I lie in the dark, wide awake, in my childhood bedroom. On the floor by my full-size bed, my girls are asleep on their air mattresses, and I can hear their shallow breathing, their occasional snuffling, and even some soft snoring. It’s just us in here; Logan is downstairs in the guest bedroom, and Elliott is sleeping in my parents’ bed. Which they’ve apparently allowed him to do all week.

Normally I’d put a stop to that, but tonight I just didn’t have the strength. Partly it’s guilt, since I’ve been letting him sleep in my bed at home way too much. He wakes up in the middle of the night, comes to my room, and gets in with me—and I let him stay. Not only because I’m too tired to carry him back to his own bed. I don’t want to admit it, but having his warm little body snuggled up against mine is comforting, actually makes me wake up feeling more rested.

Because I hate sleeping alone.

It’s been an exhausting day. When he and Jay came back from the park, Logan pulled me aside, obviously suspecting something was up, but I blew him off, fibbed, and told him everything was fine. He didn’t believe me, I could tell, but he thankfully didn’t push.

The tension between us and my parents was palpable the entire afternoon and evening, though. Mom seemed to try to act normal, and it felt like she was touching me a lot—rubbing my arm, giving quick hugs, even stroking my cheek at one point, for goodness sake—but she barely exchanged two words with Logan, something which would’ve been extraordinary before our separation. They used to have lengthy discussions, mostly about the law, a common ground they’re both passionate about.

And Dad. God, he spent the rest of the day keeping busy, avoiding me. At dinner, he was quiet and sullen, never meeting my eyes. Logan he seemed to pretend didn’t even exist. By the time he made it an early night, claiming he was tired from working in the backyard, I’d run out of sympathy and patience.

I’m a grown-up. I have sex. He needs to get over it.

Sighing, I turn over, jerking and rearranging the blankets. Then I get up on my elbow and punch my pillow. Lying back down, my thoughts drift to waking up this morning to Logan beside me, touching me. Which has my mind skipping back further, to last night. The memories are fragmented but oh so explicit. His mouth on me, everywhere. Him pinning me down while pushing himself inside me. It feels like a dream, one that has me breathing heavier, clenching my thighs around the sudden throbbing between them.

I can’t stand it. His presence downstairs is calling to me, a siren’s song. I need him. I want him. I know I can have him. And I’m way beyond caring that I shouldn’t. Beth’s warning is like a sun-faded photograph by now, beyond salvaging.

Brushing aside the blankets, I scoot off the bed, and then I’m padding to the door. It creaks faintly when I open it, and I cast a glance back at my girls on the floor. When they don’t stir, I slip outside, shutting the door softly behind me.

I feel like a teenager again while I creep down the stairs, which is weird, because I never really did any sneaking around back then. I was too busy never messing up, never disappointing, making sure my parents knew I was the kid they didn't have to worry about. Logan was spot-on in his assessment of me that night on the yacht, during the Christmas party. I never did anything crazy or rebellious. Not even the tiniest tattoo or a simple belly button piercing.

Okay, so maybe Mia’s crowing about my accidental pregnancies was warranted. Just a little. Doesn’t mean she’s not an aggravating little pest, though.

The guest bedroom is just past the kitchen, down the hallway below the stairs, and as I approach, I see light glowing beneath the door. I rap on it quickly, lightly, but then I turn down the handle at once, not bothering to wait for him to answer or come open it.

He’s sitting on the bed in the cozy and warmly decorated room, wearing a gray T-shirt and black boxer briefs, one hand on the laptop computer beside him on the bed, like he was just setting it aside to get up. When he takes me in, standing there in the doorway, his look of surprise darkens into one of desire.

I push the door behind me, and it shuts with a soft click. Keeping his gaze with mine, I cross over to the large bed, climb up, and then I’m crawling on my knees across the bedspread he’s halfway pushed aside. Logan’s face splits in a smile as I eliminate the distance between us, his eyes crinkling.

“Hey,” he says in a low tone. “This is weird. I was just thinking about you.”

“Guess I’m a mind reader.” Bracing on his shoulders, I mount him, straddling his thighs. “Or maybe I was thinking about you, too.”

His hands go straight to my ass, filling them with the plump flesh through my sleep shorts, squeezing and pressing me down on his crotch. “I was sitting here wondering,” he murmurs, “how long I’d have to wait to get you naked again.”

Grinding against the bulge in his shorts, a thrill skittering through me at the hard pressure, I bend down and whisper in his ear, “I didn’t want to wait. We’re married. Pretty sure it’s okay.”

He chuckles quietly, which turns into a groan as I press my lips to his neck. While his arms tighten around me, his palms sliding up under my tank top, I bury my face against the hot and fragrant skin, inhaling his scent, relishing it as I’m tasting, sucking, and gently biting.

“Jesus, baby,” he says, panting near my ear, and then he grabs me by the arms and shoves me back so that he can see me. His eyes look shiny, glittering with emotion. “I’m having some serious déjà vu right now.”

Huh? It takes me a second before I catch on, and then my chest clenches painfully.

He’s referring to our sex life after things went to shit between us, before he moved out, while he was sleeping in our spare bedroom. It’d be day after day of endless hostility, cold shoulders, and barely tolerating each other. But once in a blue moon, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d seek him out like this, because the steam that had been building, it needed to be released. And because I was terrified of what would happen if we stopped having sex altogether.

“That was different,” I tell him now, cradling his head with my hands.

“Was it?” he asks with quiet solemnity.

I expel a breath, pain and regret slicing through me. “It was always rushed. Impersonal. Like scratching an itch. Insert Part A into Slot B, and when we were done, there was just…nothing. We didn’t talk. I went back to my room.”

A muscle in his jaw flexes, and I recall him only a couple of days ago referring to that time in our relationship, saying it was working just fine for him.

It really shouldn’t warm my heart so much that he was obviously lying.

“And,” I say, bending closer, “we never did this.”

Slanting my head, I press my lips against his. I kiss him softly at first, tenderly, like I’m testing a hot liquid to see if it’ll burn me. But then he grunts and grabs the back of my head, digging his fingers into my hair, and we’re tasting each other with a new fervor, tongue-fucking, grazing teeth across lips, and I’m getting so turned on and frantic it’s as if I could combust.

He tugs on my shirt, and I raise my arms to let him pull it off before I do the same with his. Wrenching my shorts off takes more effort and some squirming, our hands bumping as we both scramble, grasping at the fabric. As I take hold of his underwear, Logan arches off the bed, helping me, and I drag it all the way off, wanting nothing between us.

Climbing on top of him again, I shove him hard against the wooden headboard, hearing his skull smack into it with a thud. His breath hissing out, he seizes my wrists and yanks me into his chest. Smiling smugly, I roll my hips, rubbing myself on him and feeling and hearing his cock turning slick and slippery from my wetness. The soft skin and straining hardness is always such a startling contrast, and it feels so good, pressing on my clit.

Twisting my hands within his grip, I try to dig my nails into him, but he squeezes tighter, so tight the pain has me wincing and gasping. Without warning, he lets me go, grabs my face, his lips capturing mine in a long, demanding, almost desperate kiss. Whispering against my mouth, he says, “Not tonight.”

His hands on my waist, he flips me off him, and I land on my side on the cool sheet. Blinking in surprise, I only watch as he slides down so that he’s lying next to me, pulls me flush up against him, and grabs my knee to lift my leg and hook it over his hip.

He slides inside me smoothly, easily, and so deeply it’s like he’s penetrating me to the core. Inhaling sharply, I bend my neck back and let the air rush back out. When he draws back and thrusts again, I moan low in my throat, the sensation so exquisite, so exactly what I needed.

“You feel so good, baby,” he pants out, grabbing my ass again, lifting me higher and wrapping my leg around his waist while he drives himself into me, again and again. “So fucking perfect.”

“Oh, God,” I moan. I love you. The words echo in my head, in sync with his rocking against me, but they’re stuck in there, wanting escape but unable to find it. That’s okay, I tell myself. This is okay. It’s enough, for now.

We’re scissored together, our legs entangled with neither one on top or on bottom, neither in a dominating position. Fucking like equals. And as he keeps pumping into me and I meet him stroke for stroke, it’s like we’re fusing, being melted down and reshaped into one body. For once, I’m not feeling like he’s claiming me, branding me as if I’m a possession, giving me no choice but to give myself over to him. He’s not taking. We’re sharing.

And it’s so damn hot and sweet. I lose myself in the pleasure, lose myself in the feel of him, clinging to him and wishing it’ll never end.

“Can you come like this?” he asks roughly, his hands roving all over—kneading my hip and my ass, brushing up my spine, making me shudder.

“Yeah,” I reply breathlessly. “You feel so good, baby. Go slow. Make it last.”

Exhaling raggedly near my ear, he does as I say, fucking me with exquisite leisure, his dick filling me and moving within me, rubbing the sweet spot and winding me up. It’s a slow torture, a teasing of sorts, because every time I make a noise like I’m getting close, he shifts his angle. Drawing it out, driving me crazy.

When I come, it’s like being pushed gently over an edge, but then little pinpricks of bliss burst through my entire body, almost blinding in their intensity. The ecstatic sensation weaves on and on, cresting again when Logan stills and I feel him pulsing and spilling hotly inside me, tightening his arms around me, his shuddering gasps so close to my ear.

My God. I close my eyes, panting and clinging to him. How did I live without this for so long? How did I tell myself I was fine without him—and actually believe it?

“I needed that,” I say when I finally catch my breath again.

He rolls onto his back, pulling me with him. Under my head, his chest is still rising and falling quickly. “Why? Because you had a crappy day?”

I curl my hand resting on his abs into a fist, the horror of the conversation with my family returning to me. Which is exactly what he’s asking about, I know, and I guess he deserves the truth? I can’t tell him everything, though, not tonight. He still has to get through the weekend. If he finds out what they all suspected of him, I’m not sure how he’s going to manage that. He definitely won’t be able to shrug something like that off.

“They wanted to know why we split up,” is all I say.

He hesitates. “What did you tell them?”

I heave a shrug, unclenching my hand and running it over the taut skin on his stomach. “The truth. You thought I was cheating, and it destroyed us.”

He has more questions. I can sense it in his taut stillness, the way he inhales as if to speak. But instead of letting them out, he hugs me closer.

It’s all too much, all of a sudden. I’ve been hanging on to a cliff’s edge for so long, clawing and fighting for my life. And now, lying here in his arms, I feel myself letting go. It’s not on purpose, but it’s happening, and I’m not even afraid anymore.

Because he’s there to catch me.

I swallow hard against the knot swelling in my throat. God, I’m going to cry. Pressure builds behind my eyes, burning and stinging. I can’t do this right now. He’ll want to know what’s going on, and I can’t have that conversation when I can’t even make sense of my own emotions.

Abruptly I push up off his chest. “It’s late,” I say, hoping he can’t hear my voice on the verge of breaking. With a quick kiss on his lips, I add, “I should go back upstairs.”

“Hey,” he says, sounding nonplussed, and he makes a half-assed grab for me as I slip away from him, sliding off the bed. “You okay?”

“Yup.” Somehow I manage to give him a reassuring smile as I pull my clothes back on.

Then I say good night and get out of there, tears welling up before I’ve even managed to close the door all the way.

* * *

I do my crying in the kitchen in the dark, palms down for support on the counter near the sink, where Mom keeps a box of tissues. Holding my breath for as long as I can stand it, I keep a tight grip on myself, staying quiet as the tears pop out one after another, blurring my vision. One by one, I yank the tissues out, wiping and wiping, because I don’t dare blow my nose. Logan might hear it.

“Hey,” comes a voice behind me. “What are you doing up?”

Looking over my shoulder, I see my sister entering through the arched doorway, just a shadow in the light from the upstairs hallway. I suck in a breath, hoping it’s dark enough in here to disguise my face. Swallowing the mucus clogging everything above my shoulders, I clear my throat and ask, “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep. Kind of have a headache.” She heads over to the other side of the sink, and I turn toward her, leaning against the counter and watching as she opens a cupboard and plucks out a rattling bottle. Grabbing a glass from the drying rack, she fills it with water, tossing her head back as she washes the pills down.

With the cup still at her lips, she inches closer to me, and I think she’s squinting. “Are you crying?”

My breath rushes out, and when I inhale again, I sniffle, involuntarily.

Mia slams her cup down on the sink, and her voice is tight with anger as she asks, “What did he do?”

“What?” I blink at her, and then I wave a hand up by my face. “No. Happy tears.” I say it mostly to calm her down, but it doesn’t actually feel like a lie. I’m not upset or mad at him. I’m just…overflowing.

“Seriously?” my sister says doubtfully. Then her head swivels toward the hall beyond the doorway, which leads to the guest bedroom. “You were just in his room, weren’t you?”

I refuse to answer that, instead reaching back to pull out another tissue. This time I do bring it up to my nose, but I blow it carefully, making a slow gurgling sound.

“Are you guys really getting back together?” Mia asks after a loaded pause.

A humorless laugh bursts from my chest, ending in a wet, wobbly sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.” Gathering all the balled-up tissues on the counter, I toss them into the trash can in the cabinet under the sink. This conversation feels weird, backwards. Usually it’s Mia being a wreck and me trying to glue her back together.

“Why can’t you sleep?” I ask, putting on my big-sister cape. Because it fits me better than it does her.

“Uhm,” she hedges, crossing her arms. “Nerves, I guess. It’s getting real all of a sudden.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” I say gently. She’s moving across the world, venturing into the unknown, where she’ll no doubt be expected to hit the ground running, working as a midwife while surrounded by indescribable suffering. I’m so incredibly proud of her—and terrified for her safety. It’s definitely selfish, but I’d prefer it if she wasn’t going.

“You have Jay, though,” I offer in an attempt to comfort.

“Yeah.” Even in the darkness, I can see her mouth dimpling. “Pretty sure he’s not scared of anything.”

“Except losing you.”

She draws in a breath, releases it harshly, and my heart squeezes. Thank God for Jay. After Mia’s college boyfriend cheated on her and dumped her, she got stuck in a mire of heartbreak and bitterness for years, and I hated how it shattered her, how she couldn’t seem to move on.

Which makes it so much sweeter to see how happy she is now. Every time I see Jay, I want to grab him and hug him and thank him profusely for being such a good guy and for loving my sister the way she deserves to be loved.

“I’m still worried about you, you know,” Mia points out quietly. “It makes it harder to leave.”

See? This is what was bothering me. I’m the oldest, the one who worries and takes care of things. “I’m fine,” I say, reaching over and rubbing her arm. Then I move in closer and wrap her in a tight embrace, and she hugs me back, putting her head on my shoulder. We stay like that for a while, until I release her, announcing, “Right now I just need sleep.”

I start making my way out of the kitchen, hearing her bare feet tapping on the floor as she follows. As I reach the stairs and grab the banister, Mia comments impishly, “That conversation with Mom and Dad, though.”

“Please don’t remind me,” I groan, grimacing as I trudge up the steps. “Pretty sure Dad’s never gonna look at me the same way.”

“Ugh,” she scoffs. “Who gives a shit? He can be such a baby.”

I can’t really argue with that. It’s still kind of agonizing, though. I’m a daddy’s girl, through and through, and I can’t stand thinking about him looking at me differently. Like I’m a revered and cherished classic car that he’s been keeping in his garage for years, and suddenly he’s discovered a big, nasty dent in it. Like he’s finally realizing his little girl is gone, stolen away by Logan.

Logan and his filthy, wonderful hands. That hurt me. And I want him to.

“Hey,” my sister says at the top of the stairs. There’s more light up here, and I can see the regret shining in her eyes. “I’m sorry we put you through that today. It’s just…we had to know. You know?”

“I get it,” I say, again with the urge to make her feel better. I should say something else, though. But what? Hesitating, I finally confess, “He’s kind of messed up. But he’s not abusive. And I still love him.”

There. I said it out loud. I still love my husband. It’s like the ground should be shifting right now, but instead it just feels…natural. It’s entirely correct and true. I love him, I want him, and I need him. I’m incomplete without him.

“Trust me,” Mia says dryly, “I know what that’s like.” She eyes the door to her bedroom, at the end of the hall. “I think I’ll go wake him up.”

I arch my eyebrows. “He won’t mind?”

“Nah. His work schedule is stupid. I have standing orders. If I need him, I have to wake him up. I don’t want to make him mad, so…” She shrugs and grins.

Rolling my eyes, I follow her through the hallway to my old room. Which is right next to hers. “Please don’t be noisy. That bed in your room is so loud.”

“Oh,” my sister says with a snicker over her shoulder as she grasps the door handle. “We know how to work around that.”

Whatever that means. I really don’t want to dwell on it.

After she disappears inside, I open and shut my own door as gingerly as possible, and then I creep to the bed and climb in, flinching as it groans. Crawling under the covers, I lie still and hold my breath. I’m definitely not winning any parenting awards tonight. Bad Mommy. Risking her kids getting a good night’s sleep. Because she wanted to get laid.

“Mommy?” a tiny and groggy voice mumbles from the floor.

Shit. It’s Freya. With a grimace, I whisper, “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

Blankets rustle. “Can I come up there?”

“Of course.” There’s no way I can stomach saying no to that right now, and it’s not like I even want to, because my oldest child wanting to snuggle with me? That doesn’t happen much anymore.

There’s shuffling and the bed bouncing, and then her thin, warm body slides up to mine, under the blanket. I put my arm out so that she can rest her head on it, wrapping her close as soon as she’s settled down.

Gah, she’s so big now. It’s a realization that just hits me out of the blue sometimes. Like, how did this happen? One day she was still a baby, and in the blink of an eye, she’s not anymore.

She’s still squirmy, though. Shifting and arching and kicking out a leg, she finally says, “Mommy?”

“Yeah?” I stroke her hair, pressing my nose against it, smelling flowery shampoo.

“Are you and Daddy friends again?”

The tentative and almost anxious question steals my breath away, has my stomach cramping with guilt and heartache. What to say? Kids always expect you to have all the answers.

“We’re trying to be,” I tell her quietly.

“Is he gonna move back home?” she asks immediately, hopeful.

God. My mind is flailing, grappling for purchase. If I say yes, it might not be true. Ditto if I say no. “I don’t know, sweetie,” I choke out. “We still have a lot of things to figure out before we can even talk about that, okay?”

After a second’s pause, she replies, “Okay,” and surprisingly, she sounds more content than disappointed, and then she squeezes me tighter with her surprisingly strong little arms, burrowing her face into my chest.

We lie like that for a long time, our breathing synced, her falling asleep and me awake and wide-eyed. It’s after midnight. My eight-year-old being awake and asking me these questions right now makes me feel like I’ve definitely done something wrong. We should’ve had a conversation with the girls as soon as we got here today.

Trouble is, I have only vague and evasive things to tell them. How long can I let that go on, though?

Freya’s body goes slack, her breathing even and shallow, and I shift her away from me, onto the pillow next to mine. Then I reach for my phone on the nightstand. My hand trembles as I bring up my messages, find Logan’s name. Am I going to do this? I don’t have to. Will it make things more complicated—or less?

I want to, though. All week, he’s been reaching for me, trying to get me to take his hand and let him pull me up. Pull us both back up. I’m going to take that hand. Doesn’t mean I can’t let go again if I need to. It just means I’m willing to take the chance, to hope that we can be okay again.

I love you, I type on the screen, my thumb hovering for a second before I hit Send.

Then I set the muted phone back down, tuck my pillow, and close my eyes with my heart full and sweetly aching.