Then I put the phone on my nightstand, crawl under the covers, and try to sleep.
I don’t know how much later, but I’m awakened by movement in the bed beside me. I know my wife’s smell, the way she breathes as she curls against me, and how it feels when she needs me. This isn’t the time to talk. Or argue.
This is a time for comfort and rest.
So I wrap my arms around her and pull her close.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers just before I drift off again.
I know.
I don’t know if I thought it or said it aloud, but the next time I open my eyes sunlight is streaming through the cracks in the blinds and Lexi is still curled in my arms. I stare at her for a few minutes, taking in her beautiful profile and porcelain skin. The golden hair draped all over both of us. The splashes of color from the tattoos that cover her entire chest. Before she’d been able to get breast implants that her body didn’t reject—there were several rounds that didn’t work—she’d gotten the extensive tats to cover what she considered ugly scars.
Then, when she was able to get breasts, she updated the tattoos to accommodate the larger area of skin.
In my opinion, both her breasts and the scars she considers so ugly, are beautiful. They’re part of her. Part of the woman I love with my entire soul.
That’s why the conversation we’re about to have is going to be so difficult.
I’m not some macho alpha male who dominates his woman. Not even in bed, although we dabble in that sometimes.
Generally speaking, we’re equals.
We both work, we both contribute financially, and we make ninety percent of all decisions together. Sometimes, one or the other has to make an executive decision because someone is out of town. When that happens, we tell each other what happened. The rest of the time, we figure it out together.
Also tricky is the fact that this is a professional decision.
Obviously, I don’t ask her opinion if I want to try a new brand of skates or if I change my workout routine. She doesn’t know much about the minutiae of being a professional hockey player, so I wouldn’t consult her on day-to-day decisions.
Just like she wouldn’t consult me about changes to the set list, stage choreography, or the designs on new band merchandise.
Which makes this a slippery slope.
What she does on tour has nothing to do with me.
Except when she puts herself—and our baby—in danger.
“Stop staring at me,” she murmurs in a sleep-addled voice.
“I can’t help it,” I say, stroking the side of her face with my fingers. “You’re so beautiful.”
She smiles, though she doesn’t open her eyes.
“I’m so comfy,” she says, “but I really have to pee.”
Because we’re about to have what will probably be a disagreement, maybe even a fight, I slide out of bed and then scoop her up in my arms.
“Zaan.” She doesn’t even react, so accustomed to me doing things like this. “I can walk.”
“I know. But I want to spoil you.”
“Because you think we’re going to fight.”
This is one of many reasons why we’re so good together.
We know each other intimately.
Way beyond anything that has to do with sex.
