our home office to check his e-mail one last time.
I pop my head in. “What’s wrong?”
“Jim needs my reports. The ones I didn’t finish because I caught the earlier flight.” Chris exhales in frustration and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He said he didn’t need them until Monday, so I didn’t work on them on the plane. For once, I didn’t want to work on the plane.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll wait for you.”
Chris gets out of his chair and walks around to the front of the desk, where I’m standing. “I’ll be up as soon as I can. I promise. Give me one hour, two at the most.” He pulls me toward him and puts his arms around me. The kiss he places on my lips is tender and my joy knows no bounds because I feel as if my husband is finally trying to make his way back to me.