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In the moment, I’d felt flushed and hot and soaked between my legs, every part of me vibrating with the desire to slip into the room and replace his hand with mine. I’d imagined pushing him back onto the bed, taking him into my mouth instead, hearing those groans formeinstead of the quick, frantic movements of his hand. Even as I’d slipped my hand up under my skirt, stroking my swollen clit as I watched him kneel on the bed and fuck his fist, clenching my panties over his still-hard cock, I’d wanted to go in and tell him to just fuckmeinstead.
I know he wants me. I heard him mumble my name, even though it was clear he was trying not to. I saw him pressing my panties to his nose, breathing me in, something that made me feel embarrassed and aroused, and confused all at once. I think, if I keep pushing, I could manage to seduce him. We’re stuck together now, after all, and I don’t think he can hold out forever—especially not if I learn how to make it so hard for him that hecan’t.
But I don’t know if that’s what I really want.
I want him to give in on his own,I think sadly, looking up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. I want my husband to come to me because he genuinely wants me, not because I’ve tricked him into it. And I want Alessio to fall for me, to desire me, of his own volition. I don’t want him to regret it afterward.
I need something else to focus on. I feel like a miserable tangle of grief and hurt and lust and confused, unanswered feelings, and I know that after two months, it’s time I start trying to reconstruct some sort of life for myself. The question of my marriage is answered, and as unsatisfying as that answer is, it’s done.
So tomorrow, I decide as I lie there, I’m going to make some changes for myself.
—
Alessio joins me at the breakfast table, to my surprise. It’s felt like, since the wedding, we’ve been circling each other, feeling out who will be the first one to give in and try to figure out what this new normal looks like. I find him at the table sipping coffee and scrolling through his phone, and when he sees me in the doorway, and his gaze sweeps over what I’m wearing, one of his dark eyebrows rises a little.
“You look more casual than you usually do.” He turns back to his coffee, but something in me leaps at the idea that he notices the filmy, chiffon-y dresses that I usually wear around the house. I opted for jeans, espadrille sandals, a silky camisole top, and putting my hair up in a ponytail today, my mother’s white-gold small diamond hoops finishing off the outfit.
I rub my thumb over my thin wedding band, still unused to the feeling of it on my finger. “I’m going to go to the college to sign up for classes,” I tell him, hoping my voice sounds as firm and sure as I want it to. If he was expecting me to ask permission, I want that expectation removed. I married Alessio, not one of those control-freak boys who courted me before, and I want the freedom that he promised me—to an extent, of course. “I’ll take plenty of security with me,” I add, promising quickly. “I already have an appointment.”
Alessio frowns, and for a moment, I think he’s going to tell me no. I’m poised to argue with him, but he finally nods, setting his phone down as he reaches for his fork. “Still planning on studying literature?” he asks, as casually as if this conversation was always expected, and I feel a flush of relief.
“Yes.” I swallow hard, nodding quickly. “I think so. I’m meeting with an advisor, just to make sure. But I’m excited to start in the fall. I feel like—” I hesitate, wishing he’d look at me, instead of just down at his plate. “I’m excited to have something else to focus on. I feel like it will be good for me.”
Alessio hesitates for a moment and then nods. “I agree.” He glances at my plate, which is already filled with eggs, sausage, and a piece of toast with butter and jam. “Eat,” he says firmly. “You’re going to be walking around, and I don’t want to worry about you passing out from hunger.”
There it is, that authoritative edge to his voice that sends a jolt through me, down my spine, and between my thighs. My mouth goes dry for a moment, and I reach for my fork, feeling a spark of appetite. It’s not much, but I manage to eat a little more than usual, rolling his words around in my mind as I do.I don’t want to worry about you.
I like the idea of him worrying about me, a little. I like the idea of him caring.
And I like that bit of authority in his voice, telling me to eat. Instructing me.
I want to hear it in other ways, too.
I try not to think of it in the car on the way to Northwestern, to focus on the prospect of college and classes and getting back to some of the things I’d hoped for in my life instead of thinking about my absent husband and strange marriage. I think about how I’ll be able to occupy my time—homework and writing and a new creative outlet. I might not be getting the love or physical satisfaction from my husband that I want, but I’ll have plenty of time. Without children for a while, I can study and read and write to my heart’s content—until Alessio decides that our mysterious ‘infertility’ has gone on long enough, and we adopt. And even then—
Alessio will let me do mostly as I please, as long as I show up on his arm when need be, and don’t insist on doing anythingtooradical, like getting a job. I could probably go to graduate school, if I want. I turn that idea over in my head, ruminating on it until the black SUV pulls into a parking lot at the campus. I get out, feeling a little uncomfortable at the five security guards who insist on following me.
This is the part I don’t like, that I’m not looking forward to. I’ll never feel like a normal college student with security trailing me like this, like I’m a celebrity instead of just a girl who happened to be born into a very wealthy family—a family powerful enough to have enemies. Nothing has felt normal in so long, and even though I already went through the steps to ensure that my security wouldn’t cause trouble for me on campus, letting the appropriate people know that they’d be here with me, that desire to ditch them lingers with me as I slip into the advisor’s office and leave them in the hall.
It’s not far enough. I can feel the eyes on me as I turn the knob, curious onlookers walking past, and it makes my skin itch. I feel that way—itchy and restless—all through the meeting with the advisor. We discuss majors and settle on English literature. She combs through classes with me and discusses the security situation once again. I leave with a class schedule and a feeling somewhere between excitement and anxiety as I step back out into the hall.
I’m going to be a college student. Iama college student. And I want to feel like one, just for a minute.
Heart racing, I spin on my heel and head the other way down the hall, away from my security.
“Hey! Mrs. Mancini, wait—”
I hear the call from behind me, hear heavy footsteps as they follow, at a normal pace, and then faster when it becomes clear I might be trying to ditch them. I veer down one hallway and then another, down a flight of stairs, dashing for an elevator as I try to give them the slip. I want to explore on my own, just for a little while, just long enough to look around the campus without that pressure of eyes on me—not just my security, but all the students and staff and faculty wondering who I am, who could be so important as to need all ofthat.
I want to disappear into a crowd for the first time in my life, and the need feels so desperate that I don’t think about the consequences, or what will happen when Alessio inevitably finds out. I justgo, and when I spill out onto the stone-paved path and grassy surrounds of the campus outside of the backdoor of the building, my heart leaps with a newly discovered sense of freedom.
I’m free. Just for a little while. A half-hour, maybe, depending on how quickly they catch up.
I head down the path, looking at the buildings, brick and stone and glass, the water shimmering in the distance behind them. I have no idea which one of these buildings will be mine, which one I’ll come back to day after day until it feels familiar, which one is the library where I can study, which one I might get lunch in. It feels strange and new, but in a good way—like possibilities unfurling in front of me for a change, instead of being closed off.
There’s a small coffee shop off to one side of the path, and I veer in that direction, fishing in my thin leather purse for the credit card that Alessio gave me before I left. It feels like a long time since I’ve bought a coffee out, and I relish the purchase, getting an iced mocha and breathing in the scent of coffee beans and baked goods before heading back out again—and almost directly into the broad chest of one of my security guards.
I look up at him, clutching my nearly-spilled coffee, and the look on his face makes me feel like a chagrined child.
