Chassidy

I stare at the blinking cursor on a blank page that screams that I’m a failure, that the books I wrote before were flukes, that eventually all my readers will know I’m a fraud, a one-hit wonder who writes about things I haven’t felt in a long time that seem so far out of reach.

I push my chair away from the desk and flip on my television. I should just start with the first sentence, but instead I grab a carton of butter pecan ice cream and park myself in front of the latest season of Real Housewives.

“Maybe I do need a life coach,” I mutter.

I watch my favorite character get yelled at by the group of equally rich women and turn it off before the episode is over. I’ll wait until it’s on demand and I can fast forward through the parts I don’t like. I lie back, pulling the throw over me. It’s only seven and I usually don’t sleep until ten, but it’s where I find relief. I close my eyes and try to think of good things, happy things.

At first my dreams are happy and make me smile, but when I wake, my heart is pounding and I’m sweating.

I saw her.

Anna and Bryce together. He was holding her and looking at me with the most fantastic smile, the smile of the happiest man in the world. Then she disappeared and the pink blanket he was holding her in became stained with blood. The despair in his eyes, the wail in his throat haunts me. I shoot off the couch toward the kitchen sink and splash my face with water.

I haven’t seen him since I lost her.

It was too early to know if it was a boy or a girl, but I felt in my heart she was a girl.

She sneaked in on me. We weren’t trying. Logan took so much out of us, seeing his face and holding his tiny body, his hand curled around my finger as if he were alive… I thought I’d never recover from losing him. It took months until I felt like me again, until we felt like us.

It was so long before we didn’t feel guilty when we smiled or laughed.

I don’t want to say that we moved on because it makes him seem like we dropped him off and left him behind, but we managed to live again. Bryce was there for me, but I almost pulled him into my darkness instead of him pulling me out. I saw the man I loved with bright eyes, a kind spirit, and unbreakable resilience slipping beneath the current with me. But he managed to keep me from going under and pulled us both out.

I lost her while he was gone. For ten weeks she was mine, a little secret I couldn’t wait to share with him, but I was cautious. Or was I selfish? Did I have some sort of sixth sense that she wouldn’t be alive for long? I knew her for five weeks. Five weeks of joy and hope died within me, and the only evidence of her was left on sheets that I had to strip and throw out so he wouldn’t see.

I go for the bottle of vodka Bryce usually partakes in. At least if I have another bad dream, I’ll be too drunk to remember it when I wake up. I begin to open the bottle as someone knocks at the door. I grab my cell phone to see if anyone called or texted me about coming over. When I don’t see any missed messages, I hesitantly make my way to the door. For a moment, my heart leaps, thinking it’s Bryce home early and wanting to surprise me, before the feeling of dread returns. Don’t get too excited in case you’re disappointed. It’s always been my mantra.

“Who is it?” I ignore the creeping anticipation climbing up my chest.

“Carter. From next door.”

My heart skips a beat, and I open the door. This time his brown curls are partially covered with a beanie, and I wonder how it’s possible that he’s cuter than he was yesterday.

“Hey, neighbor,” he says with an enthusiasm you’d think he was too cool for.

“Hi,” I say, my surprise not hidden in my face or tone.

“I’m not bothering you, am I?” he asks almost sheepishly.

I give a small shrug, commanding my eyes not to lock on his chest. It’s broad and sculpted enough that I can see each line through his shirt. He’s got to be a personal trainer or something… but he seems too laid-back for that. I worked with a trainer for a few weeks after I after Logan, and he was like a legit drill sergeant.

“Um not really. Well I was sort of working, then I got sidetracked by reality TV crack,” I joke, running my hand through my hair nervously. I start to tell him I had a nightmare, but I keep that to myself. I wonder why it would have come out so easily.

He looks amused. “You work from home?”

“Yeah, something like that.” My thoughts focus on why he’s knocked on my door.

He reads my expression and gestures to his door. “I locked my key in there. The maintenance guy said it’d be about twenty minutes or something…” He gives me a smile that I’m sure has convinced many women to make bad decisions.

“Oh, you want to come in?” It comes out more like a confused accusation than an invitation.

“Or… I could go sit in the café downstairs,” he says with a lopsided smile.

“No, don’t be silly. Come in.” I stand back and motion for him to come in.

His blue eyes sparkle at me. “You sure?”

“Yes, completely. If you turn out to be a psycho though, I have a black belt, so just be forewarned,” I kid, feeling a little more at ease.

He turns around, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really?”

“Let’s pretend, okay?” I whisper as if telling him a secret.

He nods and gives me an adorable wink. I fight the smile spreading across my face, but it’s useless.

“Can I sit down?” he asks, gesturing to the barstools lined up against my island.

“Yeah, please.”

He takes a seat and rests his upper body on his elbows on the island. I watch him look around the apartment, and my face flushes scarlet as his gaze lands on the bottle of vodka. I swipe it from the counter and tuck it neatly onto its shelf under the sink.

“Is it like de ja vu?” I ask, heading to the refrigerator.

“Yeah,” he says with a chuckle.

I grab a water bottle and hold it out to him. “My debt repaid.”

His lips turn up into a grin. “I’m glad you were home. The maintenance guy makes me nervous.”

Magnew, our maintenance man, is a 4’11” Polish man with a mouth like a sailor and a stern look and harsh tone for any guy in the building. He’s always a jerk to Bryce and a little puppy with me, so Bryce always has me call when something goes wrong in the apartment. It’s funny how two big strong guys like Bryce and Carter can be intimidated by little Magnew.

“He’s as sweet his pie. His bark’s worse than his bite,” I say, and he shrugs.

His eyes continue to inspect the apartment, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s a thief. He could be scouting the place, but it’d be pretty ridiculous to rob your next-door neighbor when you’re new to the building.

“How long have you lived here?” he asks.

“Going on three years,” I say, taking a seat on the stool farthest from him. “Me and Bryce.”

My eyes fall on the picture of us, a picture of when we were happy—truly, disgustingly happy. The kind of happy that would make you swear the couple had just met or were doing it all for show, but we weren’t. We had the kind of love I write about—or used to at least.

Carter’s eyes follow my gaze. I guess I’ve been staring at the picture longer than I realized.

“Is that you guys?” he asks, and I nod. He points at the frame. “May I?”

I shrug.

He walks over and picks it up. “You guys look like one of the couples on those magazines.”

I feel myself blush. I wonder if that’s a guy’s way of saying Bryce is attractive? Bryce is—there’s never been any denying that. He was one of the most beautiful human beings I’d ever met, with thick ash-blond hair swirled with natural golden-blond highlights. He has naturally moist, kissable lips and forest-green eyes with speckles of amber around the iris. He had me at first look.

“Thanks,” I say as he puts it down.

“What type of guy is he?” he asks, striding back to his seat.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean is he the type of guy who’d kick the chair out from under me if he saw me sitting here with you?”

I laugh.

“Or would he offer me a beer and we could all watch the game together?”

I smile and let out a short sigh. “Umm, a little bit in between, I guess.”

“So he’ll knock me out of the chair and offer me a water bottle?” he jokes, and I laugh.

“He’s not really jealous. I never give him a reason to be though.”

“You’re frowning,” he says with a half smile.

“No, I’m not.”

He nods adamantly. “Yeah, you are.”

Then I notice the muscles in my face are scrunched up. “Sorry, I wasn’t frowning at you.”

“Were you frowning about what you said?”

“Why would I frown about that?”

“I don’t know. Do you think you should give him a reason to be jealous?”

I search his face for some hint of flirtation. His words sounded like a pick-up line, but I see no trace of innuendo. “No, why would I want to make my husband jealous?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Women are weird sometimes. No offense.” He puts his hands up in defense.

“No, I don’t want to make my husband jealous.” As I say it, I ignore the slight tingle inside me at the thought of Bryce walking in, seeing Carter here, and being jealous. I like the idea of making sure he knows I’m still desirable, that he still wants me and would fight for me.

But I already know that.

“So what women are driving you crazy?”

“None, thank God,” he says, and my eyes widen.

“Really hate women, huh?”

“No, it’s just that you’re a complicated species,” he says with a casual shrug.

Suddenly it hits me. Carter hasn’t flirted with me, and he’s completely harmless. He’s definitely gay. I feel a wave of anxiety leave my body. Of course he’s gay, because I live in the real world and not a romance novel. No woman is allowed to have a single guy neighbor who looks as impressive as he does.

“No meddling mother?” I ask.

He chuckles, displaying a teasing grin. “More like a really involved father.”

I smile tightly, thinking of my own dad and how laid-back he is. He called me two days ago and I forgot to call him back. I make a mental note to do that.

“So what were you working on?”

I look at him, confused.

“When I got here, you said you were working on something before being sucked into crap TV.”

“Oh right,” I mutter.

As I think, I take the hair tie off my wrist and put my hair up, flicking away some stray blond strands. I bite the corner of my lip. Telling people what I do, especially people I just met, is always weird. Some people are genuinely interested and impressed, but others are dismissive or ask a million questions, including personal questions that people of other occupations never get asked. Questions like am I any good, how much money do I make, is my book like insert any that’s been made into a movie over the past five years.

“A story,” I say quickly. “What do you do?”

When he looks at me with curiosity littering his handsome face, I know I’m not going to dissuade him so easily. “Like what type of story? Like an anecdote, a journal entry?”

I sigh. “No, more like a book. Nothing really significant like War and Peace or anything.”

“But a book, like a real book with a lot of pages?” he asks, sounding even more enthused.

I feel better answering this one, since he seems to be in the camp of nicer people, but now I feel like his opinion of me is higher than I deserve. I stand and walk over to the refrigerator to distract myself. “Trying. I’ve been a little stuck.”

“That’s so cool! You’re writing a book!”

I feel my face heat up as I take out a carton of blackberries. I never know what to say when people compliment me like that. Thanks seems sort of pretentious or snobby, so I stuff my mouth instead.

“What made you decide to do it? How far are you into it? Are you into it? How do you have the time?” His questions come rapidly, and I feel anxiety creeping up from my neck to my head.

“Well, I always loved to read, I just started this one, and I write full time, so technically all the time in the world.” I offer him the carton, and he takes a handful of berries.

“Wait, you said, ‘this one,’ which means you’ve written books before?”

Now I feel embarrassed from how he’s looking at me—like I’m an interesting creature.

“Yeah,” I tell him, wishing he’d pick up on how much I’d rather talk about something else.

“How many?”

“Three,” I mutter, tucking my loose hair behind my ear as I lean against the refrigerator.

“That’s amazing! So you’re not, like, just a writer.” He pops the remaining blackberries in his mouth and swallows them in almost a gulp. “You’re an ‘author.’”

I giggle uncomfortably and shrug. “I think they’re the same thing.”

“So is that what you do, like, write all day?” he asks, still enthusiastic.

“It’s what I should be doing… but most of the time, I end up watching reality TV and eating junk food.”

“And the occasional blackberry,” he adds, his eyes gleaming.

I’m so glad he’s gay, because if he wasn’t, I’d feel really guilty for looking at him how I am. When you’re a writer, you get to look at really attractive people in a non-pervy way because you need descriptions for characters, and what a book boyfriend he’d make.

“That you’re right about.” I sense he’s about to drop the subject, but just in case, I’ll head him off. “So what do you do?”

He glances at the ceiling as if he’s uncomfortable talking about his job as I am. “It’s sort of complicated.”

I scoff. After he interrogated me, he’s not getting off that easily. “Oh no, please explain.”

“You could say I work for a not-for-profit.”

I feel my eyes widen. Handsome and charitable? He’d be perfect for Kelsey if she weren’t already married to a handsome charitable man. Maybe Nicole, if she didn’t eat him alive first… he seems a little too laid-back for her.

“What sort of not-for-profit?”

“Helping people?”

I raise my brow at him, and he gives me an innocent smile that makes me smile back. “Do you really work for a not-for-profit, or are you secretly a billionaire who’s moved into the building to track down a long-lost love?”

He tilts his head as if he’s confused, and I chuckle at my own joke.

“Sorry, I’ve been reading a little too much.”

“You write suspense?”

I laugh. “Maybe one day. Right now, it’s more like love stories.” I would say romance, but then I’d get the inevitable Fifty Shades question, and even if he is gay, it’d be sort of awkward explaining to him the difference between romance and erotica.

“Is it true to life?” he asks, and that surprises me. “You and Bryce?”

I’m surprised he remembered my husband’s name, and the question makes me feel tense and sad all at once. “No, I haven’t gotten to our story yet. Romance readers like drama, and we’ve never really had much.”

“So you write those books that used to be in the grocery store with the Fabio guy on it?” he jokes.

“Not exactly.” I laugh as I notice his phone vibrate. He looks at it and frowns before getting to his feet. “From the exasperated look on your face, I assume it’s Magnew?”

“Why couldn’t the maintenance guy look like Megan Fox or Beyoncé?” he asks as he grudgingly heads to the door.

Wait, is he gay?

“Well, thanks for letting me squat here for a while,” he says, his hand on the knob.

“Any time, it’s an excuse for me to not write.”

His smile fades a bit and his expression becomes more serious. “You should write a story where, you know, you get your happy ending.”

I start to feel uncomfortable, but his smile stretches, erasing any trace of awkwardness.

“Don’t eat too much fruit. Mix it up with some doughnuts or something,” he jokes before leaving.

I close the door and sigh, then I think about how out of touch you have to be to mention Fabio before Fifty Shades.

I can’t sleep tonight. Everything is keeping me awake. First the temperature in the room is too hot, then it’s too cold. It’s too quiet, then not quiet enough. I’m so restless for the first time in a long time, I hop out of bed and head to my office, which is just a desk with a MacBook in our living room. Bryce has asked me a million times if I want to turn our extra bedroom into an office, but each time he asks, I become silent, angry, bitter. It makes me feel as though he’s given up on us ever being able to use that room as a nursery.

I let out a frustrated breath and push that thought out of my head. I pull up the document I was working on before my “writer’s block” hit me. This story was supposed to be light and filled with humor, a feel-good tale, sort of like a Hallmark movie with a hint of Lifetime. I had a good chunk of it done. I knew my characters and connected with them and writing it was fun. Then I lost Anna and all of the humor and hope in the story left me. Every time I try to write a scene in this story, it ends in death, something my readers would balk at. I take my readers through hell, but there’s always a happy ending, a thread of hope wrapped around each obstacle and tied into a bow. Now I’m out of thread.

Bryce loved this story. He said it was his favorite one yet. Well, he always tells me the newest is his favorite, and I always believe him because he always tells me he fell in love with my words. He sees my books before anyone else, the good, the bad, the vulnerable parts of me. I’ve shared so many things with him, and he’s always made me feel safe.

I’ve never been able to do that for him, and lately, it seems I’ve only brought him pain. After we lost Logan, I was hurting so badly, but I couldn’t bring myself out of it to help him with his pain. He was always so strong and never let me see how losing our son affected him. But on the nights we made love—and it took months before I was ready again—when he thought I was asleep, he’d reveal his pain, his devastation, his mourning. Those moments hurt more than Logan’s loss itself, because he knew I couldn’t handle carrying his grief when I was so weighed down by my own.

I can’t see him hurt again. Anna is the first secret I’ve ever kept from him, and I hate myself for it. The tears I tried to blink away earlier are falling full force now, and I can’t stop them. I feel weak and angry that I haven’t gotten over this yet.

I ignore the tears, open a new document on my computer, and try to focus when I hear the key turn in the lock. I jump from the keyboard and bolt to the couch, where I pull the throw over me. I hear Bryce come in and drop his bag at the door after he closes it. My heart pounds as I try to pull myself together. I can’t let him see me like this.

I hear his footsteps. I know he’s headed to the kitchen—it’s always his first stop. If he didn’t work out so much, I swear he’d be shaped like Peter Griffin from the way he eats. The water comes on first—he’s washing his hands—then I notice the smell of takeout. He’s not cooking, which means he’ll be heading my way any second to park in front of the TV and destroy one of his favorite meals.

Just as I predicted, I hear his footsteps approaching. He stops beside me. I know I’ve surprised him—I never used to sleep on the couch. It’s leather and he never wanted us to get it, but I fell in love with the way it looked, and as he usually does, he let me win.

“Chas?”

I close my eyes tighter. I hear him put the food on the coffee table, and a few moments later, he’s lifting my legs and he rests them on his lap.

“Chas, you fell asleep on the couch. You never fall asleep on the couch,” he tells me quietly.

I keep my eyes closed. If I open them, I’ll start crying. I hear him let out a sigh, and I wonder if he knows I’m awake. In a second, he lifts me from the couch, puts me in our bed, and sweeps the covers over me. I want to tell him that I’m so glad he’s home and how much I’ve missed him, but instead I keep pretending I’m asleep, not entirely sure if he buys it or not. After a while, I hear the television come on, so I slip out of bed and crack open the door to sneak a peek at him. He’s only in the next room, but he seems so far away, and I know it’s my fault.

* * *

I wake up to the phone vibrating on my bed. I also see that I have three missed calls. They’re all from my mother of course.

I take a deep breath and answer. “Hey, Mom,” I say, trying to remove the grogginess from my voice.

“Where have you been? I’ve called you a million times,” she squeals.

“Mom, you called me four times in a row this morning. I was sleeping,” I tell her, sitting up in the bed. I look around the room and see no trace of Bryce. Him coming home so early was a surprise. He wasn’t due back until tomorrow.

“Are you listening to me?”

I’m so glad she doesn’t have an iPhone and can’t Facetime me. “I am, Mom, I’m just looking for Bryce.”

“What do you mean? You’ve lost him?” she asks sarcastically.

I know I must be sleepy because why would I ever tell my mother the truth? I’m now in the living room and there’s no sign of him.

“No, it’s complicated,” I say tightly.

“Everything is always so complicated with you. Why is that?”

“Mom, please, not this morning,” I beg, searching for a sign of his things.

It’s nine thirty, so his usual routine would mean he'd just come back from his run an hour ago and now he’d be in the shower, but there’s no sign of him anywhere. I head to the kitchen and check for the takeout bag in the garbage. If it wasn’t there, I’d think I imagined the entire thing.

“Are you guys okay?”

I note the smugness of her tone and I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. “Yes, we’re perfect.”

I love my mom, but she’s never been the biggest supporter of our relationship. Since my dad left, she’s had a strong disbelief in having a relationship with anyone. Boyfriends yes, flings yes, but marriage? She thinks they’re all doomed to fail and she didn’t hesitate to tell me that the day I told her Bryce had proposed.

“You don’t sound perfect,” she says accusingly.

“Let me call you back.” I hang up and text Bryce.

Are you home? is the weirdest text a woman should have to send to her husband. I’m startled when I hear keys in the door and, a few moments later, it opens.

“Hey,” he says, his voice uneven. He looks almost as surprised as I am to see him.

I smile at him—it’s genuine and not forced. He’s always had the ability to make me smile, even in my saddest moments. His eyes smile at me, but it doesn’t reach his lips. His eyes lock on mine, trying to read me, read who I am today. Am I someone he can talk to, touch, make love to, or someone who will freeze up and want her distance?

I hate myself for not knowing. Awkwardness has grown between us like weeds. When did they start? The day I found out I was pregnant with Anna and I didn’t tell him. Ever since then, there’s been a secret between us that I couldn’t share yet, and now… well, it doesn’t even matter.

He pulls his sweatshirt over his head, and in doing so, his white wife beater pulls up, showing his etched stomach and strong arms. My skin heats up from the sight. Our distance has never been due to my body not desiring him, and it’s screaming at me now. It’s been a little over two months since we made love. I’ve missed him so much.

He folds up the sweatshirt and sets it on a barstool, then he sits down, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His eyes trail up my body, and my stomach flips. Then his eyes lock on mine. They’re big warm pools that I used to swim in every night.

“You slept on the couch last night.” His tone is cautious, hesitant, and he stuffs his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

“I just fell asleep,” I say meekly.

He squints at me in disbelief, then he sighs, looking at me as if he’s searching for the woman he used to love, as if I’m a ghost of myself. “You never fall asleep on the couch.”

There was a time when he came back from trips and would wake me up so we could make love for hours. Now we’re almost uncomfortable to be in the same room with each other.

“There’s a first time for everything.”

He nods, but he’s skeptical. He knows it’s nearly impossible to get a good night’s sleep on the Couch of Death.

“Do you want me to make breakfast?” I ask, walking toward the fridge.

“I grabbed something after my run,” he says before I get a chance to open it.

“Oh.”

“But I can sit down and eat with you,” he says quickly, but I don’t want his pity breakfast time.

“No, I’ll probably just eat a bagel or something,” I say, trying to hide my annoyance with him and myself. I bite my lip and grab a pack of bagels. I hate this feeling. I hate how we feel like we’re roommates rather than husband and wife, two people who love each other.

“I missed you.”

His words stop me in my tracks. I close my eyes and wrap his words around me. I missed him too—so much. I look back at him. All the feelings I’ve ever felt for him stir up in me, but I swallow them.

“Why didn’t you call me?” I ask, fighting with the stubborn bagel that doesn’t want to leave the pack.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me,” he says quietly.

My face heats up, and I pull the bagel out of the bag.

“Did you… want me to call?” His voice sounds tired and cracked, exhausted.

He’s exhausted with me. I’ve drained him. I did want to hear his voice, but at the same time, hearing it makes me feel so guilty.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say with a half shrug and a fake grin, and I see a brick wall being built on top of those weeds between us.

“That’s not what I asked you,” he says sternly.

My eyes dart to his. They’re hard. I focus on putting the bagel in the toaster. The silence between us is like a person, and I hear him let out a frustrated sigh.

“I wish you would tell me what I did,” he says, his voice strained. It makes me want to hug him, but I don’t know what it is I want or if what I want is what’s best for him.

“You didn’t do anything.”

I hope he sees that the problem is me and not him, but he lets out a frustrated groan and rakes his fingers roughly through his hair. His head lowers, and he waits a moment before he looks back up at me.

“Is this going to be it for us?”

His question makes anxiety course through me. When I look at him, my heart wrenches. His face is blank, but his eyes are full of confusion and sadness, and my heart beats wildly. Is this going to be it for us? Is it too much? Can I ever get over this pain, this fear of not being good enough for him, that he deserves more than what I can give him? Looking at him, I see the love in his eyes and I can’t imagine giving him up, but I’m not ready to give in, to break, to have him fix me at the expense of himself.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice revealing a tremble I didn’t intend.

I start to feel angry too. Yes, we’ve been distant with each other because I’ve kept to myself more than normal, but how can we heal when we barely see one another? He’s gone so much, and if he wasn’t, then I wouldn’t have had a chance to make distance my friend. Is he ready to give up on us just because things aren’t perfect anymore, because we’re going through a rough patch? This man promised me forever.

“Why would you say that?” I ask, feeling tears come to my eyes.

“Why wouldn’t I say that? You’ve completely shut me out!”

I flinch. He hardly ever yells. Well, when he’s watching football games with his friends and brothers, he does, but not at me. I guess I’ve never deserved it before.

“Don’t blame this all on me,” I say, my own voice raising.

“This isn’t about blame. I don’t care whose fault it is, mine or yours. I want to know if we can get past this! If you’ll let us.”

His nose is flared, his beautiful face contorted in anger, his voice passing decibels it never has with me. This is what I’ve made him become. My stomach sinks and I feel sick as I cry.

He approaches me and lifts my face to make me look at him. “Do I not make you happy anymore?”

My heart breaks that he thinks this is his fault. I love this man with everything in me, and I’d rather him be happy without me than unhappy with me. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve a woman who is so screwed up she can’t function, who’s so stuck on the past she can’t bring herself to get over it and love her husband and rest in his support. That’s not who he deserves. It’s not what I promised him when we married.

“Chassidy, tell me what’s wrong, please.”

He’s practically begging me, but my words are buried under fear, stubbornness, and pain. I can’t force them up, so I just cry. But he holds me, and he kisses my head, my neck, and my lips.

“Just let me in,” he begs.

His fingers reach my skin, climbing underneath my clothes, and they come off. His do as well, but I don’t feel passion or yearning. All I feel is a secret between us. When I look into his eyes, I see the eyes of our little girl, and it freezes the fire that used to ignite between us. I can’t concentrate on how good his lips feel on my neck, how warm and hard his body is, how he knows me inside out. I only notice how cold the floor is, how useless my body is, and how I don’t know if we can ever get past this. My body becomes tenser, my breath shortened.

But he needs this. If I can give him this, maybe it will ignite something, or at least give me time to let him know I haven’t checked out. I look at the ceiling and try to relax, but when he grips my chin, bringing my gaze to his, his eyes bore into mine and he stops. I panic because in his eyes, I see disappointment and frustration. He shakes his head, and he presses his lips so firmly together that they’re swollen when he parts them. He pulls himself from inside me and sits next to me, his knees pulled toward his chest.

I sit up and wipe the tear from my eye. “I’m sorry.” I feel terrible because he doesn’t look angry, but sad and confused. “Let’s try again.”

I grab his arm, but he pulls it from me. He looks at me with a sad smile. “You didn’t think I’d notice.” His voice is sharp but distant. “You weren’t even going to say anything. You didn’t think I’d notice that you weren’t here? You think I want to make love to just a body?”

He stands up, his body chiseled and defined, a gift to women, and I cover my face with my hands. I’m so embarrassed. He grabs his clothes off the floor, and I stand, grabbing my own clothes.

“I’m trying,” I say, but it comes out flat.

He laughs, but it’s full of annoyance and fury. “I don’t want you to have to try. You know me, I know you. Should we be trying at this point?”

He heads to the bedroom, but I don’t follow him. I put on my clothes and sit on the couch, wondering how we got here, how I let things get this far. I just wanted some time and distance to clear my head.

After about twenty minutes, he comes out dressed and freshly showered. I start to ask where he’s going, but I decide not to. I probably don’t deserve the answer right now. He clears his throat, and I look at him, giving him my full attention.

“I don’t know if you remember, but tonight we have dinner with Jax and Tiffany. If you can feel up to it, that’d be great.” His tone is even and void of any emotion.

I nod at him, and he heads to the door. I search for something to say to redeem myself.

“Bryce?” It comes out urgent and panicked.

He stops, his hand on the knob, and looks at me. The words I want to say are blurred and seem stupid.

“Do you want me to pick up some wine?”

His face falls, and he chuckles. “Sure, Chas, whatever you like.”

He leaves and slams the door, and I don’t even jump. I deserved that.

Should I pick up wine?

I’m an idiot.

* * *