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“Yes, but you have a big day tomorrow. We both have to get up early.”
She set the magazine down in her lap and closed the pages but didn’t move. “Why are you doing this?”
“This was the deal you agreed to.”
“I would hardly call it agreeing,” she said. “You blackmailed me into this situation. But regardless, I want to know why you’re acting like you have some sort of parental role in my life. I’m a grown woman.”
“Are you?” I cocked my head to the side. “What is the last grade you completed, pet?”
“That’s irrelevant.” She glared. “Those were circumstances outside my control and—”
“I never said they weren’t. My point is that you want to be an adult, yet you have none of the basic skills required to survive in this world.”
“That isn’t true,” she insisted. “I get by. I’ve always gotten by. And if I don’t know something, I figure it out.”
I wanted to touch her. She was always beautiful, but never more so than when she was vulnerable like this. “Wouldn’t it be nice to do more than just get by for a change?” I asked.
Her eyes met mine, and for a split second, I saw the fear there. The idea of allowing anyone to help her was terrifying. Gypsy had only ever learned to take what she needed or wanted, but now she needed to learn to accept what was given freely.
“Come.” I held out my hand, and she stared at it as if it were poison.
I knew she wouldn’t take it but hope still lived inside me. Instead, she rose on her own and crossed her arms. “What now?”
“If you want a shower to help you wind down, then you need to take it now. Otherwise, you can get dressed for bed.”
She padded down the hall without protest, and a minute later, the shower turned on. I had to restrain myself from following the way I wanted to. Instead, I walked into the kitchen and drank a glass of ice cold water. But even that didn’t stop me from thinking about her naked body beneath me.
It didn’t help matters when I walked into the room and found her in one of her silk nightgowns. It was beautiful and classy and everything that Gypsy was, but it also emphasized her every curve. Curves that my hands ached to touch. It felt wrong when it was never my intention to be this way with her. She was my wife on paper only, and that couldn’t change.
“You’re staring again,” she noted as she moved to her side of the bed.
I turned away wordlessly and changed into a pair of lounge pants and a tee shirt. Typically, I would sleep with nothing more than briefs on, and with the night sweats, I’d been miserable. But it was the only way to ensure that Gypsy felt safe, and I wouldn’t sacrifice her sense of well-being for my own comfort.
“I won’t be able to sleep,” she whined.
“Get into bed,” I told her.
She thought about arguing but decided against it. She could protest that she wasn’t tired until she was blue in the face, but I could see it in her eyes.
I picked up the copy of Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout and flipped to the first page. Gypsy was on her back beside me, her face nestled into the pillow, and her fingers beating a restless rhythm against her opposite arm.
When I began to read aloud, I felt her gaze move to me, but I didn’t look back. It was difficult enough as it was without staring into her eyes, and I had begun to doubt my self-restraint the longer I was around her.
I read the story of Olive, and she fidgeted through the first five pages, but the next time I peered over at her, she was enrapt. She caught me staring, and for a moment, neither of us were quite sure how to handle the situation. Ultimately, it was me who broke the gaze as I went back to the story, reading until I caught her dozing off several times.
It was just past ten when I set the book on the nightstand and turned out the light. The room was quiet, and I was already too warm. I also didn’t trust that if I put my arm around Gypsy right now, I’d be able to leave it at that.
So I stayed where I was, flat on my back, and removed my tee shirt. Gypsy and I were separated by covers, but she became restless as the minutes wore on.
“Are you going to sleep?” she asked.
“Yes.”
There was quiet, and then more shuffling around. “I can’t sleep,” she complained. “Why did you stop reading?”
She was irritable, and it had nothing to do with the reading. That shouldn’t have meant anything to me, but it did. I knew what she needed and withholding it now wouldn’t be fair. I moved closer, leaving the blankets between us, and wrapped my arm around her waist.
