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Although Caleb grew up in the church with his father literally running his own and becoming a worldwide famous preacher, Caleb doesn’t care about God or religion at all anymore. Deep down, I think he thinks that bothers me, but it doesn’t. I love how independent he is from his family. I think that’s what I’ve always loved about him.
He takes the glass of wine from my hand and drinks a sip before handing it back to me. The silence between us starts to grow awkward, like a wilting rose.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me. In his mind, is everything between us as perfect as it was seven years ago when we could barely keep our hands off each other? When I could see the way he would light up whenever I entered the room.
Doesn’t he feel us dying, too?
I avoid looking him in the eye so I don’t have to face it. Instead, I turn away and head to our bedroom. He follows, and we move through our nightly routine in thick, tense silence.
I floss my teeth. He takes his supplements. I put on moisturizer. He tosses his shirt on the floor next to the hamper.
Same as every night.
At some point, I know I need to remind him of what we have to do. But I can’t bring myself to speak those words.
When we climb into bed, I let the opportunity slip away. He pulls out his laptop and I pick up my book. But even as my eyes settle on the words on the page, I don’t read. Instead, I fantasize about a different life for us. I conjure up a fairy tale in my head of what Caleb and I were supposed to be. Happy. Connected.
I reminisce on the way it felt when we first met. When I thought Caleb was going to save me. When it felt as if he was my liberation, my safe space, my truth.
And in my fantasy, we don’t have sex to conceive. Our lives look more similar to that of his brother and his girlfriend. Caleb wants me. Heneedsme. I belong to him in a way that’s not based on scripture. Silently lying next to my husband, my body starts to heat up just thinking about it.
I know deep down that I should be able to express my desires with him, but I’m afraid we might be too far gone. And that’s a harsh truth I don’t want to face.
Two
Caleb
Theo Virgil shared a new post.
The small notification on my phone catches my eye in the dark bedroom. Without clicking away from the open case file on my laptop, I swipe open the Instagram app on my phone and wait for it to load.
Glancing to my left, I watch Briar as she reads her paperback with the small book light attached to the top.
She doesn’t even notice me.
I look back at my phone, hiding the screen from her, and there he is.
Now dark-brown hair, piercing blue eyes, standing against a brick wall. It’s clearly a posed photo. On his face is an expression of nonchalance. Uncaring, not quite bored, but not entirely indifferent either. Head tilted back, staring at the camera through his hooded eyes. I swallow as my eyes scan the image, absorbing the features of this new photo.
He’s letting his facial hair grow to a scruff, unkept mess, but it looks good on him. Even his hair is wild and untamed.
Our father would hate it.
But our father will never see it because Theo Virgil is a stranger to Truett Goode. A nobody. Some random indie songwriter in Nashville, Tennessee, and certainly not the child he banished nine years ago.
All it took was a little digging, and I found him. Now, I just watch him as a protective but silent older brother.
Every photoTheoposts is like a piece of driftwood cast into the ocean, and I am the collector standing on the shore, picking up every little bit that I can.
He doesn’t know I follow him, and he doesn’t know I’m watching his every move. Every show. Every Instagram story. Every like, every follow, every comment. If he’s tagged in something, I see it. If his songs are played, I hear them.
And hovering somewhere nearby is that message button, lurking like a bad omen that I’m too afraid to touch.
Beside me, Briar clears her throat. As she closes her book, I swipe to close the app on my phone.
“So…” she starts, cautiously setting her book on the nightstand. “It’s the tenth.”
She doesn’t look into my eyes as she says that, stating the day of the month as if we’re late on our mortgage payment or she’s hinting that I missed our anniversary. But I know exactly what she means by stating the date. She’s signaling to me that we have to try and make a baby.
