I REACH FOR JOHN’S HAND. He still sends shivers through me, with just a touch, with just a look. I want him. He’s not always the easiest man to be with, but I’ve always been strongly attracted to him. And despite what he’s done to me, and what I’ve done to him, that hasn’t changed.

He leads me up the stairs, and I follow eagerly. We haven’t even taken off our jackets or shoes. I’ve dropped my purse on the floor, and locked the front door.

We quickly check in on the kids. They’re both so adorable when they’re asleep. As soon as we step into our bedroom, John closes the door quietly behind us. He pushes me against the door, and presses his hot mouth against mine. It feels nice to kiss him, familiar. He tastes like coffee and the crème brûlée we shared.

I’m turned on, and I want him. I miss his touch. I slide my hands over his strong shoulders, and slide off his jacket. He mimics my actions, and my spring jacket falls to the floor. I reach for my shoes, but he stops me. He slides his hand under the skirt of my dress, and trails a finger along the lace edge of my thigh-high stocking. “Leave the shoes on.”

I reach for his button shirt and undo it slowly, all the while staring right into his striking eyes. John has amazing eyes too. Eli’s are a unique shade of blue and green, whereas John’s are a stunning bright blue. They sparkle like the Mediterranean Sea.

He leans down and presses his mouth against my collarbone. He licks softly. “I’ve missed you,” he breathes into my skin. I think about Amanda then. I don’t know why I’m letting her in. I wonder if he’s kissed her exactly like this. I blink her away.

I close my eyes and try to enjoy his touch. It feels foreign. I suppose it’s been so long. How strange that my husband’s touch should feel so odd. He claws at my hips and swiftly spins me around. My face is pressed against the door. He pulls my hair over my shoulders and kisses the back of my neck, just like I like it. I wonder if he’s ever kissed her nape too, hoping she’d like it as much as I do.

Stop it.

When his hands reach under the skirt of my dress and toy with the lace of my panties, I feel desire for him. I want him. I don’t care about the past. Now is all that matters.

I pull from him. “Let’s go on the bed,” I whisper.

I kneel on the bed, still completely dressed. This is how I want it. I don’t want to make love — I want to fuck. “Take off my panties.”

He inches closer, and pulls me against his groin. I can feel his hard-on, and I love it. He digs into my dress and obliges. “God, you’re so fucking sexy, Gabbie,” he says quietly. The slow pull of the flimsy fabric against my sex makes me wet. He loves to take his time — always has. He pulls the panties slowly over my stiletto pumps, one at a time. I bury my face on the bed, and arch my back. I’m his tonight and no one else’s. He slides a finger along my sex, teasing me. I close my eyes, think about Eli, and imagine him there behind me. I open my eyes and try to forget him. He doesn’t belong here.

“Please, John,” I beg.

John slides his fingers along the heel of my shoe, and the silky fabric of my stockings but he doesn’t take them off. He undoes his fly, and presses into me. I close my eyes, knowing that he’s not going to make me beg much longer.

It feels just like it used to when he finally sinks into me. I close my eyes and melt into him. I moan quietly, struggling not to be too loud. I feel my release coming closer and closer as he pounds into me, as he touches me just right — he knows exactly how to make me come.

Finally, we both reach our climaxes together, perfectly in sync, like it used to be, like we were never apart.

We both collapse onto the bed, and he holds me tightly in his arms. “That was amazing,” he whispers in my ear — we’re still trying to be quiet. “Next time, we’ll have to try it without our clothes on,” he jokes. “It’ll be even better.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly, and see Eli’s face. It’s all I can see. I miss him so much.

John tightens his hold around me. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” I say absentmindedly. My body feels him still, just as it always did. But my heart just doesn’t anymore.

Life goes on, no matter how you feel inside. You put on a brave face for those around you. Your kids fill their days at school and at play, and you envy their innocence. A part of you worries about them. Will their precious little hearts be broken too one day? You smile when they show you something they’re excited about, you play their favorite games, and you make them their favorite meals. You contain your sorrow.

It’s not much different with John… I make him his coffee just the way he likes it, first thing in the morning, and he kisses me on the cheek. We chat a bit here and there about his latest project or mine — small talk. We share dinner as a family, and share our days. And we might watch a silly sitcom or drama in the evening. We pass each other a hundred times a day, it seems.

He can’t see it. He can’t see that I’m broken inside. The plastic smile on my face hides it so well. He never asks me if I’m okay. If he did, would that change everything?

I lock myself in the various rooms of our massive extravagant home, places where John doesn’t venture often; Emma’s bathroom, the guest bathroom, the butler’s pantry, the storage room in the basement, and my studio, of course. It seems like between adult-ing and pretending, I spend my days crying in small rooms.

I tell myself that this is insane. I’d promised myself that I would stop thinking about him. I haven’t looked at the pictures, and haven’t let myself stand still long enough to remember, yet…

I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of Emma’s bathroom — she’s at school. I’m sobbing quietly into a hand towel. Actually I’m slobbering — it’s not a pretty sight. I know what will come after this — I’ll wash my face with cool water, reapply my makeup, walk downstairs, and act like everything’s just fine. I tell myself that the reason I’m so emotional must be PMS. I always get a little weepy this time of the month, and this month has definitely been a whirlwind. I dig into my bra and wrap a hand around one of my breasts, and sure enough, it feels tender. It’s coming… and after a day or two, I’m sure I’ll feel much better, and perhaps I’ll even feel normal again.

I wash my face, touch up my makeup, let down my hair. I run up to my studio and check my calendar. I want to know when I’ll stop feeling like this. My Vincent Van Gogh calendar hangs over my desk. I grab it, and flip to March.

My stomach drops.

I quickly do the math. I sweep a hand across my forehead as I struggle to add it up. I’m about two days late. I’m never late. My cycle is always thirty to thirty-two days, without exception.

It’s been thirty-four days.

My body is trembling when I head back downstairs. I don’t want to believe this. It doesn’t make sense. Eli and I were always safe. We weren’t stupid… not even once.

I hurry, and grab my jacket and purse. I tell John that I’m going out to run some errands. I’m numb as I get into my car. I start the engine, back out of my driveway, and my hands have minds of their own. The car takes me to the nearest pharmacy.

When I get there, I can’t seem to move. I’m afraid to go in there, afraid to face the truth. My pulse races as I venture into the same pharmacy I’ve been in dozens of times. The faces are familiar, but no one knows me here. Our city is not huge, but it’s not one of those tiny quaint towns where everyone knows everyone. Yet, I study my surroundings and make sure there’s no one here I know. Occasionally, I do run into people I know, at the grocery store, downtown, or at the pharmacy. Thankfully, it’s a weekday, and very quiet.

My stomach feels heavy as I grab a small shopping basket. I throw a few random things in; bottles of shampoo and conditioner, a can of shaving cream, a tube of toothpaste, some tampons, and finally I quickly reach for a home pregnancy test, so fast, I’m a blur. I hide it under the bottle of shampoo.

My heart is still pounding as I make my way to the cashier. I feel ashamed. And scared. I throw a random magazine into the basket. The cashier is a young sullen woman who doesn’t even make eye contact with me — she has no idea how thankful I am for that. I pay cash. There’s an elderly man behind me who also couldn’t care less about what’s in my basket.

Finally, the cashier hands me my bag with a forced smile.

“Thank you,” I say and let out a long breath. I crumple the receipt, and throw it out on my way out the door. My nerves ease as I walk back to my car. I sit for the longest time, and stare at the bag on the passenger seat.

I can’t do this. I can’t go back home and take this test. I’m already thinking about this baby — my child, Eli’s child. I’m already picturing a little boy with Eli’s eyes, or a little girl with his smile.