Chapter 10: A Frustrating Conversation
The click of her own back door was deafening. The kitchen air was warm, smelling of cheap coffee and the faint, acrid edge of burnt whole wheat. Normal. Safe. It made her skin crawl.
Ryan was at the counter, one hand scrolling on his phone, the other holding a mug. He looked up, his boyish face breaking into an automatic smile. “Hey. You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?”
The shower had washed away the physical evidence, but she felt Zane on her like a tattoo under the skin. Her wrists ached with a phantom tightness. “Yeah. Went for a walk. Clear my head.”
She busied herself getting a mug, her hands steady only because she willed them to be. The granite countertop was cool. She focused on that.
“Good idea,” Ryan said, not looking up from his screen. A sports highlight reel played on silent. “I was thinking we could grill those burgers tonight. Maybe watch that new series.”
She poured the coffee, black. The steam rose, blurring her vision for a second. She saw the dark velvet of Zane’s room, felt the grip of his hands. You belong to this.
She took a breath that felt like shards of glass in her lungs. This was her life. This was her husband. She had to try. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it could be different.
She leaned against the counter opposite him. The pendant light cast a warm halo on his damp, sandy hair. He’d already showered, shaved. The routine was clockwork.
“Ryan?”
“Hmm?” He took a sip, eyes still on the phone.
“Can we… talk about something?”
That got his attention. He glanced up, his smile a little puzzled but patient. He put the phone down, screen-side up. A notification buzzed. He didn’t flip it over. “Sure, babe. What’s up?”
Her heart was a frantic bird in her throat. She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic of her mug. “It’s about us. About… our sex life.”
He blinked, then chuckled, a soft, awkward sound. “Oh. Okay.” He shifted his weight. “Is this about the lube? Because I said we could try it.”
“No. Not about the lube.” She forced the words out. They sounded strange, clinical. “I just… I sometimes feel like we’re in a rut. We do the same thing. Lights off, missionary, you know…”
His cheeks went a little pink. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, it’s good, though, right? You seem to… you know. Enjoy it.”
You cum when I tell you. The memory was a lightning strike behind her eyes. She swallowed. “I do. But I think I could enjoy it more. We could. If we… experimented.”
“Experimented.” He repeated the word like it was in a foreign language.
“Yeah. Like… maybe you could be a little more… in charge. Tell me what to do. Or… we could try using something. Like restraints.” The word hung in the air between them, crude and impossible. She saw the leather cuffs in the shadows, felt the iron post solid against her pull.
Ryan’s smile had frozen into something confused. He picked up his phone, thumbed the screen off, then on again. A stalling tactic. “Restraints. Like… handcuffs? From a costume shop?”
“Not necessarily. There’s nice stuff. Leather.” She couldn’t believe she was saying this. It felt like shouting in a library.
“Huh.” He took another sip of coffee, buying time. “I guess that could be… fun. For a birthday or something.” He said it like scheduling a dental cleaning.
The knot in her stomach tightened. She was losing him. She went for broke, the most outrageous card she could play, just to see if any spark existed behind his placid eyes. “Or… what about a threesome?”
He choked on his coffee. A small dribble ran down his chin. He wiped it with the back of his hand, laughing now, a nervous, dismissive bark. “Jesus, Stone. Where is this coming from? Did you watch some weird movie on your walk?” He shook his head, his eyes crinkling with benign amusement. “Look, I get it. Things feel routine. We’ll spice it up. I promise.” He reached out and patted her hand on the counter. His touch was warm, dry, lifeless. “We can definitely try that new lube you bought. Heard it’s got a warming thing. Could be cool.”
He looked at her, his expression clear, settled. He’d solved the problem. He picked up his phone again, his thumb already swiping.
Stone stood perfectly still. She felt the energy drain from her body, leaving a cold, hollow shell. Her grip on the mug was so tight a tremor ran through the black liquid inside. The knuckles of her hand were bone-white. She looked at the top of his head, at the familiar whorl of his hair. She saw the half-read newspaper, the smudge of butter on a plate, the packet of wheat toast bread beside the toaster.
This was it. This was the entirety of her future. A series of mild conversations about warming lubricant. A husband who heard her scream of desperation and offered her a grocery store coupon in response.
The silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the tinny, distant audio from his phone.
He finally looked up again, sensing her stillness. “We good, babe?”
She made her face soften. It was the easiest, hardest thing she’d ever done. She unclenched her hand from the mug. “Yeah,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “We’re good.”
“Cool.” He smiled, relieved. He leaned in and gave her a quick, dry peck on the cheek. “Love you. Gotta run or I’ll hit traffic.”
He rinsed his mug, placed it in the sink, and grabbed his keys from the hook by the door. “Don’t forget about those burgers!” he called over his shoulder, and then the door clicked shut.
The silence after he left was absolute. She stood in the amber-lit kitchen, surrounded by the clean, orderly evidence of their life. She looked out the window over the sink. The morning sun was painting Zane’s workshop in gold. The door was closed. The grass between the houses was dewy, trampled in a faint, direct path.
Her body felt heavy, numb. The hunger, momentarily quieted by his touch, was now a roaring, starving void. Ryan hadn’t just said no. He hadn’t even heard the question. He’d made her feel insane for asking it.
She didn’t bother cleaning the mug. She left it on the counter, a relic of the before.
She walked to the living room, to the big window that faced the street. She watched Ryan’s sensible sedan turn the corner and disappear. The neighborhood was waking up. A jogger passed. A sprinkler kicked on.
Her heart was a cold, hard stone in her chest.
Then she turned. She walked back through the kitchen, past the burnt smell and the stupid, hopeful lube on the shelf by the vitamins. She didn’t stop at the back door. She walked through it, leaving it slightly ajar.
The dew soaked through her socks immediately. She didn’t care. She crossed the lawn, her steps sure and deliberate this time, not a furtive sprint but a grim, inevitable march. The grass was cool. The sun was warm on her shoulders. She didn’t look left or right.
She went straight to Zane’s workshop door. It was unlocked.
She stepped inside the dim, oil-scented space. He was at his workbench, polishing a chrome fender with a worn rag. He didn’t turn around.
“He didn’t understand a single word,” she said, her voice flat, empty.
Zane put the rag down. He turned slowly. He looked at her, at her damp socks, at her empty eyes, at the resolve hardening in the set of her jaw. He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. He just saw her, completely.
He gave a single, slow nod.
“I know,” he said.
And that was all it took.