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“Did you tell her? About me, I mean?”
He sighs and says, “I was with her when I remembered. She encouraged me to keep pushing for my memories, and when I remembered everything, I knew I had to come home. I had to see you again.”
“How did she take it?” I ask, wondering about this mystery woman who shared a part of my husband that I’ll never know.
Jealousy courses its way inside of me, but I push it aside.
“She was hurt, but she understood. She knew the risks upon getting involved with me.”
“Did you...love her?”
Those words are difficult for me to get out, but I have no choice but to ask. I need to know.
Shaking his head, he says, “I don’t know. I cared about her...a lot, and I’d grown close to her, but there weren’t many people I had besides her.”
I close my eyes briefly and ask, “What was her name?”
“Ana.”
My eyes find his again, and I swallow my pride. I ask the question I must ask. I need to know.
“Nicky?”
“Yes. Yes, I did,” he bites out.
He knew what I was going to ask.
“It’s why I haven’t gotten angry at you about being with someone else. I understood more than you could know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” I whisper angrily.
“Selfishness. Fear. I was scared you’d kick me out of your life when I revealed the truth because you’d already gone on. I didn’t want that. Jealousy. Worried you’d return to him. I was wrong, Yaya, and I’m sorry.”
My eyes close as tears slip from them. I understand everything he’s saying because I feel it deep within. I have no right to be jealous, angry, upset, or any of the other emotions I’m experiencing but damn!
“Life is so unfair,” I sob.
Nicky pulls me close and murmurs in my hair. “I know, sweet girl. I know.”
We lie this way for a long time until I shiver from the cold and the emotional turmoil draining me.
I’m almost drifting off to sleep when I feel Nicky’s hand run down my shoulder before he grips my hip and pulls me close. Warm lips find mine and caress them in a slow and gentle sweep. When he kisses me, it’s slow and inquisitive, as though he’s asking for permission.
Looping my arms around his shoulders, I pull him closer and open my mouth to his. Our kiss is slow and sweet, gentle and not pressuring at all.
Nicky’s body hovers over mine as he removes his t-shirt and pajama pants. Next follows his boxers. He grabs a condom from the stack on the nightstand, and I take it, ripping it open.
I take his penis in my hand and pump as he hisses and stares into my eyes as though shocked by my aggression. Slowly, I pull the condom down over his shaft. Lowering his head, he closes his eyes and kisses me again before he shoves my knees aside.
When he enters me, it’s gentle but tentative, as though he’s trying to get acclimated to my body. He eases into me as though becoming acquainted with my body all over again.
Every kiss, every touch, and every movement is gentle, sweet, and full of love and passion. As Nicky moves inside me, I close my eyes, and the hot tears slip from my eyelids.
Making love to my husband isn’t at all what I expected it might be when I first learned that he was alive.
It’s scary and painful. Because with each deepening stroke and thrust, I receive affirmation.
My body no longer belongs to him.
