Page 14 of Love on the Rocks

Griffin walks away from my car, and I rev my engine. I have a strong urge to put my SUV into the back of the minivan in frontof me, but I can hold my temper. For now. No one talks about my wife like that and walks away though. I don’t care if they are women. If Bess is down, I’ll lift her up. Here I’m thinking I’m the problem, but it’s other people thinking their opinions and standards should govern everyone’s lives.

10

Bess

The whirrof the garage door makes me jump. Wren just left a few minutes ago, and since we all live on the same cul-de-sac it only takes seconds to go from one house to the other. I'm trying to relax and have some faith in my marriage like she told me to. It isn't that I don't trust Donovan. I do, it's myself I'm having a hard time having faith in.

He walks in the kitchen, his long legs eating up the distance in only a couple of steps, and he looms over me with a serious look on his face. I'm not entirely sure that I'm not in trouble, but unlike last night I'm not sure it's the fun kind of trouble.

Maybe Wren was wrong, and he really does want to “have a talk.” I guess there's only one way to find out and that's to face it head on. Like my favorite old lady, Granny D, likes to say, there's only one way out, and that's through. Of course, she also likes to say, “Well, slap my ass and call me a pony,” but that one doesn't really have a context here.

Donovan drops his keys on the table, pulls out a chair, and lowers his six-foot-plus, two-hundred-something pounds ofpure sex and muscle down on one of our rickety wooden chairs. I have to force my eyes up from staring at the way his quads strain against the fabric of his jeans. It really is marvelous what this man has done with his gym membership.

When I look back up at his face he's got that sideways smirk going, so I know that I've been caught. He doesn't seem disturbed by it though, so I have hope that Wren was right.

Donovan holds up his hand to keep me from talking first. “Before you say anything, let me start by saying I'm a dumbass.”

My head cocks to the side. “I'm generally a fan of any conversation that starts off like that. Or any conversation where you start off saying, honey, you were right. So by all means continue.”

Donovan chuckles and shakes his head at me, both good signs. I love it when he finds me amusing or adorable. I can do without exacerbating or frustrating, although I know I am both of those things frequently. I am also a brat, but I do that on purpose and he likes it, we're not gonna pretend otherwise. At least I think he likes it.

“If I may continue,” he begins. I magnanimously waive my hand to give him permission. “Like I was saying, I'm a dumbass. Griffin found me in the drop-off line this morning and told me that I should not have left by saying we need to talk. I didn't mean that in the let's have that ‘We. Need. To. Talk.’ conversation. I meant let me get rid of the kid so we can have a grown-up talk about that fun stuff that you mentioned as you were passing out last night. You know, when you mentioned a mountain man and you?—”

My face turns bright red and I would like to dig a big hole and bury myself in it. I've had this reoccurring dream about being chased through the woods by a rugged-looking mountain man who catches me, drags me off to his rustic hut in the woods, and has his way with me, any way he chooses, and I have no say in it. Why I think this is hot, I don't really understand. I'm actually a feminist, but that seems to go out the window when I'm fantasizing about the things I’d like my husband to do to me. I don't remember telling Donovan about it and now he can never unknow it.

He reaches out and grabs my hands. His thumbs brush across the top of my hands, and he looks at me with interest and acceptance. “Hey, you have nothing to be ashamed about. I thought it was fucking hot. I wanted to talk to you about it last night, but you passed out. I was a little disappointed, but then, I felt really proud of myself because I fucked you into a coma.”

I roll my eyes. “You would be proud of that.”

He laughs. “Like you're not proud when you suck my dick so good that I can't speak for a good half an hour.”

My head is bobbing in agreement before I even really register what I'm doing. “Hell yeah, I am. I know how to keep my man happy.”

He pulls me out of my chair so that I'm straddling his lap. “Every single day since I've met you has been the best day of my life. I know there has been something going on with you, and I know that you can tell there's been something bothering me. When did we stop talking to each other?”

I look down at my hands, too ashamed to look him in his crystal blue eyes because he's right. It has only been a month, but that’sstill too long for us to go without telling each other what's on our minds. One day is too long for us to go without saying the things festering inside, and sharing the burden with each other.

He's my person it shouldn't be so scary to let him in on this, but maybe that's why it is so scary. Because he is the one person I don't ever want to see me and think I’m unworthy.

When I don't say anything, he runs his hands through my hair. “Does it have anything to do with your hair being its natural blonde? Don't get me wrong. I love your natural hair color. It's beautiful. You have such pale blonde hair, like moonlight. But I want you to want it to be this color, and if you don’t, make it whatever you want. I want you to be happy.”

I take a deep breath. “I'm not sure what that is anymore.”

I can feel him tremble underneath me. His voice is quieter when he asks, “Are you still happy with me?”

I put my hands on either side of his face and lift it so that we are looking into each other's eyes. “You and Jack are the only things in my life that I am sure of completely. My love for you is biological, it's destined, written in the stars, but when I went to get Jack the other day from school, I heard a bunch of the other moms talking about how I dress wrong, and my hair is always wild, and I spend all of my time at a bar. They just made it sound like I am the worst person to be around a child. And what's worse is they won't let their kids play with Jack because of me. I'm afraid I'm embarrassing our son. And I don't think anyone understands what you're doing with me. Sometimes neither do I.”

His jaw clenches. “I don't ever wanna hear you fucking say that again. Do. You. Hear. Me?”

I nod my head. “Don't be mad at me. You asked what was bothering me and that's it. Now are you gonna tell me what was bothering you?”

Oh, but he is mad. Blood boiling, vein in his head throbbing, pissed off. “This. Do you wanna know what was fucking wrong with me? This. I could feel you pulling away from me, and every time I tried to reach for you, you just weren't there. So I started to think there was something wrong with me. I started to wonder if maybe our seven-year age difference suddenly became a big deal. Here you are only in your mid-thirties and now I'm in my early forties, maybe I'm starting to be old. And you're gonna tell me the whole time it was those cunts at the school? Yeah, I'm pissed. But I'm not allowed to hit girls. I might spank your ass again though.”

The guilt I feel doubles. I grab his T-shirt and hold on like it'll keep him from leaving. “I never meant to make you feel like there was something wrong with you, and I feel like shit that I did. I am so, so, so unbelievably sorry for making you feel like there was something wrong with you.”

“Baby, no. I'm not trying to make you feel worse. I understand overhearing that would make you feel bad, but you're supposed to come and talk to me. Their opinion shouldn't mean shit. I tell you every day how beautiful I think you are and how much you mean to me. You don't even like those women.”

“I know. It's just that some of what they said I guess I was already thinking. I've made the way I dress and wear my hair become such a big part of my identity for so long. I guess I felt like I couldn't let it go, but I also don't really want it anymore. I just didn't know how to admit that. Everyone seems to associate Bess with bright colors, short skirts, and wild hair, and I don't feel like people take me seriously. I'm just the girl who works in abar. They forget it's partly my business. I helped you build it, but they just want to see me as a waitress. And sometimes, I guess, I let their opinion become mine.”

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