She blew out a breath. “Why does it always have to revolve around our physical relationship? Do you think I’m a robot, ready to get hot and heavy just because you ask? How can I give you my body when we can’t even have a conversation?”
His laugh was full of derision and scraped her nerves raw. “Great, here we go. It’s always my damn fault, so, fine. I’ll own it. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. Do you want to have date night? Do you want me to whisk you away for a romantic long weekend? Buy you something so you feel valued? Give me the steps, so I don’t feel like a goddamned stranger with my own wife!”
The silence exploded like shrapnel, scattering fragments of pain throughout the room. If only she could do just that—tell him exactly what she needed to make things the way they used to be. If she could go back to the woman she’d been, before time and regrets and what-ifs eroded her happiness.
But she couldn’t. Pris didn’t even recognize who she was or what she’d become while her husband forged ahead on his path, never questioning if he was enough. They were both coming apart at the seams, but if they were sewn back together, would he want the new version?
Her head bowed in surrender. “Garrett, this isn’t about a date night or me needing attention. I wish it was. I wish I knew a quick cure, but all I can say is we’ve lost our connection. I remember I used to look into your eyes and find my answers. Now there’s a barrier between us I don’t know how to scale. We’ve both checked out of this relationship.”
He nodded slowly, meal forgotten. Even now, looking at him from across the formal dining room table, she could only measure the yawning gap and mutual weariness at trying to figure the other one out. It was no longer an exciting puzzle, with the reward of falling into each other more fully. Instead, she looked forward to an empty room, a relieved quiet where she didn’t have to force herself to play along.
She was lonelier with Garrett than by herself.
“What do you want to do? Counseling?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I just don’t want to pretend any longer. I think taking a trip to Italy is a good idea. Maybe we both need some space to think.”
“Maybe you’re right. Take some time away to be with your sisters. Hopefully, we’ll gain a fresh perspective on what our next step is.” He paused, as if trying to decide if he should say the next words. “I still love you, Pris. But I don’t want to feel like the one making you unhappy all the time.” He pushed his chair back and stood. “I’m going to shower. Thanks for dinner.”
She watched him go. For a few seconds, she wondered if she should run after him. When they used to fight, she’d always be the one to run after him, until sex became the go-to plan for both of them to forgive and forget. Once, that passion had ruled her, and she’d embraced it with a tight-knit focus because it made sense. Physical intimacy eased the bumps and hidden potholes of a marriage.
Until its lack became one of the biggest road blocks. A weapon; a curse; a living thing to be negotiated instead of a welcome relief from the hard stuff. The glue had come undone and left a sticky mess that neither of them had been able to figure out.
Garrett had first caught sight of her when she was dancing, caught up in the passion and focus of an art she’d been studying for many years. Her decision to walk away from a career that might have torn them apart had been a sacrifice, but one she’d been willing to make.
But now? It was time to acknowledge the empty ache inside her that had been slowly growing like weeds choking healthy grass. Pris had no idea how to fill it, or stop it, so she’d ignored the feeling and hoped it would eventually pass.
Until her mother’s death. The grief had only added to the brutal cocktail mix and pushed her over the edge. She didn’t know who she was anymore. And God, she was tired of pretending she was okay. She needed some direction. Some quiet and space in her soul.
Maybe if she could figure out how to make peace with herself, she could bloom under her husband’s touch again.
Maybe Italy was the only answer left.
The thoughts roiled in her head while she sat in the empty room, sipped her wine, and began planning her trip.
chapter five
Olivia
I learned early that my aunt gave me free rein, of both the house and my social life. She encouraged me to go out and meet people, citing that it was the best way to immerse yourself in a new culture. I watched her spend time in the early evening getting ready to go out, most of the time with Eduardo or visiting friends. The bathroom filled with the scents of rich sandalwood and exotic musk, along with various spiked heels and flowing dresses baring her shoulders or running into a deep V to show off cleavage. There was an air of excitement and adventure when I was around her, and I ached to absorb her beauty through my skin, to become even a tad like her.
Many times, I stayed behind, sketching nonstop in the garden or reading, content to watch the shadow of the sun fall on the hills in its slow descent. I’d journal my up-and-down emotions, from my increasing attention toward Rafael to the agony of believing I’d never experience love in the forms my aunt had. I didn’t want my life to be limited like my parents’, full of daily tasks and an increasing boredom. I scribbled madly, trying to figure things out by catching the words on paper as if it would finally free the secret.
When I joined the get-togethers or parties in town, Rafael was always there. He’d quietly slip in and out of various groups, cradling a beer, laughing easily at whoever was trying to secure his attention. Girls hung on him, but he didn’t seem to have one in particular he dated. Once in a while, he’d meet my eyes and something inside me melted and flamed at the same time, this itchy need to get closer to him. But I tried to give off a cool, detached vibe like I was comfortable in this new world where most of the language slipped past me and my peers seemed so much more exotic and alive than the ones back in high school. Too soon, his gaze would slide away and he’d turn, as if to let me know he was here if I wanted to seek him out. But I refused. I wanted him to come to me, even if it was torture. Plus, I was too shy and confused to strike up a conversation. I’d only make a fool of myself.
I tried to relax and make friends in Italy. When I spoke with Natalie and Julia, two girls my age currently enrolled in university, they seemed not to worry about grades or school or the future with the tense anticipation that usually stole my sleep. When I asked if they wanted to make a mark in the world, they laughed, tossing their long dark hair over their shoulders, raising a pint glass of beer in a sloppy salute, and telling me to chill, at least for the summer.
I was ashamed at my constant need to make sense of things, so I turned to drawing. My fingers cramped and my feet hurt as I walked and explored and recorded the things I saw and how they made me feel. For the first time in a while, I began to forget about what could happen and what I should be doing and enjoyed the climbing wisteria that framed the cottage, or the scent of lemon in the air, or the slow, lazy cut of boats drifting in the water. I indulged in the eye candy of buff men, with dark gazes and lilting voices that seemed to hypnotize me. I baked in the sun and lazily dreamed hours away and learned how to stop feeling guilty.