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It isn’t about the job. It never is. It’s never about the words that come out of our mouths, is it? It’s about the contempt we’ve built and buried deep inside our psyche. Years of all the things we should have said, but didn’t. Little stones of disdain, guilt, blame, disappointment, slowly stacking one by one until the wall eventually breaks and releases in an outburst of disjointed half-thoughts and half-threats—none hitting the mark you intended, and all settling back into place, unresolved once again.
“How dare you,” he spits. “Listen. If you want me to accept just any job, and be a miserable man, I’ll do it. But I want to find a job that makes me happy, Ro. Because I sure as hell don’t get any validation at home.”
And there it is. The actual problem. I don’t have sex with my husband enough, plain and simple. I don’t shave my legs often enough. I don’t trim enough. I don’t “do myself up” enough. I don’t wear the lingerie he buys for me. I don’t present myself on a silver platter when my husband walks through the door, my legs spread, heels on, ball-gag in, lube in hand. And as much as I hate—absolutely loathe—to admit it, the guilt I feel for not indulging my husband is irrepressible. A wife should want to have sex with her husband.
Shouldn’t she?
To be clear, I love my husband. I do. But things have changed, and this is where it gets tricky. Letting go feels impossible because Shepherd has become a part of me, like a vine overtaking a tree, wrapping, wrapping, wrapping until you are unsure where the tree begins and the vine ends. On a material level, we have a home, assets, retirement, stocks, all the things. On an emotional level, we have us, this unit we have become. I understand my husband on a deep, visceral level. I know what he is going to say before he says it, I know what he’s thinking before he realizes it. I know every mole on his body, I know the little scar above his left eyebrow, I know that when he twirls his wedding band it means he is contemplating something. Shepherd is solely responsible for introducing me to love—literally, the feeling of it. Real, soulmate, written-in-the-stars, can’t-live-without-you kind of love. The kind that flips you upside down, shakes you around, and obliterates everything you thought you knew about yourself. The kind of love that seems to change you on a molecular level. There is no life, none worth living at least, without this other person. It’s both terrifying and thrilling at the same time.
But things have changed.
There was a time that Shepherd and I told each other everything. There were no secrets between us.
Until there were.
And even then—even now—I still love him.
But am I in love with him?
“I told you,” I say, my resolve wavering. “I’m taking supplements that are supposed to increase my libido, and I made an appointment with my doctor to see if I’m going into early menopause. I’m doing everything I can. I am so sick of having this fight with you.”
“You’re sick of it?” He snorts. “You have got to be kidding me. You don’t put any effort into our marriage but expect me to do everything I used to. God, Rowan, you…”
“I what?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“You’ve totally let yourself go.”
My stomach folds in on itself.
He continues, while I fight for breath. “You’ve totally phoned in our marriage, but get mad at me for not doing enough.”
My gaze flickers to the outline of my body under the covers. Yes, I’ve gained a bit of weight, and yes, I haven’t updated the highlights in my brown hair in years, and yes, my once natural caramel skin tone has lost its golden luster.
As have I.
“Ro, all you do is work. You prioritize your goddamn job over anything else.”
“Well I have to, don’t I?” I snap. “I’m the only one with a job in this house.”
Shepherd surges off the pillow, grabs a stale glass of water from the nightstand, and hurls it against the wall. Glass shatters. Water splashes across the television.
Banjo barks, jumps onto his hind legs and puts his paws on the bed. I gently lay my hand over the top of his head and subliminally tell him everything is okay.
Silence envelops us.
Finally, I speak, though it’s barely a whisper. “Please. Just tell me, Shep. Where were you tonight?”
“No, Ro. No. I’m not doing this. I can’t…” With a guttural groan, my husband pushes out of bed, cutting the bottom of his foot on a broken piece of glass.
He bellows in pain.
My pulse roars in my ears as I watch my husband hobble to the bathroom. Cursing, he turns on the faucet, grabs a tissue, and begins to pluck the glass from his foot.
My cell phone beeps from the nightstand, startling me.
