3. Focus on your spouse and not your supposed flaws. Be confident in the body God gave you.
Claire had always been sheepish about the idea of Gavin seeing her naked, but from the look on his face on their wedding night, he liked what he saw. And she liked how it felt. As he discovered new parts of her body, he greeted each one with a kiss. Each time his lips touched down, she felt even more confident and sexy, much to her surprise. Within the first few minutes of their getting-to-know-each-other session, her body began begging for more, quivering with pleasure. It was a spiritual experience. She took him in slowly. It hurt, but the pain felt good. Each movement they shared made her body fill up with a power she couldn’t explain until it finally overflowed and burst. Afterward, they lay together side by side on their backs, breathing heavily.
“I love you,” she had told him, in between gasps. At that moment, she’d felt closer to him than she ever thought she could.
Now, as Claire gazed at her wedding photo, all she could think was that the nineteen-year-old girl staring back at her was so beautiful. She missed that long flowing brown hair—it had been cut into a short bob when a crying baby made long showers and primping impossible. And she missed that svelte frame—the extra twenty pounds of baby weight were not going anywhere, no matter how hard she tried. But Claire was sure that she could recapture that powerful feeling of being sexy, of being wanted.
In the bathroom, she brushed her hair and put some makeup on. Her tired eyes popped once she applied black eyeliner and mascara. Her pale lips transformed into a sexy pout with the swipe of a red lipstick. Her colorless cheeks had life in them again after a smear of cream blush. Finally, she traded in her gray hoodie for a fitted black V-neck. It wasn’t anything special, but she always felt seductive in black.
In the living room, Gavin was still working on his sermon.
“She’s asleep,” Claire said, walking over to him and taking his iPad out of his hands. Before he could say anything, she sat on his lap, trailing kisses down his neck, reaching lower and lower. “Let’s be bad,” she said in a husky voice, unbuttoning his jeans.
Gavin placed his hands on hers to stop her. “I’ve got to finish this sermon, honey.”
Claire sat back, searching. “But you’ve got all night. C’mon. We finally have some time. Please?” Was he really going to make her beg?
He kissed her forehead. “I’m so sorry, babe, but I’m in a groove right now. I really need to get this done while I’m inspired.”
She pouted and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t you find me attractive anymore?”
He took off his glasses. Without them, he looked as tired as she felt. “Of course. Why would you say that?”
“It’s just been so long. . . .” It had been weeks since they’d had sex. It seemed like life was constantly getting in the way these days—if Gavin wasn’t busy with work, Claire was exhausted from taking care of Sadie. There was no more time for them.
Gavin sighed. “I know. Maybe your mom can take Sadie next weekend and we can have a date night?”
Claire slid off his lap and averted her eyes, trying to fight back tears. It somehow felt personal, like being unable to balance their marriage with their lives meant she was failing as a wife. “Sure.”
Gavin buttoned his jeans and grabbed the iPad from the side table. “I love you,” he said, already starting to type again.
Their small, orderly living room suddenly felt stifling. Claire stood, a decision forming in her mind. “I have to take Madison to her boyfriend’s show tonight. I’ll be out late.” She walked out of the room without waiting for Gavin to say another word.
? ? ?
IT WAS ALREADY midnight, and Claire couldn’t stop yawning. Madison was sitting on Cash’s lap in a dark corner of the bar; they hadn’t come up for air in a while. Ricky Broussard, the restaurant’s owner, slid into the booth next to Claire. He always made her uncomfortable, with his bushy mustache and leering gaze. Back when she was in high school, he’d try to hit on her despite being a decade older. “I’m gonna marry you one day when you’re older, Claire Guidry,” he’d once whispered into her ear. “You just wait.”
“I just got myself a new shotgun rifle,” he told her now, smoothing his thick brown mustache out with two fingers. “I work hard, ya know? Gotta blow off some steam out there on the hunt. And this baby’s a powerful one.”
Claire nodded, repressing the urge to roll her eyes. A group of women in their late twenties were starting a dance party a few feet away from the table. She had watched them all night trying to pick up guys: Purple Crop Top had made out with an overweight bearded man for a free gin and tonic earlier in the evening, while Ed Hardy Dress had finally convinced a Toulouse High senior to dance with her . . . until his girlfriend showed up. At this point, they seemed perfectly content buying their own drinks and dancing by themselves.
They were now collectively jumping up and down screaming to celebrate “The Cupid Shuffle” coming on the speakers. With their longneck beer bottles in hand, the women started moving in tune to the lyrics. These women were at least five years older than she was—how did they still have so much stamina at this hour?
Ricky sucked on his cigarette and gave them a weak round of applause when it was over. “I’ve gotta go talk to those there ladies,” he said, standing up and straightening out his plaid button-down shirt. “You’ll be okay here?”
“Actually, I need to go,” Claire replied, checking the clock on her phone. “I’ve got church in the morning.” She silently thanked God for that perfect excuse.
“Come back around more often,” Ricky said, with a final smoothing of his mustache. “Bring the husband and baby for lunch on me one of these days.”
“Sounds good,” Claire replied with a smile, thinking, that will never happen. She put her cardigan on and grabbed her bag. “Bye!”
“Bye now,” Ricky said. He walked toward the dancers, greeting them with his go-to line. “That was great! Now, who wants shots?”
Claire made her way toward Madison and Cash, who had been making out since his band sang their last song—a cover of Nirvana’s “I Hate Myself and Want to Die,” which was, ironically, how Claire felt when she listened to them play. Madison was sucking Cash’s face with the strength of a Hoover, their bodies—and whatever else they were doing—thankfully concealed by a wooden table piled with bottles and dirty glasses. Claire cleared her throat, hoping that would force them up for air, and finally shouted over the music, “Mads, we have to go.”
Madison looked up at her cousin and smiled beatifically. “I’m going to stay with Cash tonight,” she slurred. “I told my parents I was staying with you.”
“Seriously? You could have told me that an hour ago,” Claire said, frustrated.