Page 32 of The Influencer

Liv catches me staring at the plate again, fork hovering midair as I mentally berate myself, the same way I have every time she and I’ve been in the same room together for the last week. “No,” I croak. “It’s good. I think my stomach’s upset from lunch. Too much dairy or something.”

“You’re eating dairy again?”

“I mean…” I haven’t been eating much of anything lately. “I did today,” I lie, because that’s what I am. A fucking liar and a cheater, and a pathetic loser.

The worst part is she looks nice tonight. Like she made an effort for me, which is rare. And the food smells really good. Her hair is blown out in soft, dark waves, and she’s wearing this low-cut pink blouse that I’ve always told her is one of my favorites because it makes her look so fucking luscious. But now all I can think about when I glance down at her cleavage is him.

“Is that the only thing the matter?” she asks. “You’ve been really quiet the last few days.”

I say the one thing I know for sure will make her drop the subject and move on. “I’m fine. You look really nice tonight. I think you know how I feel about you in that shirt.”

“Oh!” She uses both hands to cover her cleavage and shifts in her seat like she’s sitting on a tack. “Um. Thank you.”

Her cheeks flush, and I can’t help but notice her chest does, too. The same way his did. I crack slightly, letting some of my innermost feelings rise to the surface.

“I’m not happy,” I blurt.

Her hands drop to her lap, and she sits up straighter. “What?”

“With this. With us. I’m not happy with how things are going.”

She clears her throat delicately, giving me a direct, firm look. “Well, Asher, neither am I, and I think you know that. Like, I think I’ve been really, really clear about that.”

“So why are we still here?”

“Because we love each other, babe. Isn’t that why we’re both still here?”

I can’t remember where I was going with this. Words can definitely be weapons, and Olivia is really good at wielding.

“So why aren’t you happy?” she asks.

“Do the words bait and switch mean anything to you?” Like I said, I’m sort of coming apart at the seams over here. I don’t have much bandwidth for tact.

Her jaw drops, and she gapes at me. “How can you say that? I have my faith. You expect me to just ignore it? Toss it aside like it means nothing so you can what? Get off?”

I’m used to her minimizing sex—turning it into something dirty and necessary and only ordained by God to married couples in pursuit of reproduction, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t piss me off every time she acts like it’s all I want from her. Sometimes I just want to be able to spoon her again, but the wall of pillows she puts in bed between us makes it kind of obvious she’s not into it.

“You managed to ignore it the first few months we were together,” I say, letting my frustration speak for itself. If she wants to think I’m an asshole, what difference does it make anymore? She’s right.

She presses her lips together, as close to an admission of guilt as she gets. “You and I both know I was going through a terrible time when we met. I was in a really bad place. We talked about this. You said you understood.”

What Liv is referring to here is that she’d had a fight with her mother about a week before we met resulting in Liv indulging her “wild side.” She was a virgin when we met—a real daughter of Christ, and she was more than eager to drop both labels with me. Until she and her mom made up a few months later, and she went back to Jesus.

She weaned me off slowly, so that was a kindness she didn’t have to show me. At first, I lost the right to stick my dick in her pussy. Then, a few weeks later, it wasn’t allowed in her mouth either. If I’m lucky, sometimes she’ll have a couple glasses of wine and we’ll get into a hot and heavy make-out session where we stop at second base. I am, on occasion, still allowed to grope her tits until she pushes me off and makes some excuse about not getting carried away.

“I did understand,” I say. “At the time.” I just didn’t think it’d be like this. I didn’t realize it would hurt so much. And I don’t even mean the blue balls. I mean it’s actually hurtful.

“But?”

“But it’s been a really long time, Liv.” And I don’t know how to save this relationship—or save myself from my sudden urges if you won’t give me something.

“Then why can’t you give me what I want? If you still want me?”

“It shouldn’t have to be like that,” I argue.

“It should if you respect me as a woman. Respect my beliefs.”

What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Too often, when I have the nerve to bring up the big elephant in the room, she pins me into a corner like this. Where nothing but compliance will redeem me. “Of course I respect you,” I mumble. I’m still here, aren’t I?

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