I could take risks. I could let myself feel something other than fucking anger and uncertainty.
The first time that I rode without gear, I knew I may as well have tossed my money into the trash. I’d never wear it again. The wind on my skin, the thrill of knowing that every move I made was just a little more risky without it, that every ride could be the last one…nothing beats it.
Connor has no fucking idea what he’s missing out on.
We spend at least an hour on the road together, maybe two, before we finally part ways.
It’s a good ride; one of the best I’ve had in a while.
The only sound when I walk through the garage door is that of the bell on Drumstick’s collar, jingling as he trots down the stairs, headed toward me.
“Hey, D,” I whisper, reaching to pet him as he lifts himself up onto his hind legs to claw at my thigh.
Scooping him under my arm, I trek up the stairs with him, kicking off my Chucks as I walk into the bedroom. Julia is already tucked into bed, surrounded by the ridiculously-fluffy duvet that she seems to favor, and the lamp next to her has been turned off with her e-reader next to it, plugged in to charge overnight.
I set Drumstick at the foot of the bed and climb on after him, dropping into the space next to my wife. Brushing her hair away from her face, I lean over her to press a kiss to her cheek.
“You smell like gasoline,” she grumbles, her voice no higher than a whisper.
“I know,” I tell her, “I’m about to take a shower.”
As she rolls to face me, her lips meet mine. Soft, and just a little bit sticky from the balm that she puts on them every night. It tastes like cinnamon candy.
I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t remember the last time that I laid next to her in our bed; and as my tongue slides past her lips, I realize that I can barely remember the last time that I kissed her like this.
“I can come with you,” she offers.
Despite how badly I want that, despite how much I miss the plush pillow of her hips in my hands, I press my lips to hers one more time and tell her, “It’s just gonna be a quick in-and-out. I’m wiped.”
“Oh, sure,” she says almost dejectedly before rolling back to her other side. “Don’t forget to use the purple shampoo.”
I know I’m an asshole. My wife wants to connect with me. She needs to feel wanted. Idowant her, lord knows I do; it’s just that every time we try to have sex anymore, my mind drifts to the last thing we fought about, and to whatever it might be that we’ll fight about next.
If I’m notthinkingabout us fighting, we’re actively fighting.
It’s exhausting.
“Tripp,” she calls out as I cross the threshold into our bathroom, “I love you.”
Bracing my hand against the door frame, I pull my lips into a tight smile and tell her, “I love you too, baby.”
Maybe more than anything else in this world or the next.
When I climb into the shower, I make the effort to remember to lather my hair with her purple shampoo. I let it sit while I jerk myself off, rinsing both the evidence and the lavender-tinted suds down the drain when I’m finished.
Standing in the doorway with a towel wrapped around my waist as I scrub a toothbrush against my teeth, I watch my wife while she sleeps. She used to be a heavy sleeper; the kind of person who could sleep through any alarm and any sudden loud noise.
She doesn’t seem to sleep well anymore, and I think that I’m partly to blame for that. The couch is practically permanently indented with my shape at this point and our bed isn’t. She didn’t do that;Idid.
It’s easier to tell her that I love her and keep the two of us separated than it is to come upstairs and hope that we don’t fight. We’ve never gone to bed angry at each other. I don’t want to start now, even if that means ignoring how much I want to climb into bed with her and hold her body against mine.
As I throw on a pair of pants and quietly trek down the stairs, I hear the same mantra that’s been playing in my mind for the past six months.
I’m losing her.
I’m losing her.
I’m losing her.
