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“It’s definitely not lack of sex drive that’s the issue. Well, sort of. The desire is there, but we’re also exhausted, or we have Harper barging into the bedroom. Or Grady coming home at whatever time of night from Bri’s or Brandon’s house. Or so many other things that seem to keep popping up that we’re deeming more important that I know aren’t. We need… I don’t know. I was going to say a break from life, but neither of us are willing to miss the kids’ games and just. Gah! I’m whining. What’s up with you?” I shoot her a fake smile to stop my own rambling.
“You are so weird.” She chuckles while shaking her head at me. “First of all, that’s not whining. That’s venting to your best friend. You could have ranted on BookFace.Thatwould be whining and trying to get everyone’s sympathy.” She grins cheekily.
Lauren — and our husbands — have a huge pet peeve with Facebook. The guys started calling it BookFace because they’d rather take a book to the face than engage on Facebook. But in her opinion, no one is ever honest in their posts. The way she sees it, everyone has to make sure they look perfect, only show their kids in their best light and their husbands doing awesome things. They never mention that it took them twenty practice shots for the selfie to turn out just the way they wanted it to, that they had to bribe their kids with ice cream in order for them to behave for the picture or video clip. Never admit that the husband was bribed with some lovin’ just so he would cook dinner or go to the grocery store. But they still post the picture for all the world to see so they have proof that their family is better than yours. Her words, not mine.
She’s probably fairly on point in her opinion, but it still cracks me up. I think the only reason she even has a Facebook profile is so that she doesn’t miss out on what fiction — again, her words, not mine — everyone posts. It’s hilarious. And it’s one of the reasons I love her so much.
“Come on, Lauren. Tell me what to do. I’m being serious now.”
“I’ll being serious, too. Exactly how long has it been since you’ve had a chance to bump nasties, do the oompa loompa, the horizontal mambo, gotcha some, hit a home run, played a little slap and ti…”
“Oh my gosh!” I interrupt her and look around to make sure no one heard us while my face is flaming red. “Shut up! You’re so ridiculous,” I say, barely able to hold my laughter to a dull roar.
“What? Saying ‘When was the last time youmade love’ is so boring and so nineties,” she somehow says with a straight face, meanwhile making an obscene gesture with her hands, since apparently we’re sixteen again.
I laugh so hard I almost pee. “You’re such an idiot. Where do you come up with this stuff?”
She taps her temple and proudly says, “It’s all stored up here. Awesome, right?”
“It’s something, all right. I can’t even have a normal conversation with you,” I tell her.
“Sorry.” She visibly shakes her body like she’s shaking out the crazies.Good luck with that.“So are we talking weeks? Months? How long, babe. Give me a timeline so I know if we’re in like a DEFCON 3 situation, or if it’s a Charlie Brown problem.”
“So it’s definitely more serious than a Charlie Brown problem, whatever that is, but I’m assuming you mean not serious. But it’s not as extreme as calling in the National Forces. I don’t know. It depends if you’re including the number of times we’ve tried but couldn’t get any downtown action happening because we got interrupted.” I sigh.
“It’s been a few months, huh?”
I really wish I could lie and tell her she’s wrong. It’s not like we haven’t tried. The interruptions seem to be endless. Tears threaten to build in my eyes, which is stupid. It’s sex. But really it’s more than that, obviously. It’s not just the sex that I miss. It’s him. It’s us. We don’t get time together like we used to, sure. But that’s no different than any other married couple with active kids. We’re all busy. I get that. That’s also why I feel stupid whining about it, but I can’t help it.
I want a marriage that’s about more than the kids’ activities and our work schedules and what needs to be done at the house. And who’s going to get the cut-up vaginas from the grocery store.Geesh. That was one for the record books.
I nod my head and look away. I’m ashamed to admit that to anyone, including myself. Two months. Sixty-six days, to be exact. And what we had for a few months before that wasn’t anything to write home about.
“Well, think of it this way, when you finally have sex again, you’ll be tighter than a nun. You’ll be re-virginized!”
A snort-laugh bubbles out of me because damn her, I’ve actually thought that! I need help. We both do apparently. I drop my head to the table and bang it a few times.
She giggles lightly and grabs my hand that’s dangling lifelessly at my side. “You, Stella, need to get your groove back, and the rest of it, the stuff that’s just as important as the sex stuff, will fall into place.”
“How many of these do you have, exactly?” I groan and glare at her, even though she can’t see me since I still haven’t lifted my head. She really is the definition of ridiculous.
“What, witty remarks that help you forget your vagina is lonely? Hundreds. No. Probably thousands, but I’ll stop. I’ll be honest…” She pauses until I look up and make eye contact with her. “…two months is a long time, yes. But it could be worse. And remember, life has been insane lately. First things first. Harps has got to stay in her bed. Do what you have to do. At this point, you need to be above good-parenting skills and hit up the BookFace variety. Bribe her with a new doll or riding boots or whatever you can think of, but seriously, she needs to keep her scrawny horse-riding butt back in her own room.”
She gives me a stern look, and I nod in agreement. I know this. I’m not an idiot.
“Second. You two are going away. For a few weeks at least. Obviously, Cole can’t come home and stay with the kids, but Grady and Maggie are old enough to take care of things, for the most part anyway. Call your brother. They adore Uncle James and will love to have him come hang out for a while. He works out of his house anyway, unless he’s traveling to a different restaurant, and you know he’d be there in a heartbeat. The volleyball and football seasons are almost over. We’ll help with the kids too. You know that.”
She’s right. James will be here in a second if he knew we needed his help. He works with restaurants that are going under, revamping their menu, décor, staff. He loves everything about the food industry, including cooking, so at the very least the kids will eat incredibly well while he’s there. If we asked him, that is.
“I know that. And it actually sounds like a really good plan. Two weeks seems like a little too much, but I agree that we need to get away.”
“But…” She ended speaking with a lilt to her voice.
I blow out the breath I’d been holding and watch the barista frantically filling orders for a few moments. Admitting the no-sex fly zone that had inhabited our home for the last two months was one thing. Admitting that I was afraid my husband didn’t like me anymore was a whole other thing. Of course I know he loves me. But like me well enough to be alone, no kids, no distractions, for two weeks? I don’t know. I’m terrified to find out, though.
“Talk to me, Tess. What’s the problem here? This is Barrett and Josh’s slow season. Or slower season. You can say no appointments for a few weeks. James will come help. I’ll even help you find a place to stay.”
“I know all that. Those details I have no worries about. I’ll miss the hell out of the kids, but as long as I can still check in with them every day, I’ll survive.”
