“Now you sound like a pretentious asshole,” he grumbled, but I could tell it was false grouchiness because his arms came around me and held me to him with a tight, possessive embrace.
I had to take a couple deep breaths before I admitted brokenly, “I need you to stop leaving me behind.”
He paused for maybe a full minute, then squeezed me and nodded. “Okay. Okay.” His hand soothed up and down my back as new tears leaked out of my eyes, tears of relief and tears of panic.
“I’m serious, Greg. You can’t do that to me anymore. You can’t—”
“I know. And . . . I’ll do my best. I might require reminding, but I’ll do my best. And, in return, I need something from you.”
“I don’t know if I have anything left to give.” I was so exhausted and overwhelmed and honestly scared. I couldn’t fathom having any energy to spare.
“I need you to tell me I’m wanted.”
“Of course you are—”
“And needed—”
“Yes,” my arms tightened around him as his lips came to my neck, “more than you know.”
“And you’re desperate for me.”
“I’m beyond desperate for you.”
“Good.” Greg placed a wet kiss just below my ear, biting me, and whispering, “Because I’m desperate for you—and not just your intoxicating warmth and body. I’m desperate for your beautiful heart and brilliant mind. I’m desperate for you to need me as I need you—insatiably, completely, eternally.” He punctuated each of his last three words with a kiss, a lick, and a nibble, sending lovely spikes of melting affection and ardor through my limbs, flushed heat to my cheeks.
“I do,” I admitted breathlessly, leaning my head back so I could catch his eyes, so he could see both the veracity and importance of my words. “I belong to you, Greg. And I demand you take better care of me. And not just because I’m pregnant—”
“No, darling. We belong to each other. I shall require reminding and some patience if you can spare it, but I intend to take the best care of you. And not because you’re pregnant.”
I gave him a disbelieving glare.
His mouth tugged to one side. “Well, not just because you’re pregnant. But rather, I shall take the best care of you because it’s no less than you deserve—pregnant or not.”
My eyes were still leaking water, but I let the tears come, I allowed them to fall freely without wiping them away. “I’ll remind you.”
“Good.”
“And you have to remind me not to bottle things up, you have to remind me to ask for what I need.”
“I will. And thank you.”
I sniffled. “For what?”
He kissed the wet streaks on both of my cheeks and smoothed his hand from my shoulder to my bottom. A huge smile split his face as his gaze moved over me with what I knew to be worshipful adoration.
Thank God! Because, at that moment, what I needed and wanted most was worshipful adoration, even if it was only a band-aid until backed up by consistency and actions.
“Thank you for always taking the best care of me, even when I’m undeserving.”
I tsked, and when I spoke my voice was nasally and thick. “Haven’t you realized yet? You do deserve me. We deserve each other.”
CHAPTER 23
Dearest Husband,
I love you for who you are and who you have become. I am thankful that you accept me for what I am and who I have become. I am grateful you joined me in this ride, that you wanted me too.
-M.
Email
Indiana, USA
Married 15 years
Present Day
Fiona
“I just want him to put the colander back where it belongs. Is that too much to ask?” Janie was crocheting with the fervor of a woman who had just received fifty colanders from her husband. “I don’t want one colander for every closet and cabinet in our apartment, I want one colander. Period. One! And I want him to put it where it belongs.”
“Why can’t men put the dishes away correctly?” Sandra addressed this question to Nico and Greg. “Because Quinn isn’t special in this. As far as I know, inability to correctly unload the dishwasher is something from which all men suffer.”
“Maybe we just like watching our wives bend over while they search cabinets.” Nico grinned.
I lifted my gaze from my knitting and it immediately tangled with Greg’s. We shared a secretive smile. He wagged his eyebrows. I rolled my eyes.
Two weeks had passed since we’d returned home from Nigeria. Two weeks of Greg being home. Two weeks of us clumsily trying on these new roles, new costumes in our relationship. Every so often I’d trip on my proverbial hem, or he’d rip a hypothetical seam, and we’d have to patch things up.
Ten days ago he’d washed the laundry, not separating the whites from the colors, and turned all of our socks pale pink. We’d argued. He’d researched and discovered a solution online. The socks were saved.