Page 220 of True Blue

My mouth waters as I eye those pink nipples, wanting to taste, wanting to touch. But I can’t with my hands bound to the headboard with pink fuzzy handcuffs. Indie had bought them as a joke when we had discussed this new dynamic of ours. Indie likes control in the bedroom, and I like to be told what to do, but the parameters were something we discussed at length.

The handcuffs are weak. I could break out of them with one pull, but it’s the symbolism that really does it. I’m bound and powerless with Indie, but I trust in her that she will take care of me. And she does, while she’s tormenting me in the best way.

Indie moans and does this one move where she brings her one leg up by my hip, and the other is flat by my legs, almost in a split. The way she grinds herself against me brings tears to my eyes, “Oh, fuck—fuck, honey...”

“Yeah, there it is,” she lets out a breathy laugh-moan at the look on my face. “That’s how you like it⁠—”

“I love it, I love it, I love it, I love it,” I babble over and over again, making her giggle. With her two hands, she pulls her blonde hair back and continues bouncing on me, and all I can think about are the drawings I made for her.

Venus, the goddess of beauty and love.

There couldn’t be a more apt comparison for Indie.

The last few months since we got back from Chicago have been incredible. There’s a sense of peace that has washed over us, with the lack of storm clouds threatening to ruin us.

My mother was arrested, charged, and sentenced to thirty days in prison on a plea deal, which included that she would never contact me ever again. Indie and I were granted a protective order against her, and if she violates it, she risks real prison time.

She is 900 miles away, with no job, no house—Dad sold it and the business, both in his name only—and no family that wants to speak with her. She’s alone, and she has no one to blame but herself. And I don’t miss her at all, which is something Dr. Meyer said was normal.

After my mother’s arrest, my father refused to bail her out of jail, as did her sisters. My mother’s manipulations completely backfired on her, and Robin blames her for the affair. June is closer in age to Robin, so she took her side. It doesn’t really make much sense to me, but their relationship was always weirdly contentious and competitive.

My father did try to reach out to me last month, after getting my number from Stephanie with my permission. I thought he might want to apologize, which I was willing to hear to gain closure for myself, but then I realized he was asking for money. Always fucking money with this family. When I asked what happened to the money from the house and the business, he sheepishly admitted that Jerry had listened to his sons, and they had lost it all in some crypto scheme I didn’t care to hear about.

The thing was, when I asked if he was sorry for how he treated me, he just said, “Well, everything worked out for you in the end anyway, right?”

And that was the last time I heard my father’s voice before I hung up and blocked him.

Like with my mother, I have zero regrets about going no contact.

My sisters finally cut that contact with both of our parents, and that felt like closure I needed.

Through it all, Indie was there for me. Relationships aren’t balanced; it’s a see-saw, an equitable distribution of work.

That’s something we learned in couples therapy, which we started when we came home from Chicago. Not because there’s anything wrong, but it’s like maintenance. Both of us had very fucked up examples of how relationships are supposed to be, so we wanted to be really intentional with each other and wanted to be with each other forever.

I had such a positive experience with therapy that I immediately agreed when Indie suggested it.

Through therapy, we’ve learned our communication preferences and how to navigate them. Indie works in a job where she speaks nearly all day, dealing with very heavy, sometimes depressing topics. I’ve always understood that she needs that period of adjustment—just an hour of silence to decompress, but there were times when I could internalize it and think Indie was displeased with me.

“I need the hour, please,” Indie will tell me when she comes home, and all I’ll do is hug and kiss her, hand her her noise-blocking headphones, and send her up to her office or to go take a bath.

I’ll stay in the kitchen to finish dinner, giving her the space she needs.

Then Indie will emerge, smiling and calmer, and I will have dinner waiting for her. We always make it a point to sit at our kitchen table—Nana and Pop’s table—and talk about our days. I’ll tell her about school and the projects I’m working on. Indie will tell me what she can about her days, her patients, her grief, her triumphs.

“Most couples forget how to communicate, because when you live in such close quarters, spending nearly all day together, you get into a routine. But that routine requires maintenance. Indie and Teddy, you both have described instances where you feel unheard, but you haven’t actually verbalized your needs.”

Both of us shared a look, chagrined and thoroughly called out. But instead of shrinking or pointing the blame, we reached for each other. Our hands linked, and our therapist smiled as she advised us.

“Even if it’s something as mundane as placing the coffee cup in the dishwasher this way, talk about it. It’ll become a habit and spill into other areas.”

And it has helped immensely.

Especially in bed.

Our dynamic was brought up to our therapist, who gave us resources to consult and also said to make up our own rules as long as we are being safe within our boundaries.

“Please, please, please,” I beg once more, as I feel myself teetering closer to the edge. Just as I feel I’m about to leap off, Indie slows down. I swear she can read my mind sometimes. I groan and toss my head back on the bed, “You’re killing me, honey.”