sleeping in your bed tonight. Our bed. Tonight. And every night after.”
Chapter 11
N ovember slipped away , with an emotional Thanksgiving. Everyone at the dinner table sniffled and cried when we talked about how thankful we were to have Caleb back. And to have Charlotte in our lives.
We were finding our new normal, my husband and I. Christmas, New Year’s—they came and went. He lavished Charlotte with gifts and they bonded fast. He was amazingly tender and patient with her, and her face lit up whenever she saw him. I was a bit jealous, truthfully. But I tried to hide any negative emotion and focus on the positives. And those were accumulating by the day.
Like how he sent a dozen red roses to the condo each Friday. I’d open the attached envelope and hope to see three little words. Instead, I’d find romantic quotes from literature or a line of Shakespeare.
Let's go hand in hand, not one before another.
Or something suggestive.
I’m going to push you against the wall tonight and kiss the hell out of you , he wrote one week.
And another, more philosophical: I don’t care how complicated our situation is. I still want you.
Each Friday, I’d sit on the terrace with my tea and the note for a half-hour, parsing the meaning behind every word. The phrases were always beautiful. And yet, they puzzled me. They never included the word love . Would I ever understand Caleb again? Would he ever tell me he loved me, like he used to?
The therapist privately told me to give Caleb the space he needed to form his own emotions. I still hadn’t talked to Dr. Santamaria about Colin. Wasn’t sure how to even form the words, really, so I tried to push the incident back into the recesses of my mind where they belonged.
Caleb went back to work, and I stayed home most of the time—although two days a week, I did go into the bookstore. I restarted my plans to open a second, romance-only bookstore. I wanted my career back. Needed my whole life back. It wasn’t easy, though.
We continued our weekly therapy sessions and kept exploring each other through sex. Despite Caleb’s fantasies—or memories—we didn’t indulge in rough play. There was no spanking, no squeezing of my throat, no bondage. Our sex was that of two people getting to know each other: hungry and furious at times, and at others, languid and tender.
And yet, something was off. Caleb wasn’t the same. He was more introspective, quieter than he used to be. Sometimes he would read in bed and I’d walk in. He’d glance up, and the expression in his eyes made my heart sink to my feet. It was if I was nearly transparent, the way he looked at me.
I knew he still didn’t fully recognize me. Didn’t know what made me tick. Like before.
“Hey,” I whispered, climbing into bed one evening, wearing an almost-sheer pink cotton nightie with nothing under it.
“Hello, Emma.” He returned to his book and I blinked. Since he’d returned, he’d never called me any of his pet nicknames. Especially not Emma doll . When I dwelled on that, it made me angry. But I kept it inside. I tried not to push or probe too much, because that’s what Dr. Santamaria had suggested.
We existed on the razor’s edge of life. If we fell to one side or the other, chaos would ensue.
I didn’t want chaos in my life. Nor in my marriage. Not after how I grew up.
So I stayed silent. At least until one Friday night in the spring when I’d drank one too many glasses of wine. Charlotte was in bed, it was late, and we were sitting on the terrace.
“I’m going to Miami with Colin next week,” Caleb remarked. “We’re meeting with contractors about the new building. And Colin is supposed to hook up with some woman he met online. Cassandra? Penelope? Alexandra? I can’t remember. Maybe this will be the one for him.”
I rolled my eyes, the memory of my own time with Colin in Miami still somewhat raw and painful.
“What? You don’t think Colin deserves happiness?” Caleb said, a tone
Chapter 11
N ovember slipped away , with an emotional Thanksgiving. Everyone at the dinner table sniffled and cried when we talked about how thankful we were to have Caleb back. And to have Charlotte in our lives.
We were finding our new normal, my husband and I. Christmas, New Year’s—they came and went. He lavished Charlotte with gifts and they bonded fast. He was amazingly tender and patient with her, and her face lit up whenever she saw him. I was a bit jealous, truthfully. But I tried to hide any negative emotion and focus on the positives. And those were accumulating by the day.
Like how he sent a dozen red roses to the condo each Friday. I’d open the attached envelope and hope to see three little words. Instead, I’d find romantic quotes from literature or a line of Shakespeare.
Let's go hand in hand, not one before another.
Or something suggestive.
I’m going to push you against the wall tonight and kiss the hell out of you , he wrote one week.
And another, more philosophical: I don’t care how complicated our situation is. I still want you.
Each Friday, I’d sit on the terrace with my tea and the note for a half-hour, parsing the meaning behind every word. The phrases were always beautiful. And yet, they puzzled me. They never included the word love . Would I ever understand Caleb again? Would he ever tell me he loved me, like he used to?
The therapist privately told me to give Caleb the space he needed to form his own emotions. I still hadn’t talked to Dr. Santamaria about Colin. Wasn’t sure how to even form the words, really, so I tried to push the incident back into the recesses of my mind where they belonged.
Caleb went back to work, and I stayed home most of the time—although two days a week, I did go into the bookstore. I restarted my plans to open a second, romance-only bookstore. I wanted my career back. Needed my whole life back. It wasn’t easy, though.
We continued our weekly therapy sessions and kept exploring each other through sex. Despite Caleb’s fantasies—or memories—we didn’t indulge in rough play. There was no spanking, no squeezing of my throat, no bondage. Our sex was that of two people getting to know each other: hungry and furious at times, and at others, languid and tender.
And yet, something was off. Caleb wasn’t the same. He was more introspective, quieter than he used to be. Sometimes he would read in bed and I’d walk in. He’d glance up, and the expression in his eyes made my heart sink to my feet. It was if I was nearly transparent, the way he looked at me.
I knew he still didn’t fully recognize me. Didn’t know what made me tick. Like before.
“Hey,” I whispered, climbing into bed one evening, wearing an almost-sheer pink cotton nightie with nothing under it.
“Hello, Emma.” He returned to his book and I blinked. Since he’d returned, he’d never called me any of his pet nicknames. Especially not Emma doll . When I dwelled on that, it made me angry. But I kept it inside. I tried not to push or probe too much, because that’s what Dr. Santamaria had suggested.
We existed on the razor’s edge of life. If we fell to one side or the other, chaos would ensue.
I didn’t want chaos in my life. Nor in my marriage. Not after how I grew up.
So I stayed silent. At least until one Friday night in the spring when I’d drank one too many glasses of wine. Charlotte was in bed, it was late, and we were sitting on the terrace.
“I’m going to Miami with Colin next week,” Caleb remarked. “We’re meeting with contractors about the new building. And Colin is supposed to hook up with some woman he met online. Cassandra? Penelope? Alexandra? I can’t remember. Maybe this will be the one for him.”
I rolled my eyes, the memory of my own time with Colin in Miami still somewhat raw and painful.
“What? You don’t think Colin deserves happiness?” Caleb said, a tone
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