Page 31 of Brood
“I know. I woke up confused. I fell asleep over here.”
“Why did you do that?”
“It was an accident.” It’s hard not to feel defensive. We’ve been married now for four months. I shouldn’t have to face interrogation for a simple mistake. “I was tired and fell asleep before I realized it.”
I ignore the pain as I haul myself to my feet and limp over to my side of the room. I collapse on my bed, pulling up the covers over my naked body. I didn’t even pull on my panties and camisole after we had sex last night.
My sheets and duvet are crisply cool. Not nice and cozy like his.
“What’s wrong with you?” he mutters.
“I’m a little chilly. That’s all.” I sound and am annoyed now. It’s always cool in this room at night, and he kicked me out of his warm bed. What does he expect?
“You were limping.”
I don’t know how he even saw. It’s too early for them to start gradually increasing the wake-up lights. “Oh. It’s nothing. I must have pulled a muscle or something last night.”
We had sex like usual—with him taking me from behind—but then he got going again before I moved beds. The second round was longer and more vigorous, and we changed positions a few times. Including a new one where he had my bottom lifted all the way up off the bed and my ankles hooked on his shoulders. That would explain the soreness in my ab muscles too.
“You need to tell me if something hurts. Keeping it to yourself isn’t going to help anything.”
I take a minute to breathe deep and slow. Will is like this a lot. Kind of bristly and terse. I should be used to it by now, but it’s actually more frustrating now than it was at the beginning. Early on, I assumed this was his entire personality, but it’s not. Occasionally, he’s warmer. Once in a while, he even laughs slightly. And it’s hard to understand why he can’t be like that more often. After all, I’ve been a good spouse to him. I’ve skirted around his moods and done my best to accommodate his preferences. I’ve had sex with him every single day except during my period. The only thing I’ve failed at is getting pregnant, but that’s something I can’t control.
“Are you pissed?” He sounds more curious than angry.
“I’m not pissed.”
“Seems like you are.”
“I said I’m not.”
“Prickly.”
I clench my duvet with both hands and grit out, “I wasn’t keeping anything to myself. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“Then why were you limping?”
I do some more deep breathing instead of answering.
* * *
An hour later, I’m still awake in my own bed, trying not to stew.
Will is awake too—although he’s been as silent as I am. I can tell from his breathing and the way he shifts in his bed that he’s not asleep.
I’m relieved when the lights illuminate in a dim glow the way they do a few minutes before the first-shift warning chime. Pretty soon I can get out of here and away from Will and his silent, brooding tension.
It’s not my fault Vanessa died. It’s not my fault he got stuck with me instead of her. A decent person wouldn’t take his displeasure in our situation out on me.
It would be nice if he liked me for something other than sex.
I could like him too if he let me.
I’m too restless and antsy to wait for the chime, so I semi-limp to the bathroom. There, I sit on the toilet for a minute and cry silently into my hands. It’s mostly a release of emotional tension, but I don’t want Will to hear.
He already thinks I’m silly and prickly and immature. Crying over nothing would only convince him I’m not up to handling the basics of life.
When I’ve regained my composure, I splash water on my face and use a washcloth to clean myself up. I really want a shower, but I need to save that until after I exercise this afternoon. I get clean panties and a camisole from my bathroom drawer, but I didn’t grab my trousers and top from the closet before I came in here.
