Page 42 of The Try Line

"I'm not drunk, Mickey."

"You just called me Mickey," I point out. "You know I hate that. So either you're drunk, or you're being purposefully obnoxious."

The last thing I'm trying to do is shame my wife for getting drunk and having some fun. Hell, I can't even blame her for getting horny once in a while. But her little display downstairs was mortifying, and I'm already gearing up to reject her advances, which always makes me feel guilty. Add to my usual guilt that all of this happened in front of the person I'm sleeping with behind her back, and it makes it a thousand times worse. Plus, our son was right there, witnessing every moment of my obvious discomfort.

"Are you going to change, or do you want to sleep like this?" I say, gesturing to her sundress, one strap hanging suggestively off her shoulder.

Pinning me with an unmistakable look, she starts to peel the dress down her arms. She pushes it over her breasts, down her waist, and it drops to the floor with a whoosh. Her lean, curvy body is dewy with sunscreen and a light sheen of sweat that only adds to her sensual beauty. She's a gorgeous woman, always has been. And I never, ever want her to think that I'm rejecting her because of her looks. I think I've broken down and performed more times because of that than I care to remember, but tonight is not one of those nights.

"Janie, not tonight," I say gently.

She steps up to me, pressing her breasts hard against my chest and running her hands up and into my hair. Pushing herself up on her tiptoes, she tries to direct my mouth down to meet hers, but I press my lips to her cheek instead. She presses her cheek into my kiss, turning her head to direct my lips down her neck, moaning softly.

"Come on, Janel. That’s enough," I whisper kindly, but she keeps pressing herself against me, writhing like a cat.

Turning in place, she puts her ass against my crotch and rolls her hips back against me. My body remains still and unmoving, unsure how to extricate myself without hurting her feelings. Then she bends forward, resting her forearms on the edge of the bed and arching her ass into the air. "Is this what you want? Because if that's–"

"Oh my God, Janel. Just stop!" I yell, stumbling away from her.

She whips around, fury and pain contorting her pretty face. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Mik?!"

"You're drunk–"

"You're an idiot if you think I'm drunk enough to act like this to get your attention," she hisses. Then she plops down on the bed, pulling her knees up and burying her face in her hands.

I want to go to her, to comfort her, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid of how many times comforting her has turned into something more; something I can't refuse without digging myself in deeper and hurting her feelings further. So I just stand there and watch her cry, berating myself for being a weak, piece of shit asshole of a husband.

She might not be as drunk as she's been putting on, but she's also not sober. She wouldn’t act like this if she weren’t inebriated. Now isn't the time for a heart-to-heart. Besides, I'm too angry. Too angry at myself. Too angry at her. Too angry at him.

Too angry at life.

Janel's sobbing ebbs, and then she's snoring softly. With a deep sigh of relief, I gently pick her up and maneuver her onto her pillow, covering her up with the comforter. Just as I'm placing the glass of water and aspirin on her bed-side table, her hand lands on my arm. Her blue eyes are stark against her red-rimmed lids.

"I've never been what you want," she whispers hoarsely.

Her eyes are closed before I can answer her, but I do anyway.

"I'm sorry."

After a shower, I check on Janel again to make sure she's sleeping comfortably. Then I slip downstairs, assuming that I'll find him in the basement. He's sitting on the couch, one knee up, reading. He sets his e-reader down when I walk in.

"I wasn't sure you were going to make it."

"I didn't– We didn't–"

"It doesn't matter. We need to talk."

I sigh heavily. "I know we do."

The silence expands and contracts with every heavy, painful breath. A fog of understanding fills the room, ramping up the tension between us. We both know what needs to be said, but neither of us wants to be the one to say the words.

I open my mouth, and the wrong thing slips out, like I knew it would. But Jason speaks at the same time, cutting my stupidity off at the knees.

"I lo–"

"I have to go."

"Go? Go where?"

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