My respect for Chrissy, for how she salvaged her marriage, just shot through the ceiling. “And honestly? Fuck you for that twenty-four-seven comment.” My glare turns scathing, for the first time I can recall in our entire time together. “You know I help run two fucking companies. You wanna talk about stress? Pressure? Other things on my mind besides sex?” My arms flailing—slapping my thick thighs as they fall back down—are making sure I can’t be mistaken for dispassionate right now. “Yeah, I’ve got it, too. But I still make our relationship a priority. I stilltryto keep some semblance of a flame alive between us, in and amongst all the other responsibilities andshitthat comes with living the hustler, entrepreneur life.”
My chest heaves with deep breaths, my skin flushed from the outrage that’s overtaken me. He’s starting to look as broken as he should over this. “I’m not sure you ever have. And I’m beginning to accept that you never will.”
“Ell, that’s not fair.” His voice is softer, his face repentant, but he said what he said. I don’t subscribe to the theory that people say things they don’t mean. No. You thought it, you felt it, that’s why it came out of your mouth. My filter usually protects others’ feelings at the expense of my own, but apparently we’re both coming clean tonight, one another’s feelings be damned. I just hope the truth bombs don’t leave craters in the center of us, damage that can’t be repaired.
“No, what’s not fair is that you’re expecting me to just disregard a part of who I am, like it’s some switch I can just turn off, like it’s not a valid need that’s important to me and should be important to my fucking partner, too.That’snot fair.”
One more deep breath, eyes closed as the oxygen floods my bloodstream and my head clears of the volatile emotions once again. Back to logic. Centered. In control. Back to my usual.
“I’m going to keep trying to make this relationship whole. Everything I want. I’m not ready to give up on what we have. We have so much that’s right between us, and there are ways that we can make our sex life better. Education, experimentation, practice… There are lots of avenues we haven’t tried yet. But if you’re not trying, too, if you don’t show me that this is what you really want, too… I don’t think I can have this conversation again.”
I spin on my bare heel and float out of the room, while my boyfriend’s hopeless face stays glued to the inside of my eyelids. That look of dread, of misery, of already having given up is all I’ll see when I lay in bed and try to go to sleep, like the poster I kept of Justin Timberlake on my ceiling as a preteen.
Why do I have the feeling he’s going to consider this ultimatum a mood swing or a tantrum, not the last time I’m willing to try to resolve this issue between us?
EIGHT
ELLIE
On the way to work today, I’m feeling myself.
Did I use that right? I hope so.
It’s like some sort of weight has dissipated from my conscious self, on a spiritual level, laying it all out there for David. I didn’t realize how much it had weighed me down, this concern I had for the parts of me that were unfulfilled (not the time for a dirty joke right now, reader). But it’s clouded my future, kept my head down and my gaze toward the ground, rather than at my future, which feels a lot brighter all of a sudden.
Which explains why I’m blasting one of my favorite playlists on near max volume, dancing my absolute ass off as I drive into work.
If you’re one of those people who’s easily embarrassed by antics like that…I’m sorry for all the fun you’re missing out on. Nothing like besmirching a classic pop song with your own terrible rendition while shaking what your mama gave ya and driving a two-ton machine down the road at the same time.
Approximately four songs (and one re-listen because it wasthatgood this morning), and I’m to the office, in a surprisingly good mood for someone who just threw a live grenade into her relationship and life as she knows it.
Maybe I’m defective, but laying everything out there like that? I. Feel. Good.
“You having a good day?” It’s a voice I’ve come to recognize from the first note alone over the past couple of weeks. There’s unexpected jest in the seemingly harmless words, and when I look to the open door of my office, Asher is standing there. One arm propped on the doorframe, his dark green, long-sleeved, lightweight sweater working in his favor with that coloring of his, that smirk on his face.
“Every day’s a good day to me, Asher. You’ve been working out of my office for almost two weeks, surely you know that by now.”
“I’m still waiting to find evidence your perpetual chipper state is a fluke.”
Is he…teasing me? His tongue touches that tooth in the front—a familiar gesture at this point—and the thoughtful look is so specific to him, so endearing, it makes me smile.
“What can I say? Life is a gift. Shit’s gonna happen whether I’m happy about it or mad about it, might as well find the good in as much as I can. My mindset is one of the only things in my life that’s fully my choice.” A little deep for first thing in the morning, but I’m rolling with the punches today.
“And is that good often found in…music?” The way he paused before dropping that last word, like a beat, like the bass coming back after the bridge of a song fades, it’s put me on edge. What is he getting at?
His arm falls down from the doorway and he saunters in, stopping in front of my desk, eyeing me a little too curiously to be innocent.
“Yeah?” I answer unsurely. “Music is one of the greatest gifts in life, if you ask me.” I’m not lying, so why do I feel nervous about my answer? The way he’s watching me, it’s like he’s waiting to pounce, and I have no clue how or why.
His eyes light up like I’m the canary who just left the safety of my gilded cage, and he is the tomcat. “Mind sharing what you were listening to on the way in this morning? I could use some of whatever energy you had going on about ten minutes ago.” The mischievous glint in his eye says the rest of what his mouth doesn’t.
“You ass!” I admonish quietly, unable to help the laugh that bubbles from my lips at the lazy mirth written all over his expression. “You were watching me dance in mycar?” The offense in my tone makes it sound like it was something far more sinister, far more private that he witnessed.
I’m not sure what it is about being in your own car that makes you feel safe, like you’re in a bubble that no one can peer inside of, but it’s quite the deceptive illusion. Exhibit A: The Gen Z-er who would be considered mocking if there was any reproach or condescension in his face or tone, but there isn’t. It’s just genuine enjoyment of catching a moment that shows you a side you didn’t expect of someone you thought you had a good read on. He apparently saw at least part of my private performance this morning.
He shrugs, lazily, a shoulder popping up to his ear with that half-smile still on his face. “I wasn’t following you. Wouldn’t even have noticed you in the car next to me if you weren’t swinging your arms and head around like you were at that club Beyoncé worked at inGoldmember. Gotta say though, impressed you didn’t crash, even with those moves.”
Nothing to do but drop my head in my hands, shake it a couple of times, and purge the embarrassment, trade it in for a good laugh.
