Page 98 of Fault Lines
He nodded, like he was considering this new information. “You never asked to go since we got together.”
“I haven’t,” I admitted as I shimmied out of my jeans—and, with luck, he didn’t notice the state of my underwear. “But I think I’ll go more often. It was fun.”
He snorted. “Bet Rachel didn’t think so. She’s not the active type.”
I didn’t bother answering; I just headed for the shower. He trailed after me, starting to undress.
“Didn’t you already shower?” I asked, not hiding my impatience as he hesitated with his pajama bottoms.
He paused, hand on the waistband. “Can’t I shower with my wife? Just to be close?”
“Cam, I’m exhausted.” I stepped under the water, barely warmed. “I just want to get clean and go to bed.”
The rejection landed hard. He pulled his pants back up and stomped away. I didn’t feel bad—not tonight. I had nothing left to give him.
So many times I’d sat here alone while he was out. Why should I feel guilty for spending time with someone who excited me, who actually made me feel wanted?
I got dressed, lotion and pajamas and everything, and crawled into bed beside him.
He reached for me. I held perfectly still, silently begging him not to want sex tonight.
Of course, he did. His hand closed over my breast, kneading.
“Cam…” I started, but he cut me off.
“Don’t tell me you don’t want to make love either.” He jerked his hand away.
“I’m really tired,” I said, and it was the truth.
His tone sharpened. “Who’d you go skating with, if not Rachel?”
I stayed quiet, searching for words, knowing that whatever I said would only make this worse.
He recoiled, eyes flashing. “Was it a date? Did you sleep with him?”
I rolled over to face him, my own anger rising.
“And you, Cam? Who were you with on our anniversary? Ready to tell me that yet?”
He looked away. “This isn’t about me. It’s about what you did tonight.”
“Funny—I’ve been waiting for an answer for a long time, Cam.”
He glared. “You’ll get your answer when I’m ready.”
I shrugged. “Then you’ll get yours when I’m ready.”
He snapped, sitting up. “Olivia! Who is he? I’ll kill him.”
I couldn’t even find the energy to respond to the threat. “We’ll talk when you’re ready to tell the truth. I’m going to sleep.”
I turned off the lamp, leaving us both in a thick silence, smoldering.
Eventually he rolled to his side. I could feel his anger, echoing mine, each of us trapped in our own resentment until the darkness finally pulled us under.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
When I woke the next morning, the anger was still there—a sour, bitter weight that clung stubbornly to my chest. I padded quietly into the kitchen, relieved to find the house empty of Cam. His jog had taken him elsewhere, and I wrapped my hands around the ritual of making coffee, letting the familiar motions settle my nerves.
