19. Harsh Goodbyes - Cash
The next morning as I’m zipping up my carry-on, I find Monica standing in the open door of the guest room, still dressed in her robe.
“Everything okay?” I ask, wondering what she could possibly want.
“How long are you going to be gone?” she asks, wandering into the room.
“About a week, give or take.”
Gripping the handle of my luggage, I lift it off the bed and set it upright on the floor next to my computer bag. But when I turn around, Monica is standing less than two feet away. She settles a palm on my chest, and for once her eyes aren’t so empty when she gazes up at me. In fact, they appear brighter than usual.
“Don’t go.”
They’re just two little words, nothing significant about them, and yet they manage to knock me on my ass. Literally. I sink to the bed, eyes going wide. “We don’t talk anymore. And we sure as hell don’t have any intimacy left between us, so call me confused as fuck right now. I figured you’d be glad to be rid of me for a while.”
Her lower lip trembles. “I don’t want you to go.”
I blink, rendered speechless for a second. “I can’t keep up with your mood swings.”
“I know things have been bad. Let me make it up to you.” She invades the space between my legs, and I clench my jaw as she drops to her knees. She’s working at the button of my pants with clumsy fingers, and my dick goes rock hard. Even though I’ve had enough of her mind games, my body is throbbing for the release I know her mouth can give me.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I miss you,” she says, lowering my zipper. My mind blanks out completely as she takes my shaft into her mouth.
I tilt my head back, nothing but flashes of torment going off behind my closed lids. An internal war rages in my mind, and I grip her head, fingers tangling in her locks. But all I see is hair as golden as wheat. Eyes as decadent and seductive as chocolate. Damn me to hell, because I want to lose myself in her touch, shoot all my pent-up frustration into the sweetness of her mouth.
Except the woman sucking me off isn’t Jules. She’ll never be Jules.
One blowjob from my wife isn’t going to fix our marriage. We are broken, our relationship braindead and on life support. Gently, I push her off me.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, gazing up at me. Her parted lips are damp and trembling, and for once, her blue eyes aren’t spitting ice. But something is definitely wrong with this picture. I yank up my zipper then rise to my feet, pulling her with me, and that’s when I catch a whiff of vodka on her breath.
“You’ve been drinking?” For fuck’s sake. It’s not even noon yet.
“So?”
“So every time I see you lately, you’ve got a glass of wine in your hand. And now this?” I grab her by the chin and study her glazed over eyes. “I’m worried about you.”
“If you’re so worried, then don’t go on this trip.”
“It’s work, Monica. I can’t just up and back out.”
“Well maybe that’s the problem with us.” She jerks out of reach. “You work too much. You leave too much. You put everything else before me.”
Her outburst stuns me, and not because of the words she tossed in my face, but she hasn’t displayed this much passion—anger or otherwise—in what seems like forever.
“If I put work first, it’s because that’s all you’ve left me with. You won’t talk to me, you won’t let me touch you. And this”—I gesture to the bed, where she had her lips wrapped around my cock only minutes ago—“is completely out of left field. What is going on with you?”
Folding her arms, she glares at me, and the Monica I’ve come to know these past few months is back. “Fine,” she says, pivoting before stalking to the door. “Go on and leave me here alone again. That’s what you do best.”
I watch her go, at a loss at what to do or say. And I don’t have time to deal with her bullshit now anyway, because I’m due to leave for the airport soon. I grab my luggage and leave the spare bedroom, shutting the light off as I go. As I approach the room I used to share with her, I’m surprised to find the door wide open. I can count on one hand the times she hasn’t locked herself inside during the last few weeks.
Stalling in the open doorway, I peek in, but she’s nowhere in sight. The bed is a mess, unmade with throw pillows scattered on the purple comforter. We haven’t shared that bed in so long that it makes what happened in the guest room even more unsettling.
The water turns on in the master bath, and I hear her moving around in there. I consider leaving without saying goodbye, but I can’t bring myself to do it, especially after the stunt she just pulled. Her weird behavior is whittling away at the walls I’ve built around my heart, making way for worry to settle in.
Leaving my stuff in the hall, I cross the threshold into a room in which I’m no longer welcome. As I falter in the doorway of the bathroom, her gaze meets mine in the mirror. Tears hang on her lashes, threatening to spill from icy blue eyes. If not for the stubborn line of her mouth, I’d think she was finally about to crack and let me in.
No such luck. Ignoring my presence, she takes a pill bottle from the medicine cabinet and shakes two tiny blue tablets into her waiting palm. Her gaze flashes to mine again as she chases those pills down with a sip of water.
Other than birth control, Monica doesn’t take medicine. She’s the type of person that won’t even take aspirin unless absolutely necessary. I step all the way into the bathroom, dread diving to the bottom of my gut as I lay my hands on her shoulders.
“What are the pills for?”
“None of your business.”
“It’s absolutely my fucking business. Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Then what the hell is this?” I try to pry the pill bottle from her grasp, but she whirls around to face me, fisting it behind her back.
“Don’t you have a plane to catch?”
I draw in a deep, calming breath. “You said I put everything before you. Well here’s me putting you first. What’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“But I am worried. First the drinking, and now popping pills? For fuck’s sake, Monica! Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter. Just go already.”
“You begged me to stay ten minutes ago. Now you’re pushing me away? Again?” Dragging an agitated hand through my hair, I try not to lose my shit. But her continued silence isn’t making it easy. “I’m finding less and less reasons for us to stay together.”
Monica darts around me and leaves the bathroom, and I follow, quick on her heels. She stalks into the hall and grabs the handle of my luggage.
“Wouldn’t want you to be late.”
I take the suitcase from her, no doubt gaping at her like an idiot. Because I sure as hell feel like an idiot. “What happened to us?”
Still clutching the pill bottle, she won’t meet my eyes. Her vacant mask is back in place, any hint of tears dried up. “I don’t know.”
That makes two of us. Part of me hopes that a week apart to think things through will offer some clarity. But I’m not a total fool. Until she’s willing to let me in, my hands are tied.