He exhales tensely and pulls his hand away, doing a poor job at smiling. "Fine. Did you take a pill?"
"I took a half. I could use the other one."
"Alright. I'll bring it." He gets up and shuffles to the kitchen, rummaging around. Then I hear him on the phone.
"Hi, I would like to order a truffle pizza," he says and then his voice quickly brightens up. "Oh hi! Yes, that's us... How are you?... No, don't worry, we will come over again. We're just verybusy now...Could you put more truffles on the pizza? It's for my wife. She's having a bad headache and it might make her feel better... Sure, I don't care how much it costs, I'll pay extra."
"Damn it," I mutter to myself, beyond guilty and heartbroken.
The truth is that even if the headache wasn't there, I don't think I could do it today.
There were long stretches of time when I felt neglected by Richard, wondering why he didn't want me the way other men did. Times when I eyed the long-legged airheads preening around him, thinking they could replace me because let's be real—Richard is very handsome, has a lot of power, and I have yet to meet a woman who wouldn't melt around him.
I did. It took me approximately thirty minutes, because he has that thing where when he looks at you, he makes you feel special.
And no, he never gave me a reason to doubt him, not really, but jealousy doesn't need evidence—it only needs imagination, and I'm pretty good at that.
It sucks because it makes no sense that I would refuse him now, that the thought of my husband touching me feels wrong, like I'd be faking it with my own body.
All because of a man who sleeps upstairs in a bed with his wife and does god knows what. It's absurd and humiliating and so me, all over again.
An hour later, we're in the living room.
The second half of the pill didn't help. Not even the scent of truffles as Richard eats next to me while watching the reporton the stock market.
Then—ding, ding, ding—my phone lights up with three back-to-back texts. The letters blur.
Then I squint and they sharpen, my eyes snapping open like the dead just woke.
Mara:Babe, we got a free ticket for you!
Mara:You're coming!
12
"You better not chicken out!" Mara calls from behind the tent flap, voice all sunshine. "It's time to shed."
"I'm not a snake," I call, wrestling with the zipper of this reckless excuse for an outfit.
Shimmering sapphire jumpsuit, super-tight, sleeveless and plunging to places I usually fence off with cardigans.
Bought it as a dare to myself. Or maybe the devil in me clickedBuy Nowbecause she knew Ben was going to be here.
Which is bad, I know, but give me a break.
For five days I've survived on rinse-and-repeat dresses, and something in me finally snapped, or melted.
I tried to include Richard. Spent day one climbing sand dunes finding signal just to text him despite what he told me at home before I left. Texted him about the sound baths, the new amazing family I found here—texted him every damn day.
This morning, he finally wrote back:Nice. Have fun.
No signature. That was a first.
Just a shrug in text form.
So I buried my phone at the bottom of my bag and decided it'll stay there.
"This is ridiculous. I'm not doing this," I sigh and drop my hands in defeat just as the flap peels back.
