I’d barely found my rhythm when she squeaked, “Something is happening,” as though I required a status update, as though this were an experiment and not the most natural thing in the world between two people in love.
Watching her lose control, feeling it, knowing I was the master of her pleasure, the proprietor of her trust, and cultivator of her appetites intoxicated me with an intense and heady sense of power.
Just as it humbled me.
Just as it made me remember why I’d insisted we wait to begin with. I stretched next to her, petting and stroking her as she continued to tremble, gathering her in my arms. She was completely vulnerable to me. Noble thoughts and feelings returned in a flood of protectiveness and certainty of possession.
I’d bought the ring the week after Valentine’s Day, more a compulsion than an impulse, and I’d carried it in my pocket whenever we were together.
The ring had been a promise to myself.
One day she would be mine.
One day I would be hers.
Until then, I’d decided I would be patient. We would take things slow, discover each other’s minds, foster the seed of love and mutual respect before satiating each other’s bodies.
The promise was enough. I’d planned to wait years before asking, before claiming her skin as mine.
Instead, during this first week of May, just three months after we’d agreed to be the only source of romantic situations for each other, I’d just asked Fiona to marry me.
And she said yes.
Again, it had been more a compulsion than an impulse, just like teasing her in the car earlier in the evening, or bringing her to this posh hotel, or proclaiming that I was in love with her.
I was in love with her. I had no choice. I needed her. She was as vital to me as the heart I’d offered and she’d accepted just moments ago. We bantered, teased. Everything felt good, better, meaningful. No doubt I was completely enamored. No doubt she owned me.
I was coming to understand fear was found in waiting. But that meant bravery was also found in waiting. I’ve never been very good at being brave.
Yet for her I would be. We would wait. We would explore and discover, take our time, learn to love delayed gratification. Because we were building a foundation to last a lifetime.
CHAPTER 7
Dear Husband: I am one more dog bark away from shaving my head and leaving everything behind. Your son was not good at Target. Or when we got home. There's mud all over my life and salmonella all over my soul.
Dear Wife: I promise to do all I can to get you to stay. I am sorry it is hard right now. If you leave, know I will follow. With chocolate. And muffins. And movies. And yoga pants.
-Heidi and Charles
Text Messages
Iowa, USA
Married 7 years
Present Day
Fiona
“I don’t think it was actually a real thing. I can’t imagine any Christians I know getting all worked up about renaming Christmas Wreath to Evergreen Wreath. It’s like, come on! Who cares? We have bigger fish to fry, namely frying fish and distributing loaves to the hungry.” Sandra waved her knitting needle in the air like it was a baton, emphasizing her point.
Elizabeth nodded. “I’m convinced the war on Christmas is actually just one atheist named Dave spreading rumors on the Internet from his parents’ basement in Rochester, New York, trying to make Christians look like super nuts.”
“Poor Dave. You should pray for him.” Marie giggled.
“I will, Marie. I will pray for Dave.” Sandra poked Marie with a finger. “Aren’t you an atheist?”
Marie shrugged. “More or less. I’m agnostic. And it’s not contagious, Sandra. You can’t catch it.”
“That’s not what Dave said,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath, eliciting various heights of laughter from the group.
It was Tuesday knit night, but we weren’t at my apartment. Elizabeth had called me Monday and suggested we move the meet-up to her house as Janie was still under the weather. I readily agreed. My place was still a disaster. Severely lacking in energy, feeling morose and mournful, I hadn’t made the time to do any cleaning.
The first twenty-four hours after Greg’s departure were typically the worst. My chest hurt like I had unassailable heartburn. This time I was more heartbroken than usual.
I hated fighting with my husband. Nothing felt good or right or normal until we felt good and right and normal about each other.
After the kids fell asleep on Saturday, I’d composed an email. He wouldn’t receive it immediately, but I needed to apologize. He’d been worried about me and I’d patronized him instead of acknowledging his concerns.
So I wrote down all my thoughts, apologizing for my behavior. Apologizing for keeping him in the dark about my headaches, promising to redouble my efforts regarding the kids and keeping him in the loop. I also confessed to Jack’s upcoming soccer season and Grace’s princess dress. The email took me two hours to write, and I felt marginally better after I hit send.