Page 12 of Say You Love Me

She smiles brightly and threads her hand into mine. “Well then, Hudson James, you better walk me to work.”

chapter five

NOW

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FINITY

The inside of the small shed in our backyard is covered in dust. I haven’t stepped foot inside here for months now. Maybe longer. There’s a wheelbarrow sitting lopsidedly in the middle of the wooden building, a gardening fork, rake and shovel resting against the wall. The early autumn light falls through the peaked windows on the roof of the shed and fine lines of cobwebs stretch between the rafters.

I need a distraction, something to keep my mind occupied. Being home has brought back memories I’d rather forget. Even though I hated the crafts and essays they made us write at the wellness center, at least it gave me something to focus on. Being home, all I focus on is the way my husband avoids me. The way he won’t look at me. The way he shies away from my touch.

And I’m desperate for his touch. In the two weeks I’ve been home, I’ve been having dreams so vivid, I wake panting with need only to roll over and find his back to me yet again. I want to feel the heat of his hands on my body, the softness of his lips. I need to feel something, anything but this emptiness inside me. I want it more than I want him to talk to me. It’s always been the way we stayed close, connected. And it’s the only way we’ll find ourselves again.

Tugging the wheelbarrow and other tools I need out of the shed, I bring them over to the patch of garden I want to attack first. It’s one of those gardens that’s a rambling mess. There’s shrubs and bushes, trees and flowers and vines. I don’t know any of their names, or even what I’m supposed to do with them, but I really don’t care. I’m here just so my mind isn’t stuck going over everything I want to forget. Because of the tree cover, the patch of grass where I bend down to kneel is cold, covered in a fine layer of frost. Reaching into the garden, I grab a fist full of some sort of leafy vine that covers most of the ground and pull. It appears to have entangled itself among every other living thing in the garden and I set my mind to removing it. All of it.

The smell of the dirt reminds me of my father. It’s the only scent I associate with him. He’d come home from work, wrap me in his arms and the smell would engulf me. Even now, it brings back the memories. But for some reason they are memories I want to keep, rather than push away.

By the time I’m done, I can see bare patches of dirt where the vine once was and the sun is low in the sky. The garden doesn’t look any better; in fact it looks worse, but there’s a weariness to my limbs that I haven’t felt in months. A weariness that feels good. One that comes from hours of physical work, rather than hours of lying in bed motionless.

We have dinners already in the fridge, prepared by Hudson’s mother, Lori, but I don’t want to use one of them tonight. Instead, I lock up the shed, wander back to the house and open the freezer, peering inside to look for something I can cook. There is ground beef and I decide to make lasagna, one of Hudson’s favorite dishes. There is a pep to my step as I prepare the pasta dough. When I pop it into the fridge to rest, I decide to take a leisurely shower. I have music playing as I wash my hair and run a razor over my legs, making them smooth and soft. I dry my hair without straightening it, letting the waves fall over my shoulders and tumble down my back. Flicking through the clothes in my wardrobe, I pick out a summery dress. It’s not the sort of dress I would normally wear on a day like today, but it’s one I know Hudson loves. I slip my hands through the sleeves and let the soft material caress my body.

Hudson has not touched me since I’ve been home.

But I haven’t tried to tempt him yet.

The last time I wore this dress he couldn’t keep his hands off me. There’s something about dresses which drive him wild. I think it’s the easy access, and the way the material hugs my curves, or at least, the way it used to. I’ve lost weight and the dress hangs a little looser around my hips. The plunging neckline still shows the swells of my breasts though, and I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing a lace bra and you can see the pattern of it through the white material of the dress. Before, that alone would have had Hudson’s eyes feasting on me, his hands running up my legs, his tongue in my mouth. I turn from side to side, watching my reflection.

Tonight I would seduce him.

Tonight I would be Jezebel.

Once happy with my appearance, I turn my attention back to assembling the lasagna. Small butterflies flutter in my stomach as the time ticks closer to when Hudson should arrive home. Once dinner is in the oven, I hear the faint sound of the car engine cut off and the small butterflies transform into giant moths, rising up from my stomach and beating their wings against the cage of my chest.

He doesn’t look at me to begin with. He removes his tie and shrugs out of his suit jacket, placing it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He takes his shoes off next, removing each one with the toe of the other foot, and then he runs his hands through his hair and lets out a frustrated sigh.

“Bad day?” My voice is strained, not at all sultry like I hoped.

I want to move to him, stand behind him as he sinks into a chair and massage the tension out of his shoulders. But something holds me in place, my backside resting against the bench, my back pressed to the cupboard. My chest is tight with excitement and nerves.

Hudson glances up quickly, the only way he looks at me now, just a mere flick of his eyes. His gaze never lingers. And this time is no different, apart from the fact that once he’s flicked his gaze my way, it comes back with a vengeance. Heat darkens his eyes as his gaze runs over my body. My nipples harden under the intensity, small peaks beading the dress. He drags his eyes over my legs and his fingers form clenched fists at his side. Involuntarily, his tongue slips over his bottom lip.

I swallow and grip the edge of the bench, my heart pounding. There is a moment when he just stands there hovering, wavering with indecision.

Will he come to me?

Should I be the one to go to him?

Finally, he takes a step forward, moving in a way that makes me shudder. His stride is predatory, demanding. He stops in front of me, not close enough to touch, but close enough that I feel the heat of him. But I can’t bring myself to look into his eyes. I’m too scared of what I’m going to see.

Will it be love?

Lust?

Hatred?

Disgust?

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