“Where have you been?” I ask again.
“Walking,” he says.
“Where?”
“Around. I needed to clear my head. Perhaps I’m an idiot, but I thought you still wanted to try.” He sniffs back tears. “Amz, I want to be a father. I want to have a child of my own.”
“We haven’t been blessed with one,” I whisper. “I can’t go back to that crazy person I was. You need to let this go. A child isn’t in our future.”
“Please. Let’s have one more consultation. We haven’t spoken to the fertility consultant in years. We owe it to ourselves to try.” His voice is so quiet, I’m not sure if he’s speaking to me or himself. “Just one more appointment before we put this to bed.”
“Okay,” I say, resigned. “One last appointment, then we’re done.” He gives me a soft smile, then walks toward me and takes my face between his hands. His lips drop to mine, and he kisses me.
He catches me off guard with the softness. It’s been a long time since I felt he wanted me for only me, not for the family I could give him. The warmth feels good, but underneath, I’m exhausted. Exhausted with hoping that this time, we will conceive. Exhausted from pretending I still believe in our shared dream. I buried it years ago.
Taking his hand, I lead him to our bedroom.
We stand in front of the mirrored-glass wardrobes, side by side. I lift my top over my head and wriggle out of my leggings. Not having been anywhere today, I’m not wearing underwear. Terry undresses too. We stand naked, surveying each other in the mirror. The difference between our bodies is startling, mine rigid in comparison to his. My husband has aged while I have strengthened. I understand his words about missing his wife. Now, I’m a different woman both physically and emotionally.
He looks at me like I’m a stranger. Someone he used to know, but can’t quite place. The silence stretches, and I need to fill the void. Stop the words neither of us are comfortable to hear before they pass either of our lips. So, I take charge the only way I know how. With my body.
“Lie down,” I purr, and he does as I instruct.
As I touch him, my body reverts to autopilot, giving him the pleasure I know he craves. But my mind is somewhere between now, yesterday, and what’s to come. Calculating the new future I only agreed to moments ago to keep my husband content. We’ll go to another appointment. Maybe agreeing is easier than fighting. Easier than admitting I’ve already given up.
My fingers slide around his hardening cock, angry and red. It pulses in my grip, throbbing against soft flesh. My jaw aches as I take him, the salt of his precum sharp on my tongue. Sheer relief escapes between his teeth. A sound I’ve heard a thousand times before. It used to be an aphrodisiac; now it’s another task on my list. “You like that, darling?” I mumble around him.
“Amz,” he murmurs. “Ride me. I want to be inside you. I need to shoot my load in that pretty pussy of yours.”
Once, his raw need for me would have sparked heat low in my belly. My lust would have matched his. Now, it reminds me of how far we’ve drifted. But I still move, because I don’t know how not to.
Releasing him from my mouth, I straddle him and rub my clit against his length. Pleasure builds between my legs, slick, prepared, and ready before I lower myself down.
We have been together so long, it’s like our bodies fit together seamlessly. I open, and he slides home. It’s easy. Our rhythm is instant.
Our bodies move from muscle memory rather than desire. But somewhere beneath the motions, there’s a whisper of something rawer. A flicker of what we were.
As I rock my hips, I pretend this is closeness, not comfort. My husband filling me was one of my happiest places. I wonder, could be again? We’ve always been connected, but here there’s no beginning or end. It’s just us, but I feel alone.
Sensation builds, and I ride him harder. Our bedroom fills with the echo of wet flesh colliding. My pussy clenches, my juices coating his dick. He grunts. His cock jerks, and his moan of release drowns out our movement.
Afterwards, we lie in each other’s arms, spent and calm. Our breathing slows together, synchronized once more. This is the closest I’ve felt to him in months, and that truth stings.
I snuggle in, wrapping my arms around his wide torso. He smells of sweat, sex, and home. For a minute, I pretend we are still the couple we were. The one who whispered late at night and kept their promises. Then reality returns, my heart quiets, somber.
“Thank you.” His nose skims my ear.
“For what?” I ask. “Riding you like my life depended on it?”
He chuckles and kisses my temple.
“For that too, but no, for agreeing to try again. To try for a family.”
The word family splinters the peace. In my mind, we already are a family, albeit a family of two. And yet, his version still has tiny toes and a dreamcatcher above the crib. Mine just has us. I wonder if that is enough anymore.
My heart breaks. I never agreed to try again. I agreed to an appointment with the doctor. Deep down, I know I have no intention of trying for a baby. Life is only getting back on track after Bex, and I’m happy to be me.
My business is blossoming. My body is blooming. The last thing I want is to jump back down the rabbit hole of infertility. But I lie in my husband’s arms and say nothing. Because saying something will rip open a wound that is still festering inside.
