Page 83 of Dr. Fellow

I peek in the mirror, not entirely loathing the look of myself for the first time in a while. None of that has anything to do with my actual appearance, and everything to do with the woman who challenges me every damn day.

Fine, I’m showing up naked then.

I take that back—she challenges me every second of the day. I quickly reply, sliding my phone into my back pocket before walking to the front of the house to find my black button-up jacket.

I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

My ass vibrates as I reach the front door, and I ignore it for a moment while I grab something from the kitchen. When I open the message, I can’t stop the laugh that escapes me.

So we’re not going to a nude party?

I was really hoping to get kinky.

Oh, we’re going to get kinky alright . . . but not until later. The first half of tonight is reserved for showing my wife that being married isn’t the worst thing in the world, like she’s been led to believe for her entire life. I reply to her message and walk out the door.

You’re a damn handful.

Another text comes through that makes me briefly consider adjusting our plans for the evening.

I might be a handful, but so are my tits.

So it cancels it out.

A picture follows her message—she’s topless, a white lace bra holding up her full breasts as she leans into a mirror to put makeup on, her lips pursed out sensually. I type back a response, trying my hardest to ignore the uncomfortable tightening in my pants.

I’ll be over in five.

I’m wearing jeans, FYI.

I find myself smiling as I drive to her house, reflecting on how different our text thread looked just a week ago. It was filled with desperate pleas to end our marriage, not the jokes and flirty messages we exchange now. Since our breakthrough in the hospital, she hasn’t once mentioned divorce. To be fair, she also hasn’t talked about staying married, but progress is progress, and I’ll take what she’s giving me. It feels like things have settled back to the way that they were before, and that’s all I can ask for.

Pulling up to the blue guest house, I park my car and head for the front door. Even though Morgan has stayed over at my place every night this week, she hasn’t said anything about moving out of this shit hole. Just yesterday, a family of roof rats made their way into the air conditioning ducts, and she nearly had a mental breakdown because it turns out that her biggest fear is being eaten alive by a rodent clawing at her stomach.

I told her she needs to stop reading those mafia books, which resulted in her shooting me a daggered glare and telling me to go fuck myself.

Lesson learned—never tell a woman what to read.

Morgan swings open the front door before I’m even halfway up the sidewalk. Her chestnut hair is down, and she’s wearing a pair of holey jeans paired with a tight black top that hugs her hourglass figure. A massive smile spreads across her face as her eyes focus on the flower arrangement in my hands.

“Whatcha got there?”

“Aiming to improve my score on the husband scale,” I reply with a matching smile.

While her points system has become a fun game between us, bringing her flowers has nothing to do with that. I did it because I want her to know that even when we’re not together, I’m still thinking about her. That she’s important to me. That I’m making an effort.

Her face lights up as she exits the house with a skip. “How did you know I liked hydrangeas?”

“Were you not listening when I said that there isn’t a thing I don’t notice about you? They were on your coffee table the first time I came over.”

She hums and takes the arrangement from my hands. “Most of the time I tune you out, if I’m being honest.”

“Go put them inside.” I shake my head, swatting her behind as she turns back to the house. “We’re late.”

She lets out a playful yelp, shooting me a mock glare over her shoulder. “Careful, or you might lose those points you just earned.”

I chuckle, watching her disappear and praying that she hurries. I spent a few hours at the hospital this afternoon because I had a couple of meetings, and unfortunately, the last one with our department chair went a little longer than expected, so we’re already slightly behind schedule.

“Ready?” she asks, running down the steps a moment later.

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