Page 15 of Better Daddy
My gaze flits to the little sign I put on the window ledge.
In this kitchen, we dance.
We don’t. I wanted to. Before work became all Sully cared about, we fucked in this kitchen. We could never keep our hands off one another. We’d come home from a night out with friends, a little tipsy and ravenous. I’d reach for the ice cream, and he’d reach for me. He’d set me on the counter, and we’d eat the desert straight from the carton between kisses. Eventually, he’d be licking it from between my legs.
The teakettle sounds, and I jolt. I wasn’t even watching it.
I shake my head, trying and failing to rid myself of the vivid memories. Of the phantom sensation of my husband’s thick cock sliding inside me and his fingers toying with my nipples.
Without my permission, my core clenches. Shit, this pregnancy is going to test my restraint. At least I was allowed to be this horny during my last pregnancy. Yes, Sully was pretty invested in work then, but even after twelve-hour days at the office, he’d let me ravage him, and if the days were longer than that, I found time to sneak into his office, lock the door, and convince him to be reckless with me.
When was the last time we did something like that?
Otherthan the night in September.
I can’t remember a single time after T.J. was born that my husband showed that kind of interest in me. The kind that gave me the courage to be so bold.
That’s why we’re getting divorced. With or without this baby, I refuse to live like that again.
How can I be with a man who no longer makes me feel comfortable enough to ask for sex?
I never had trouble initiating. I’m a woman who goes after what she wants. Equal opportunist and all that. Mama didn’t raise no wilting flower.
But I know when I’m not wanted and I’ll never live likethatagain.
I grab the tin of tea Sully gifted me and pop it open. It’s the kind that always quelled my nausea. Though my stomach is fine this morning, I have a big day in court, and I’ll do anything to ensure nothing goes wrong. The last thing I need is for a random bout of nausea to hit me mid-argument.
I drop one of the teabags in the steaming mug and look around my apartment while I wait for it to steep. In two days, I have to leave this little haven of mine.
Little. I snort. The penthouse Sully and I bought when we turned thirty isn’t little by any stretch of the imagination.
The day we toured it, I wandered from room to room, eyes wide, shocked that we could afford it. But with the proceeds from the condo my parents had gifted us when we got married, as well as the bonus Terry insisted on giving us when we’d been at his firm for five years, it wasn’t much of a stretch. And that was before we factored in the money we’d been saving on our own.
And when we celebrated our birthdays here that year—together, because somehow, we were born on the same damn day—it felt like we’d finally made it.
On my twenty-second birthday, Sully started a tradition. Every year, he’d find me—at school, at work, at home—carrying a cupcake and two candles. Then he’d sing. His voice was rich and charming. His damn deep baritone always made me weak in the knees. He never got up on stage and sang during karaoke nights. He did something so much better. He’d tug my chair close, wrap his arm around me, and sing in my ear. Because of course Sully knew every word. He had a ridiculously good memory.
That only made it all the more heartbreaking when, years later, he forgot date nights and anniversaries.
I take a sip of the tea and wince. Yuck. I’d forgotten how terrible it tastes. I only suffered through it during my first pregnancy because it worked so well. As I choke it down, the alarm on my phone blares, reminding me that if I don’t go now, I’ll be late for court.
It’s annoying, having to resort to alarms to make sure I don’t forget simple things like going to work, but my brain isn’t cooperating with me lately. I set an alarm to keep me on track because now that I’m at a new law firm, starting over at forty, I have to prove myself.Again.
I check the stove to make sure it’s off, snag my purse from the counter, and head downstairs with my teacup.
Until recently, I didn’t own a car. Typically, having a car in New York makes little sense. Parking is a bitch, so Ubering would be a hell of a lot easier, but now that Sully—who lives inJersey—and I share custody of T.J., I don’t have a choice.
Something else Sully doesn’t understand.
He scoffed when I bought a car, like I was spendinghis money frivolously.Hismoney—as if I wanted to live off him. God, what I would have done to go back to work after a standard maternity leave, but it took two years for me to get back to the office.
T.J. was colicky. He never let me put him down, and he didn’t sleep. There was no way I could be up with him all night, then fight effectively for my clients during the day. That first year was a damn blur, and Sully acted like I was at home lounging around.
He’d come home and wonder why the dishes weren’t done, yet he never listened long enough for me to explain that I hadn’t found time to even eat or shower, let alone clean up the dishesheleft in the sink the night before.
Laundry? I hadn’t worn clothes without baby vomit on them for months, but God forbid I forget to drop off his suits at the cleaner.
We went from being so in sync that it seemed impossible that anything could come between us to two strangers living parallel lives. And year after year, it got worse. When I went back to work, I was the one who always took off for T.J.'s needs. Not to mention everything around the house fell on me too.
