Page 2 of Hotwife

After mother sent her love dripping in southern drawl, my sister’s voice chimed clearly, indicating she’d turned speaker phone off.

“So, Dolly, who’d you fuck tonight?”

“Odie!”

“What!? On Reverend Theodore’s birthday too…” She tsked, but I could hear the smile in her voice. “You sound guilty as hell.”

“Yeah well, don’t tell Mom but I’m definitely not calling Dad.” I gripped the steering wheel. “I doubt he’d answer, anyway.”

“It’s been years, Doll. You have to have a one-on-one talk with him at some point.”

“I think the past five years prove how untrue that is,” I smirked. My avoidant tendencies had dodged every attempt at a solo conversation with my father. My father, the pastor. My father, the man I’d let down more than any other.

“I’m sure he’s forgiven you by now. He was… nice… at Thanksgiving,” my sister couldn’t even muster up the right energy to pretend sincerity on that line. The whole conversation was depressing, and I was pulling into my driveway.

“I’ve got to go, Odie, I’ve got a roast in the slow cooker,” I said, shutting the ignition.

My younger sister giggled. “You just had a roast in your slow cooker, didn’t you?”

“Oh, my god!” I laughed, ending the called without a goodbye.

Odette and I had mastered our masks. Ankle length prairie dresses and hymn books on Sunday mornings, making out with boys and smoking weed in the youth-group bus on Sunday nights… We played our parts well and Mom and Dad never caught on. It’s no wonder being a hotwife came so naturally to me. I’d never learned how to take the mask off. I wasn’t even sure what would be under it if I did. Some sort of monster from one of my father’s sermon’s, no doubt.

The bitter, earthy smell of meat and vegetables enveloped me like a fog when my key turned the lock to our three story suburban home. Trading my coat for an apron and my heels for bare feet, I removed the lid from the slow-cooker and rosemary scented steam pillowed the white marble kitchen. Glancing at the clock on the stove, I noted it was half-past five, though I didn’t need to check the time. Like when you work the same shift for so long and your eyes open right at six in the morning without an alarm, my body knew the dance by heart. I pulled out a champagne flute and a whisky glass before removing the roast beef and slicing. Off-call nights only came twice a month, and it was the only time my husband allowed himself a drink. It was the only night I could plan, really. We made plans throughout the month, of course, but they stood dimmed and haunted by the possibility that he could be called away at any moment. For that reason, I never let my hopes get too high. Too many birthdays cut short and holidays alone had taught me that.

No, Valentine’s Day was just another day, along with Christmas and our anniversary. But every other Wednesday? I could pretend we were normal. We could act like any other couple.

The front door knocked shut, and I scanned my reflection in the microwave's reflection. Macy, our housekeeper, had stopped by earlier and everything was sparkling clean.

My husband idly walked into the kitchen, looking down through his glasses perched on the end of his nose at an open manila folder. “Smells good in here,” he remarked, not looking up.

“Thanks, I’ve been slaving away all day,” I quipped, and he looked up, taking me in briefly before raising an eyebrow at the crock-pot. I’d made this meal enough times in the past five years that he knew all I did was dump meat and seasoning in the thing morning and let it do all the work.

“I ate at work. I assumed you were out,” he said, looking back down at his folder. My heart dropped onto the waxed, cool tile floor and I crossed my arms to keep the hole it left behind warm. Noticing my silence, he glanced up and closed the folder, tossing it onto the counter. “Oh Dot, I didn’t mean it like that… I only meant I assumed, since you went into the city for lunch, that you’d stay out. You know I don’t expect you to put your life on pause just because I happen to be off call?” Lunch, dinner, volunteering, fucking some rando, they were all the same to my husband. By his own choice, he never knew which was which. Sometimes I wondered if he looked at me for clues. If maybe the quick scans of my wardrobe were in curiosity of where I’d been or who I’d been with. But then again, he never really seemed to care. At least not enough to ever ask.

“You know I always want to be home when you are. It’s rare and I don’t want to miss it,” I replied with a pout.

He walked towards me, kind and soft blue eyes cool over his white smile and dark grey five o’clock shadow. I resisted the urge to reach out and touch his jaw, knowing he’d flinch and not wanting to press my luck. He picked at a piece of roast and popped it into his mouth. “You know, that sandwich wasn’t enough. I’m still starving.”

“Liar,” I teased, hitting him with a kitchen towel.

He grabbed a plate and piled on several pieces of meat, along with potatoes and carrots. “Try me, woman,” he smiled, and I rolled my eyes while a smile tugged at my lips.

I reached into the cabinet for his scotch and filled his glass halfway. “Let’s sit, I bet you’re tired,” I motioned for the dining room and Cedric nodded with a mouthful of potato. After filling my own bowl, I joined him at the table, seeing he’d grabbed his folder on the way in and was peering at it with furrowed brows. Clearing my throat, I took a sip of my Prosecco. My blood always boiled when he brought work home.

“Sorry,” he blinked his eyes a few times before setting the paperwork down and sitting his glasses on top of it like a weight. “How are you, dear? Are the fish still swimming?” He asked, taking a bite of roast.

I rolled my eyes playfully. “We’re getting two new hammerheads this week. I’m excited to see them.”

“They let you near sharks? I don’t think I like that. I thought you were just volunteering.” He raised an eyebrow and took a drink.

“They don’t let me, exactly…” I trailed off, downing my sparkling wine.

My husband sighed. “Dot, please don’t get bitten by a shark. I’ve operated on shark bites, you know that, right? I did my residency in Florida before moving to Colorado. They’re not pretty. Fun, though, complicated, but interesting. Sharks have serrated teeth that tear through the muscle in such a way it makes the operation a challenge-”

“Ced! Seriously, we’re eating. Can we not? I’m not going to get a shark bite, Jesus Christ.” He seriously talked to me like I was the biggest dumbass on earth sometimes.

Sitting back in his seat, he picked his folder back up, running a hand through his tousled grey and white hair. My eyes paused on his biceps through his white t-shirt. I could smell his body wash even across the table. It was the kind he only used at the hospital and it smelled smart and sexy, just like him. Gritting my teeth, I tried to shake off the allure. What was the point? He hardly ever touched me.

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