19
Theo
Saturday brings a day with no work, no plans … and for me that spells trouble.
Yes, I have done well alone for a good majority of my life. I’ve only had a very small circle for most of it, and especially when I was living on my own before I met Imogen, I could go days without talking to anyone but myself and the sea.
But now? The silence and loneliness lead to thinking, and I don’t want to think right now.
But, inevitably, it always leads back to her.
I know what I said to her. That’d I’d walk away and never come back. That I never wanted her to contact me again.
And then I’d gone and kissed her and it had all gone to shit.
I’m all talk under this rugged facade. I’m warm brownie batter in her hands, gooey and sweet and willing to be there for her whenever she needs me.
And she does need me. Wants me, too. I could feel it in our kiss last night. Immy was giving me just as much back as I was pouring into her, and I know her well enough to know she wouldn’t have stopped me. Not even if I pulled her leggings past her hips and drove into her right there on the kitchen counter.
My cock tingles with the prospect of that because it has seen no love for months. Not that I want love from any other person besides my wife.
What I want is for her to wise up and decide, like I told her to, that she doesn’t want this divorce. If there was any spark of hope left for us, that dinner, that kiss and last night had been it. Now the ball was in her court to light the flame.
Wandering into the kitchen, or the scene of the crime last night, I grab two waffles out of the freezer and pop them in the toaster.
It’s only when I’m going to retrieve the peanut butter from the fridge do I spot the legal papers sticking out of Imogen’s purse, where it sits on the counter.
I have never been the guy to snoop on my partner whether in real life or via technology. Fuck, I don’t even know where my own cell phone is half the time. I’m not on social media, and I could give a rat’s ass about texts.
During our marriage, I’d always been happy to listen to whatever Imogen had to say about work or friends, but I didn’t push or demand answers. Our nightly chats were a discussion, and I trusted my wife. There was never any need to keep tabs on her, or stalk, as the kids these days say.
But as I stare at the legal documents sticking out of her purse, I’m struck with a lightning bolt of burning curiosity that I’ve never felt. If those are our divorce papers, I won’t be able to keep my potentially red hands off of them.
I peak around the corner and listen, trying to see if Imogen is awake or where in the house she is. Faintly, I hear the spray of a shower, and I figure I have a few minutes while the coast is still clear.
Sending up an apology for the guilt I’m about to lay on my shoulders, I pluck them out of her purse and start to read.
“Motherfucker,” I exclaim after a few lines.
These are documents to change her name. From Walsh back to Weston.
Last night, I thought we’d maybe made some headway on repairing us. I know what I’d said to her, about vowing to leave me. I know that she walked out. But that kiss … a ray of hope had lit me up like a Christmas tree, thinking that perhaps we could mend this after all. Because I’d always think like that when it came to Imogen. I’d always want her.
But apparently, that kiss had been nothing but a parting peace offering to her. A move to placate me while she went out and had documents drawn up to formally erase me from her life.
And suddenly, the discussion we first had about this very topic springs to the forefront of my memory.
“Do you want me to?”
Imogen is sitting on our bed, the one that I’ve come to think of as ours. She’s surrounded by invitation samples, printed out pictures of flower arrangements, linen squares and dozens of foam circles with wedding guest names scrawled on them as if to mark a seating chart.
I flop down next to her, ruffling everything, and she squeals. “Theo! You’re going to mess it all up. And I asked you a question.”
Pulling her down to me, I silence her protests with a kiss, my hands threading through her hair. Her smell envelops me, and I want to hold on to it, to her, forever. Good thing I asked her to marry me, how smart am I?
“Stop distracting me! I have to get these seating cards in order.” Immy makes no move to push up from where I have her laying on my chest now.
“Baby, let me help you relax a little. Get you in order.” I wiggle my eyebrows and she chuckles.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Answer my question first. Do you want me to change my last name?”
I sigh, annoyed that we’re having this discussion again. “You know my answer, you just feel guilty about how I feel about said answer.”
“How do you know me so well?”
“Because I’m your soul mate. But besides that, you know that I want you to change your last name to Walsh. We’re starting a family, me and you against the world. It might be old fashioned, but I want my wife to have my name. But I also respect your independence. If you choose to keep Weston, I won’t make a fuss about your decision.”
Deep down, if she chose to keep her maiden name, I’d be a little hurt. But it was a miracle that this angel was even marrying me, so I’d shut up about it if that’s what she decided.
Imogen bites her lip, and the move makes my cock twitch where it’s pressed against her thigh.
“I want us to be bonded together against the world, too. But this is my family … you know how territorial they can be.”
If there was one thing I was going to try to break her of in our marriage, it was going to be this mob mentality thinking when it came to the Weston clan. Not that I didn’t want her to be close to her relatives … but Imogen was smart, creative and kind. She needed to see that she had good thoughts and ideas and didn’t need her family to tell her what to do or who to be.
“Didn’t Jackie O change her name to Kennedy? And look how powerful she was, even with her husband’s name.”
Imogen rolls her eyes. “Yeah, her husband who cheated on her and later was assassinated in front of her very eyes. Plus, she was way more famous as Jackie O, as in Onassis, her second husband’s last name.”
I tickle her side lightly. “See! You remember her as Jackie O, which was her husband’s name! She was iconic. Don’t you want to be Imogen Walsh, icon?”
My woman laughs at my teasing, but I think she knows I’m only half-kidding.
“Okay.” She leans down, pressing her lips to mine.
My fingers make their way up the back of her shirt to caress the soft skin of her waist. “Wait … okay?”
“Okay, I will take your last name.”
“What’re you doing?” Imogen’s tone is accusatory from behind me.
I whip around to face her. Her wet hair is a darker blond now, the strands curling gently as they dry. Her radiant face is makeup free, those big eyes fanned by long lashes that make her look like a doll or a fairy. She’s in comfortable weekend clothes.
My favorite version of Imogen … fresh and pure and relaxed.
“When were you going to tell me about these?” I hold up the papers.
Her eyes narrow, and her mouth forms an exaggerated frown. “You went through my purse? How very jealous ex-lover of you, Theo.”
Wow, that was a low blow. “Ex-lover? I don’t recall there being a twelve-hour period for calling someone your ex, or do you not remember the kiss we shared last night? Were you going to erase me from your name before or after you let me fuck you on the kitchen floor?”
Imogen’s eyes almost bug out of her head. “That is so crude. Don’t confuse what happened last night. I told you I wanted a divorce, and I meant it.”
“And I don’t believe you.” I cross my arms over my chest, prepared for war.
But she doesn’t give it to me. Instead, her face crumples and she covers it with her hands. A sob escapes her.
“I can’t fight like this anymore, Theo. Please.”
She needs me to tap out. And, because I love her, I do.
“Oh come on, Immy, I could barely get you to take my name even when we were married. You are so tied to them that you had to convert your middle name to your maiden name. I’m not surprised that you are getting rid of any evidence of me.”
This lie comes out jovially, as if I’m teasing her about taking the first steps to uncouple us.
I spend the rest of the day at my favorite bar, one that no one from my wife’s inner circle would ever step foot in.