III
"I'm home," I call out.
Three bedrooms, but none occupied with little hands and feet. Small footsteps never race down the hall to cuddle my legs. I'd tried. I really had. But after I lost the third he didn't want to try again.
He said my emotion after grieving each one was difficult to handle. He said it was hard to fuck me knowing my hopes would crumbled. He said a lot of hurtful things.
Wouldn't even let us get a dog. He's 'allergic'. There's pills for that but it would mean putting work in for his wife's benefit. Not something he does nowadays.
"Hey," his feet are on my coffee table.
The apothecary one he had gifted me as a sorry gift. That one was for the time he missed my birthday dinner for a football game. It went with the pink vase on the TV cabinet. That was a sorry present too. For hitting on a teaching student at Christmas work drinks last year.
The 'sorrys' came so frequently these days. Our marriage was good at the start, but settling into forever by his side was a struggle more and more each day.
An empty box of pizza sits beside him. Beer bottles, a few tipped on their side, litter my 'sorry' table.
"Did you order me any?" I motion to the pizza box.
"I figured you'd sort yourself out," my husband looks at me bored, "you're home late."
"It's only six thirty," I glance at my watch, "you know what. Forget it."
"You're angry again?" He rolls his eyes.
"I'm not," I shake my head throwing down my bag, "I have just had a very long day. I figured for once you might sort dinner out. You did... I just wanted included in the plans."
"You think I didn't have a hard day?" His voice is sharp, loud.
Jacob Black didn't often scare me. I know he'd never hit me or harm me in that way. But his words could cut like deep knives and his cold eyes could send a shiver through me without warning. The man I married was barely there. I same glimpses when he made love to me occasionally. But never in interactions. He didn't bring me flowers, cut the crust from my toast anymore, kiss me when I got home. He was just someone I existed beside.
I didn't take his last name. Perhaps it was my intuition warning me. Something in my gut told me not to. It had pissed him off. But I used the work excuse and he had swallowed his pride. Swallowed it like sand but it eventually went down.
"I'll heat up some soup," I stalk into our small kitchen.
The house was old. Someone on my salary could possibly get something nicer. But he refused to.
You see I out earn him. Every day it demasculates him. He refuses to acknowledge I'm the bread winner. Lectures when I spend, lectures when he can't afford something. Lectures about how I make him feel stupid.
I'd helped him pay off debt, I'd paid for a large portion of our wedding and his proudest passion (his car) was in my name because I paid for that too.
Every day he needed to bring me down a few pegs. Reminding me I failed at the basic tasks - children.
He refused to visit fertility clinics. He refused to help understand why we couldn't do it.
So each day I head to school loving the children of other parents.
"Whatever," he grumbles.
In the kitchen I work with sore shoulders and tired eyes. Sick of carrying weight around that I can't shed. Stirring my tomato soup in a rusted pot I try to fight tears. The ones that fall almost daily in this hell hole home. Wondering if life will always be like this. Stuck. Never seeing promise or excitement.
I could leave. But I can't. I can't fail at marriage. Not so soon into it. The thought of failure terrifies me. In a town this small it would turn to gossip and who wants that around their kid?
"Babe," his hand goes around my waist, pulling me against him, "I'm sorry. I'm just exhausted. There's a car at work that's giving the boys and I pain."
He's a mechanic.
Not a very profitable one. If I joke about his failing business he becomes feisty. The business I've helped to bail out a few times because his partner Paul was untrustworthy. I'd warned him when they started it - but of course I was ignored.
"Okay," I nod, "I'm sorry too."
I'm not sure what for. He's the one who didn't even think to order us both dinner. He's the one that forgets we are meant to be a team.
"Why don't I run you a bath," he kisses my neck, "I'll give you a massage."
"That would be nice," I nod, "thank you, Jakey."
His hand smacks my ass hard. I try to not cringe or recoil.
This is it. My life. I come home to misery, let it fight me and then fuck it. I'm messed up. I should leave. But what else is there?
Where do I go?
My life is here. In this shitty small town. Forks Washington. My father is the chief of police, often offering to do safety talks to my students. Perhaps a small part of me has hope he'll change and we'll go back to what we were. He'll smile at me more, call me pretty again.
Edward lived just outside the town. A large home with a pool, where he often left behind his family to travel to medical conventions. He'd return to better our community when we were sick or hurt. His wife benefited with each sip of expensive wine the paycheck covered.
When I pretend to orgasm that night, my husband jerks inside me. The 'make up sex' he thought would patch up the sinking ship. We both knew we were the Titanic.
I can't help but think about Edward. If a husband like that could make a woman feel so damn unwanted. So damn worthless. A man with the career, white picket house, who loves his children. Does he love his wife?
Or could he make me feel like I did today in my office. The way I'd not felt in years.
Visible.
He didn't get me a gift.
"You always say not to."
That was the excuse.
A new watch, car seat covers and tickets to Seattle for a weekend to watch a football game.
"Wow babe," he'd kissed me.
Then I'd faked another orgasm against the wall by the Christmas tree. 'Make up sex' to patch the pain from no presents - not even a pair of socks.
Resentment grows daily over the Christmas period. Festers up until the moment I sit at my work desk after the holidays are over. I glare at the photo frame on my desk. Our wedding day. I looked happy. The lace and satin of my dress contained so much wasted hope.
I pick up the frame and place it in my desk agitated.
When did he stop caring? I'm nothing to him now.
A knock at my door sparks my attention.
"Oh, Doctor Cullen," I stand surprised.
The school day had ended. I was delaying travelling home. I knew a fight would be brewing simply because he was moody when I left this morning. Complaining I was moping around the house since Christmas. That I was making him feel shit for not buying me a gift.
Poor him.
The gaslighting and manipulation.
New Years Eve I'd gone to bed early without a kiss. Jacob had spent the night at a friend's partying. I'd not had much to smile about the past week or so.
But Edward standing here in my office door way made me smile. Genuinely.
"Hey," he smiles at me, "I hope your holidays were fun."
"They were," I lie, "yours?"
"Oh they were great. The kids had a blast," he smiles softly closing the door behind him, "but I wanted to come and see you."
"Certainly," I motion for him to take a seat.
"My wife," he sits after a nervous sigh, "about that whole situation. I wanted to thank you."
"I already said it's fine," I sweep a spec of dust off my desk and look up at him.
"I wanted to tell you Blake and I had a big chat. He's doing better and has promised to keep his hands to himself," he explains, "but the tension at home hasn't lessened. His mother left over the Christmas period to visit her family without them so they had to spend the holidays without her. It took a toll on him. Blake is a momma's boy."
"Oh dear," I feel my heart break for my student, "will she be home soon?"
"Possibly next week," he nods, "I've had to cut back on shifts at the hospital and hand some surgeries off."
"Well if you need my help let us know. We can provide after school care and I'll chat with his councillor and teacher so they can be across," I smile, "his teacher Miss Cox is brilliant."
"Fantastic," he nods, "I would appreciate that."
"Thank you for dropping by," I stand up.
Walking around my desk, I fix the hem of my skirt. I'd worn a black pencil skirt and white button up blouse today, stockings beneath to fight the chill. Stilettos clip against the floorboards. I tried to be stylish. Life's too short to dress like Mrs Trunchbull from Matilda.
I'm aware of his eyes on me as I move toward the door to open it for him. He stands and follows, moving past me through the doorway.
"This might seem highly inappropriate," he turns back to look at me, "but would you like to get a drink? I just really need to relax a little with an adult. Not be around screaming children tonight. My nanny is staying overnight so I'm not in a rush home. If I go home I'll just drive myself nuts and put another golf club through the TV."
"What?" My eyes widen.
"Oh it's a video game," he chuckles hands up innocently, "my son got this weird Xbox thing. I played it drunk the other night and my stupid brother told me to show him my best swing. There's a safety strap apparently."
I muffle a laugh with my hand.
I should say no.
It could be crossing a huge line.
But it's this or go home to that.
"Okay," I nod, "I could do one drink. Let me grab my purse."
Everything is in walking distance. The bar is only down the street. So we walk in a huffed hurried pace, legs pumping to warm our temperatures against the chill.
When we find a bar table he orders me a glass of red. He orders himself beer. A baseball game plays on a large TV beside us and a few locals I recognise are out. They enjoy their drinks not fazed by Edward and I thankfully.
Anything makes gossip these days. Apparently two consenting adults can have a friendly drink by their standards though. Lucky for us.
"So how was your Christmas?" he watches me sipping his beer.
"It could have been better," I admit, "we don't really celebrate."
"You don't celebrate Christmas? Are you Jewish?" He asks.
"No," I shake my head, "my husband just doesn't make time."
"For you or Christmas?" He raises an eyebrow.
"Both," I look down at my glass, "but that's the way it is when you're too comfortable."
"Is that what we're meant to call it?" He laughs.
"I love him," I shrug, "I just wish things were how they were. I know the sparkle dims but they never warn you about how quickly that happens."
"It doesn't have to," Edward says, "my parents are stronger than ever after 20 years."
His father was also a world class surgeon. He retired earlier than necessary and lives outside of Seattle. He'd made the local paper almost monthly for his donations and work before moving on to enjoy new horizons.
"I feel like I'm failing," I huff, running a hand through my hair, "I try every day and it feels like it's pointless. I've been with Jake since high school. He was my high school sweetheart."
"And it's fizzling?" he asks.
"It's already fizzled," I confirm, "how about you? What did you do to piss her off?"
"Why do you assume it was me?" His face isn't hurt or angry, but amused.
"It's always the men," I shrug.
"She's just never available. Always chasing her friends, hates that I moved us to this small town, hates that I work long hours to provide for our kids and her shoe habit. She's ungrateful," he complains, "she chases nannies off regularly and I see her chip at her children's confidence daily. They must always be winners in her books."
"They are winners," I offer.
"I wouldn't care if they weren't," he shakes his head, "I love them regardless. I sacrifice time with them so they have all they could ever need and she takes advantage of it."
"I'm sorry," I say, "it looks like both of us are in the thick of it."
He chuckles and nods.
"It's nice to have a conversation with an adult experiencing something similar," he motions to me, "he really is an idiot. You deserve more if not a Christmas gift at the very least."
"How'd you know he got me nothing?" I raise an eyebrow.
"I read it on your face," he shrugs, "I can see the hurt in your eyes. A man that puts hurt there like that wouldn't do the bare minimum which is get his wife a gift."
"What did you get yours?" I ask.
"Some Prada bag," he shrugs, "and a spa voucher for her and her sisters."
I want to throw my wedding ring across the room.
"Whoa," I huff.
"You can't say I haven't tried to repair the marriage. Maybe it's past the point of fixing," he looks sullen.
"Perhaps," I nod, my mind far away dreaming of what it would be like.
What would it be like to have a man who cares enough to spoil me even when he is mad at me.
I can't even get a slice of pizza.
Thanks for reading
X