Page 13 of Watch Me

And I know he’s not watching porn because of the way he’s speaking.

“Play with your tits,” he whispers, his voice a little louder, thick with a need I’ve never heard in it. His hand starts moving, back and forth movements that pick up speed quickly. From my perspective, I can see his hard length growing under the desk with every stroke.

I have no idea what to do. Do I stand up and yell? Make a scene? Run out? I’m hot with fury and pain, but doubt freezes me in place.

If I left, I’d have nowhere to go. I have four hours of dance class early tomorrow morning, and nowhere else I could sleep tonight.

But the biggest doubt of all comes from remembering Nick. What Tate is doing now isn’t even in the same league as the sin I committed. He’s not touching someone, or being touched by them. He’s just masturbating.

So even though it’s causing me wrenching pain, I’m trapped. I have to turn a blind eye to what he’s doing because it’s the least of what I deserve.

Only I can’t look away.

“Oh fuck, that’s good,” he croons, squeezing his eyes shut and tilting his face up to the ceiling. “Oh fuck, I’m coming.”

Irrationally, and shamefully, my sex swells as a spasm runs through him.

I would be this person so willingly for him.

Pathetically, I wonder who’s on the other side of the camera. I’m not judgmental. I’m open-minded and I would do anything for my boyfriend to be having this moment with me instead of somebody else.

But somehow, this must all be my fault. The choices I’ve made have driven us away from each other, and it hurts me more and more each day, but I have no idea how to turn things around.

“Holy shit,” I hear Tate chuckle. “That was such a big load, baby.” He reaches for a Kleenex and wipes his hand, his quiet laugh laced with affection. “Yeah, I wish that, too,” he whispers.

I squeeze my eyes closed and nuzzle into the pillow, feeling lonelier than I can ever remember. Just a girl trying to fall asleep and forget she just watched her boyfriend cheat on her.

NICK

WEEKS GO BY without any interaction with Tate. I text him occasionally, only to receive curt, blunt answers. But I don’t see him at all.

There are signs of life here and there: His Lexus in the driveway, shoes kicked off by the door, dirty dishes left in the sink. There are signs of the girlfriend, too—a small pair of Keds, a hair elastic I find on the couch—but they’re rarer, and after a while, I start wondering if she’s even still living here. God knows Tate wouldn’t tell me if it didn’t work out.

That’s probably why, when I hear voices coming from the kitchen one morning, my first thought is to wonder who Tate is talking to and why he’s up so early.

It’s just after six and I’m getting back from a run, hot and sweaty even at this hour from the early morning mid-summer sun. Tate probably hasn’t even gone to bed yet. It’s entirely possible he has yet to break a sweat this season since he sleeps all day and spends his nights in an air-conditioned basement.

I pad noiselessly into the kitchen on my rubber soles to discover Tate sitting at the kitchen island with no shirt on, eating peanut butter from the jar with a spoon. On the other side of him, a thin blonde has her back to me, her head in the fridge. So I guess there still is a girlfriend, after all. Now I’ll finally get to meet her—the patient soul who puts up with my son’s nocturnal habits and seeming inability to wear a shirt.

“Hi, Son.”

“Hey, Dad.” Tate looks up from the peanut butter jar with surprise. “You’re up.”

“Went for a run.”

The girl lifts her head and closes the refrigerator door. As she turns, I shift my eyes to her with an expectant smile.

And then time grinds to a halt.

Micro-seconds stretch into minutes, hours, days. She smiles back, vivid green eyes bright and cheerful, and then a cloud passes over them.

Shock and recognition reverberate between us both.

It’s her.

She blinks, only briefly, but I’m aware of the movement of every molecule and every atom between us. When she opens her eyes, it feels like eons later, and the look she gives me this time is so different now than it was at first. Her eyes are wider, the whites showing. Her smile is wooden and tight. What I see come over her face comes over mine as well. Like everything falls while the smile fights to stay in place.

How can this be?

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