Page 42 of Dirty Grovel

In the evenings, Teo gets back from school, so I usually play a couple of games with him and we walk down to the shore to dip our feet in the water.

Most nights I spend with Jesse and Teo down at their cottage. We have dinner together and, when Teo goes to bed, Jesse and I stay up late talking.

She regales me with tales about her sprawling family. She’s the fourth child in a lineup of seven. She’s got a gaggle of nieces and nephews, tons of cousins, and the most elusive of all—parents who are not only still together, but are still in love after almost forty-five years of marriage.

I love hearing about her childhood stories, but they do make me ache inside for everything I didn’t have growing up.

Still, it’s easier than the ache of knowing I will never have certain things. A true love, a happy family, a healthy relationship.

These are thingsotherpeople have.

Not me.

On Saturdays, Jesse takes me and Teo into the city to do some light shopping. And yes, there’s always ice cream involved.

On Sundays, she and Teo go to see her parents, so I’m left to my own devices, mostly confined to my room because it’s easier than facing an empty house.

I’m content enough with my routine, but the truth is, it’s always undercut by the absences.

Oleg never swims with me at the pool anymore. He hasn’t joined me for a meal in over a week. I barely see him around the house and when I do, he gives me a curt nod and heads in the opposite direction.

It’s as though he’s trying to punish me for calling him out on his bullshit. And I refuse to undo my soap box speech by approaching him and begging him to talk to me.

Maybe this is the only way our relationship can work—if he sticks to his side of the house and I stick to mine.

By the second week of my mostly solitary weekends, I’m so restless that I end up waking up in the middle of the night, wrested from dreams by an ache in my gut that has nothing to do with my pregnancy.

Tonight, my listlessness is punctured by sweat. It’s a balmy night and I made the mistake of keeping my windows open.

I toss and turn for a few minutes, but I can’t go back to sleep.

Then I pick up on something… splashing water? Like someone’s just dived into the pool.

I tiptoe to the balcony in my black panties and thin white camisole and peer over the edge.

So that’s why he doesn’t swim with me in the mornings. Because he’s opted for night swims, probably so that he can avoid me.

Hugging the shadows in the balcony, I stay put, watching his muscles ripple under the bright moonlight.

My entire body burns with need, the heat soaking into my skin and reminding me of desires that I’ve been trying to bury these past few weeks.

But no matter how hard I try to suppress it, my desire for Oleg is still flame-bright and stubborn.

No matter how pissed off I get with him, it refuses to leave my body.

Inching forward a little, I watch as he skims the water, his arms cutting through the surface like a knife through butter. He doesn’t swim so much as glide.

It’s mesmerizing. I could watch him forever.

And I prove it by standing there for ages. So long in fact, that before long, the moon is hanging right above me,

Oleg stops swimming. He must have swum one hundred laps at least. He leans against the side of the pool, his eyes cast towards the ocean.

Feeling confident in my hiding place, I scoot closer to the stucco wall of my balcony and lean forward.

His arms are taut as he pulls himself from the water, the moonlight catching the muscles on his back as he emerges onto the deck.

A gasp flutters out of my mouth.

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