Page 55 of Say You Love Me

“What would have happened if there was an emergency? What would have happened if Calla was sick and you needed to take her to the hospital?”

Finity doesn’t look at me as she answers. Her gaze is stuck on the stars. “I would have called an ambulance, like anyone would.”

Finally, her gaze moves to mine. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot but I don’t know whether that’s from lack of sleep or the alcohol. Or maybe she’s been crying.

“If I’m doing such a terrible job at being a mother, why don’t you stay at home all day with her? You’re the one that wanted her.” Her words are cold and cruel. There’s no emotion to them. She says them easily, as though it doesn’t hurt her at all to admit she never wanted Calla. As though she doesn’t care.

We hold each other’s gaze in silence, neither of us willing to be the one who looks away first. Finally, I take a breath and speak between gritted teeth. “Maybe I would, if you were capable of holding down a job.”

She brings the glass to her lips again and laughs coldly when she sees my disgust. “What’s the problem? You’re home now, aren’t you? If Calla starts choking or whatever it is you’re so worried about, you can be the one who drives her to the hospital.”

“How can you even say such a thing? Don’t you even care about her?”

“Care about her?” Finity gets to her feet, taking a step toward us. “Care about her? I look after her all day every day while you’re at work. Who’s the one who feeds her, who gets up to her every single night when she cries? Who’s the one who plays with her, reads to her, changes her diaper, and bathes her? It’s me, Hudson. That’s who. Me. All me. You’re too busy at work, doing whatever it is you do there, and you have the audacity to come home and say I don’t care about our child? I put her down for a few moments of peace. She’s fine. Nothing happened. Get over yourself.” She spits as she says the words, vehemence in her tone. “Here, give her to me.”

“No.” I turn, moving Calla out of her reach.

“Look at her, Hudson. She’s exhausted. She’s barely slept all day. I told the midwife how she’s been crying a lot but she said it’s perfectly normal. She’s a healthy baby girl. There’s nothing wrong with her. But she’s a baby who needs sleep.” She points to Calla. “See? Her eyes are drooping, she’s clutching her thumbs in her fists, she’s exhausted. She needs sleep.”

“I’ll put her to bed then.” I turn from my wife, ignoring her outstretched hands.

Calla cries as soon as I put her down. Reaching up, I tug on the string of her mobile, watching as the stars illuminate and start to dance.

I rock the bassinet and she begins to calm. Out the door, I hear the creak of the stairs as Finity climbs them. She appears in the door, half of her face glowing from the light of the hallway, the other half dipped in the shadows of Calla’s room. Every so often, the rotation of one of the stars causes a patch of light to travel across her cheek. The contrast of light and dark makes the pallor of her skin seem even more obvious. There are dark marks under her eyes. Her cheeks are sunken and hollow. Even her hair seems to have lost some of its shine.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I hold my finger to my mouth, warning her to be quiet. Calla’s eyes have closed. Her head is turned and her cheek is squished against the mattress. Occasionally her mouth opens and closes, suckling noises coming from her as though she’s dreaming of nursing against Finity’s breast.

I step silently over the floorboards and out the door, pulling it gently closed as not to disturb her. Finity is leaning against the wall in the hallway. She reaches for me, but I push past her and head into our bedroom.

The bed hasn’t been made. There are clothes scattered over the floor. Wet towels and dirty towels are draped over the edge of the shower in the bathroom and the curtains are all still closed, blocking out any light from the moon.

I flick the switch as Finity walks in and she blinks, holding her hands over her eyes to shield them from the sudden glare.

“I—” She starts to say something, but I don’t let her.

“Let’s just go to bed.”

I turn up the volume of the baby monitor until I can hear the gentle rise and fall of Calla’s breath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I tug on my tie before undoing the buttons of my shirt. The bed dips with the weight of Finity crawling across the mattress. She wraps her arms around my shoulders and presses her cheek to my shoulder blade, but I push her away as I lift my shirt over my head.

“I’m just tired, Hudson. I need a break. I never meant to—”

“It’s fine,” I say harshly. “Let’s just get some sleep. We’re both tired. We both said things we didn’t mean.”

I can feel the heat of her stare at my back, but I don’t turn to face her. I slide my trousers over my hips, let them fall to the floor and crawl under the sheets all without looking at her.

Cold air hits my back as she lifts the blankets to crawl into bed. She shuffles across the mattress and my body tenses as I feel her move closer to me. Her arm flops over mine. Her breasts press against my back. My dick stirs but I ignore it. We haven’t had sex since Calla was born. Her body is still recovering from birth and I don’t want to risk hurting her.

We lie in darkness and silence, neither of us daring to break this strange tension between us. I feel the rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of it hitting my skin. She stirs, moving closer, pushing her hips toward me so her body cocoons mine perfectly. When her hand starts to move, it’s so slight, I almost don’t notice. But soon it’s creeping toward my semi-hard dick, making it harden even more. I grab her wrist, stopping her before she reaches me.

“It’s okay. The doctor says it’s fine.” She murmurs the words, her lips brushing over my skin.

She tries to lower her hand again, but I hold it tightly. I don’t know why I do. Maybe it’s because of the way I came home and found her tonight. Maybe it’s because of the things she said.

“Hudson, please,” she pleads. “I need you. I need us.”

The baby monitor crackles. Calla begins to cry. Finity tries to release her hand from my grasp, attempting to reach downwards again.

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