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He works and works me over with his fingers, but it doesn’t happen. Tears fall from the corners of my closed eyes, and he removes his fingers and lies beside me.
Nicky pulls me into his arms and kisses the back of my neck. “It’s okay,” he mutters against the nape of my neck. “It’s okay. It’ll come in time.”
I hope so because, God, I can’t live like this. Lying with one man while wishing he were another.
***
“YOU ALWAYS WERE STUBBORN,” Nicky says as he stirs the eggs.
He’s standing at the stove cooking breakfast for me. Wearing nothing but his underwear, I look at his sun-tanned skin. It’s darker than ever, and the smattering of freckles across his back also seem darker. His long, runner’s legs are covered with light blonde hair that starkly contrasts with the hair on his head.
The ash-blonde hair that once was is no more. It’s taken on a darker, dirty blonde appearance, much longer than he’s ever worn it.
I rub my eyes and drop my head onto my arms folded on the breakfast nook.
Nicky walks over to me and scoops some eggs onto my plate beside the home fries and bacon he’s already placed there.
“Come on. Eat up,” he says, and I sit up and lift my fork to my eggs. I don’t fork the eggs; instead, I stare at my husband.
Bending over both our plates, he kisses my nose.
“Thank you for believing in me,” he says when he stands and pulls back to stare at me.
Slowly I fork my eggs into my mouth and chew, watching as he places the dishes in the sink and returns with two glasses of orange juice for us.
“So, whose decision was it?” he asks when he sits down.
“Your mother’s, but as usual, she had Syd to carry out her dirty work,” I say bitterly.
He rubs his eyes again. “They never said a word about that. In the month I stayed with them, they only said you didn’t take my supposed passing well and that you had gotten sick behind it.”
Laughing without humor, I shake my head. “Sick? That sounds like something straight out of my mother’s handbook.”
“Is that what she told everyone when you were committed?”
“No. Of course not,” I say, shaking my head and staring back at my plate. “I was supposedly on a sabbatical in Europe during the two months I was in the mental hospital.”
He reaches a hand across the table and takes mine into his, and my eyes close at his touch. His hand is large, completely covering mine. It’s warm and familiar and makes me smile.
Nicky always loved holding hands, whether walking in the grocery store or taking a stroll downtown at night on a date. He was a romantic. I remember that about him, which was one of the things I loved most.
“What happened to make them finally decide that you needed psychiatric help?” he asks, chewing his bacon slowly.
“Your mother came to the house one day and saw a pair of slippers beside your recliner. She asked if I had already packed your things or needed help. This was about six months after you’d been declared dead. I told her I wasn’t getting rid of your things and that I’d keep them until you returned. She said it was time I stopped the madness and accepted that you weren’t coming home. I told her I would never accept that, and if she had a problem, she could leave.”
Nodding, his lips tighten, and he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, I can see the empathy inside of them. He knows what dealing with his mother is like.
“I’m guessing she didn’t like that too much, telling her that she could leave or not agreeing with her.”
Nodding, I say, “Yeah. Much like my mother, you know how controlling yours can be.”
“I do, sweetheart. And I’m sorry I left you to deal with them alone.”
“Couldn’t be helped. You didn’t ask to go down in that plane,” I say, pushing my plate away.
He clears his throat and pushes his away too. We sit staring at one another across the island.
“So, my mother decided what?”
