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All I know is that I’m breathless at the sudden intensity in his gaze.
And in his voice when he says, “You trust me.”
My answer is thoughtless and effortless, like a muscle memory. “More than anyone.”
And I’m not ashamed to say that.
I’m not ashamed to admit that the guy who broke my trust over a year ago is the guy I trust the most in the world.
Because the girl whose heart he broke, I’m not that girl anymore.
I’ve grown up.
My rose-colored glasses are gone. I know he’s flawed. I know he’s capable of doing bad things but I also know that he’s capable of doing good things. Things so precious that they make me weep.
Things so beautiful that no one has ever imagined them.
Like these two babies in my belly.
So yeah, I trust him.
Although I don’t understand his reaction.
I don’t get why his frame seems to shake a little before going stone still. And why the look in his eyes is stricken before going harsh. Meanwhile those fingers of his around my wrist have really managed to kill my pulse or at least slow it down.
Then as if he knows that I’m on the verge of passing out, he steps back.
He abruptly lets me go and I want to tell him that this is what may kill me, his sudden abandonment, not his brutal grip.
“I’m going for a run,” he says before leaving the bathroom.
Leaving me stunned in his wake.
Leaving me to wonder what just happened.
But maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should be used to it by now because this isn’t the first time he’s gone for a run at night.
This isn’t the second or the third time either.
He’s been doing it for weeks now.
Ever since we found out that I’m pregnant.
Just like his intensity and his need to pamper me have grown and changed, his routine has changed as well. In addition to going to therapy I mean.
We still sleep in the same bed and he still spoons me the entire night — in fact his arm around me sometimes feels too tight, too caging; not that I mind but I’ve noticed the difference — and he still wakes up before me to go exercising.
But there’s no playful early morning banter like before. Or after even.
He exercises for longer these days. Our breakfasts — that we still have together — are quieter. The storytelling times are somber as well. His grocery runs are longer and after dinner, he usually disappears for another round of workouts.
But the biggest, most epic change is that we don’t have sex anymore.
He hardly ever touches me except during the night when we cuddle together. Or rather he cuddles me because by the time he hits the bed, I’m already asleep. And while I’ve been trying to be patient with him, I’m wondering if this drastic change is because… of me.
Because he doesn’t want me anymore.
As in, you know, sexually.
What if now that he’s given me my dream, his dream too by the way, he thinks there is no need for physical intimacy between us.
On wooden legs, I walk out of the bathroom and find him opening and shutting drawers. He’s already changed out of his jeans and into his gray sweatpants and now he’s in the process of deftly putting on a t-shirt that I personally think is even more lethal than his sweatpants; it’s white and extremely soft-looking and has big armholes instead of sleeves.
So big that you can see his ribs and obliques and the way they ripple when he moves.
God.
Why?
Why does he have to be so sexy and why do I have to be so freaking obsessed with his body when I’m beginning to think that maybe he isn’t with mine.
Not anymore.
“I…”
He doesn’t turn around at my hesitant voice, still busy with picking up his cell phone and his keys and shoving them down the pockets of his sweatpants. When he’s done, he turns around but doesn’t even spare me a glance as he strides toward the door, every line on his bruised face severe and sharp.
He’s just about to cross over the threshold when I try again, “I think we should —”
“Don’t wait up.”
With my heart racing, I follow him out into the hallway, his lunging steps taking him further and further away from me. In desperation, I plead to his back, “I-I think we should talk.” Then, “Now that I’m pregnant.”
Finally, he comes to a halt.
And I watch the broad planes of his back lift up and down with his breath.
I’m not sure what kind of a breath it is. A fortifying breath or a breath that says finally. Like he was waiting for me to bring it up, this talk thing. So we could…
We could go our separate ways.
I mean that’s what’s going to happen eventually, right?
I’m going to leave pretty soon.
