“Consider it done.”
Gosh, that felt good. Powerful. Satisfying.
Was Coach Rory, the Poultry Hater, telling the truth? Was he really going to admit his wrongdoing? I always had to ask myself these questions, as he was always trying to stay a chess move ahead, making plays, faking charm, offering undeserved compliments, spitting out meaningless apologies, pulling shit out of his hat. Whatever it took to get another vote.
Was it fake every time or was this the real thing? He stood there looking at me for what felt like forever, then finallywhispered a “sorry” that could have either been loving and genuine or five letters of full-on B.S.
I decided that he was telling the truth. That he was sincere. That he needed some forgiveness and slack. Swallowing my pride, I said, “I’m sorry too.”
He walked over to my side of the bed, and that’s when he noticed Philippe’s snout poking out from under the covers. Rory didn’t lose his temper. He shook his head and asked, “Is this you crying for help? Is this you telling me I’m being a bad husband?”
God, he was good. I went from all the anger in the world to completely being at peace and in love with this man again. Almost like a pouty little girl, I nodded. For crying out loud, I had reduced myself to a child.
“Did you delete my games as part of this stance?”
Suspicious of his motive, I took a chance and nodded again.
He seemed to swallow back his frustration, then let what could be warmth appear on his face. A lightness in his eyes, a slack jaw, a rise of one corner of his lips. Okay, fine, he could be handsome sometimes.
“You matter more than my games,” he said, or admitted, or lied. Something. He pinched his chin and locked eyes with me. “I didn’t mean to be a jerk today. Sometimes I take you for granted, but I don’t mean to. He leaned down and kissed my cheek, and we hugged. This is why I didn’t want to lose him. When I could wake him from his daydream, when I could pull the old Rory out of the politician, he was so warm to be with.
While he tried to glean more Sabres information from a sports channel, I dove back into my romance novel. Philippe climbed out, of his own accord, and found his bed on the floor.
I was smiling inside. So much so that after a while, I started to think dirty thoughts. Not the thoughts you’re thinking. Not thoughts of how I could secretly wage more wars on Rory. I hadactual sexual feelings surfacing, a volcano long since deemed safe starting to heat up again.
It didn’t hurt that, after a book’s worth of cat and mouse, the lioness in my novel was about to have mind-bending sex with the glorious plaything of her dreams. In my head, he was what happened if George Clooney, Richard Gere, Rob Lowe, and a real-life, time-traveling Roman gladiator all had a baby. Come to think of it, I would havelovedto have been there for that rump fest. Oh, c’mon, stop blushing again. It’s just science.
Anyhow, I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. Ah, the games we humans play.
Rory held his hands behind his head with his elbows flailed out. He was falling asleep. All our years flashed before me, and I was proud that I could see past the yucky parts of this man and still cling to what we had and could have again. I whispered that I loved him, and he said the same back.
Reaching over, I touched his hip under the sheets. It had been so long since I’d done something so bold that I almost felt uncomfortable. I feared rejection, but I held my ground. He opened his eyes and gave one of those smiles that could fall into multiple categories. Perhaps pleasure? That would be a good one. Or was it pleased? Surprised? Or was he prepping for a gentle rejection of my sexual RSVP?
I dragged my fingers toward his midsection and found his member, or as I was guilty of calling it against his will, Li’l Rory. Sorry, not sorry. T.M.I. should be my initials. Needless to say, he wasn’t fond of the nickname and had offered some entertaining alternatives: The Supreme Leader, Master of the Universe, The North Star, Lord Rory.
But Li’l Rory had stuck. (It just hadn’t stuck me in a while…hahhahha.)
To that end, I hadn’t touched Li’l Rory since the Spanish Inquisition, but he was indeed still alive in there. As the not-so-little guy responded, I eased closer to my husband, hoping we might have some sort of a spark left. I was certainly ready for some action.
Not so fast, though.
In a humiliating barricade from love that I had secretly feared, Rory pushed my hand away. It was like driving seventy-five into a brick wall. Like biting into an apple that was actually made of bronze.
I retracted my hand so quickly that it was almost as if Li’l Rory had become a poisonous snake about to strike. How could he have grown hard in my hand but not want to continue? Was I that repulsive?
“Not tonight,” he said, trying to let me down easily. “Maybe tomorrow? I’m just so tired. I just…I’m sorry.”
Just? You just don’t want to be ravished by your sexually hungry wife? You’re not letting me down easy with this one, Chicken Hater.
My monkey mind went nuts with fear and self-loathing, but I tried hard to keep it in check, breathing out the attacks on my self-worth.
It took everything I had to reply, “Okay, no problem, just thought I’d try.” There was no hiding the sadness in my tone though.
As a peace offering, Rory reached over and kissed my cheek. “Tomorrow, for sure. Please don’t read anything into it. I’m just so?—”
Don’t read anything into it,I thought.How could I not?
“You don’t have to apologize,” I finally said. “I’m tired too.”
