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The Worst Day Ever is a Saturday in February. It’s still kind of cold.
She’s in her maid of honor dress, her hair in a braid she’s seen from those step-by-step pictures on Pinterest, the speech she’s graciously delivered crumpled in front of her. There’s mascara running down her cheeks and a bottle of vodka she’s trying very hard to drink slowly – failing.
The bartender looks at her anxiously, as if he’s thinking of calling for back up, that he’s going to have to clean up after she pukes her guts all over the bar. He’s not wrong, but then it’s not like he’s the one to watch the man he loves get married and he’d have to hand one of the rings. Just the worst thing ever (it’s like in the top 10 of the worst things to have happened).
For fuck’s sake.
It’s literally been eight years – and he’s been in that relationship for half of it, she doesn’t know why she’s ever hoped it turns out differently. Eight wasted years of being the one on call whenever there’s a shift needed covered, the one who makes two variations of essays just so they’d pass the class together, who puts her foot down and picks where to eat, helps choose what to wear, plans the best dates. Countless of sleepless nights over Face Time talking about guys he’s dated and being the shoulder to cry on when they break his heart – shit. Stupid. Damn it. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck –
She sobs harder into her glass, thanks her lord and savior, Hozier, everyone else’s drunk enough to wonder what she’s crying about. The band is playing the Beatles’ song they included in Kurt Cobain’s funeral, and she wants to tear the mic out of their hands and throw it away. Why are they still here when the newly weds have already been sent off to their honeymoon? It’s ridiculous, and a waste of time, and she’s only twenty eight but it feels like she’s so old.
She drinks the shot in one go. It’s starting to taste like water – or maybe that’s just the tears?
Eight years. Loved him for eight fucking years.
It’s her fault, anyway; she never really told him. Waited for a chance, a good time. A fucking miracle. And miracles don’t happen – it’s not like he’s suddenly going to break up with his lovely boyfriend and run away with her, is he? Winners do, losers don’t; now he’s married, and she’s not sure where to start picking up the pieces.
The bottle is broken – it’s not pouring anything into her glass. Or maybe her glass has a crack, because it’s an open bar and she should have the choice to drown her sorrows in free drinks sponsored by the one who made her feel this way.
“Rey.” A tap on the shoulder she doesn’t bother acknowledging.
“Go away.”
The stranger sits on the stool beside hers, and she does recognize the voice, now that the god-awful song is done. Hate that song. Hate this wedding. Hate it all. “Go away, Ben. It’s not a good time.”
He has the nerve to laugh. “There’s never a good time, ever.”
Another bout of tears drip down her cheeks. She really should have told him, at the start of everything.
“You remember the very first day of freshmen year? You’re late, and the only seat available is next to mine?”
“I really don’t want to look back on the first day I met Finn.” She presses her forehead on the sticky surface and swallows the lump in her throat. “I don’t want to talk about it –”
“No, that’s the day you met me. You met him on –”
“Where were you, by the way?” She raises her head a little to shoot him a glare. Notices his disheveled hair and his crooked bowtie, “Did you just fuck a bridesmaid?”
He gets handed his glass. Has this amber-colored liquid in it. “Rude of you to assume – but no. Although you should sleep with a groomsman. Might be worth trying instead of that –” his index finger does a judge-y, circular motion, a bit offending. “– Kim Kardashian meme you’re internalizing.”
“Fuck you, man.”
“Please.” He says it with the pfft implied, not that he wants her to fuck him. Which is kind of sad and annoying at the same time. Maybe she needs a sorry fuck? “You’re not the only one who’s got their heart shredded into pieces.”
“I know – give this to me.” She takes the drink from his hand. “Give me this moment, like what we did, as your friends, when your way of coping is by sleeping with half the girls in the engineering department after you broke up with your ex – that I’m very kind not to say the name of out of my respect to you.”
He puts his palms up in surrender. “Touché.”
She drinks, welcomes the sweet burn spreading down her chest. Wipes her eyes with the back of her hand holding the glass. “You fucking introduced them.”
“Hey, that’s why I’m here. With you. Groveling.” He doesn’t look too apologetic. “It’s not so bad, I think.”
“What?”
“Getting over someone.” He leans over the bar and snatches a can of Budweiser from the stash. “Take me for example – nowadays, I only check her Instagram once every two weeks.”
She groans, “You’ve been broken up for more than six years.”
“Exactly. At this rate, you’ll be done moping around when you’re forty.”
“I can’t do twelve more years of this, Ben. That’d be twenty years by then, and I can’t be stuck in love with someone for half of my life.” She whispers, her eyes stinging. Not gonna cry again, damn it. “I can’t be that dumb.”
He swivels his chair so that it faces the rest of the party, most of whom were relatives catching up. Half of the guests have already gone home. “You need to move on.”
The alcohol catches up to her when turns to him, her vision spinning at the edges. “Not gonna fuck a groomsman. Like what you’re suggesting, probably.”
“Okay,” he puts both hands on his lap, as if this is a business proposal and he’s pulling all his tricks. “I think there might be another –”
“I’m not going to fuck you either, asshat.”
“I mean... don’t take it off the table.” He rolls his eyes, sighing. He plays with the moist tab on the lid of his beer, blows on the loose curl that fell over his eyes. “I don’t know, I see this wedding and I feel – sort of hopeless. Tired of sinning, as you’ve very kindly accused me.”
“Well, I’m right.” She doesn’t remember saying that though.
His thumb plays with his engraved cufflinks, finding something to do. He’s always fidgeting, even if he’s not nervous. She’s gotten him so many fidget spinners he’s lost over the years, it’s putting a dent on her bank account. “I want to be… secured? Find someone to split the rent with? And I think, if all else fails, at least I’m good company.”
“I’m not following.” She mumbles, waving her wrist for a refill.
“Don’t want a big, fat speech, okay.” He whispers to himself, but this she tells her: “We can make it work, as friends. Love is overrated anyway – so maybe you’d like to… marry me?”
Good thing she’s just sipped her drink and can spit it all over his Prada suit.
“Are you sober?”
“Ben, why are you calling at seven-thirty eight in the morning? My head’s killing me.”
“As it should. You were a mess.”
“Stop being so mean. I’m literally crawling my way to the bathroom.”
“Do you remember what I said?”
“You’ve said a lot of stuff. You did that best man speech really well –”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“You’re super weird.”
“I know.”
“…”
“Rey.”
“Mmhmm?”
“You got quiet.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking for, that’s why.”
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
“… so it still stands? Your offer.”
“Yes.”
“We should probably talk about it more.”
“What’s there to talk about? We know each other.”
“What do you mean – look, there’s all sorts of stuff to consider! Where would we live –”
“Mine, obviously.”
“See – wrong answer! What side of the bed are you on?”
“The left – next.”
“We don’t even like the same kind of music, what if I play songs just because I like the face of the artist, will you be able to keep your mouth shut? You know I like One Direction – I don’t appreciate any comments about it.”
“I’ll activate the noise cancellation on my AirPods.”
“Is it an open relationship? What if we found someone we wanted to have sex with?”
“I’m down if you are.”
“– and what if we drive each other nuts – wait, what?”
“I’m not a fan of polygamy, but if that’s something you want, I can try?”
“What the fuck? Is this a prank? Am I being recorded? Ben, I swear to god, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”
“I’m serious! I’d like you to marry me, if you want to.”
“What do you even get from this?!”
“Is it not enough to say I want my mother off my back?”
“Not enough.”
“… I can stomach your attitude on your bad days, you can possibly tolerate me on mine. Even if we’re not in love, this between us – it’s easy. I can imagine growing old with you.”
“…”
“Plus, I’m afraid you’ll agree to be their surrogate.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“Well? My minutes are running.”
“…”
“Rey.”
“Okay.”
“All in, baby.”
“It’s too damn early for this; I’m telling your mother as soon as we get off the phone.”
She doesn’t tell his mother. Not even two days later, after they’ve signed the papers in the city hall and gotten the janitor and the security officer to act as witnesses. They don’t tell anyone they’ve kissed for the very first time in front of a judge and the empty seats of a random court room.
They say to wear a white dress and she doesn’t have that, so she’s worn something in pastel and put a lipstick on, one she wipes from his lips with the pad of her thumb. He smiles at her, his suit less formal than it was in The Wedding/Worst Day Ever. There isn’t a bow tie to get crooked, not a flower to wilt, and only two pictures taken – first with the two strangers they dragged in, then another, of him with an arm draped over her shoulders.
She doesn’t change her Facebook status and neither does he. They don’t make up any cheesy post on Instagram because it’ll feel as if they’re doing this out of spite rather than doing it for themselves. He doesn’t take her to a fancy restaurant, opts instead to drive to the nearest Chilli’s and order food they actually like. His treat – which is the only thing out of the ordinary about it.
She does, however, give in to the temptation of posting a Boomerang of him pouting when he stains his white shirt with the molten lava cake. The hand he uses to wipe the drip is his left, and his ring glints when the light hits it right.
And they do finally tell his mother when they start to pack their things and move together, to an apartment strategically placed halfway from both of their offices.
It’s a one bedroom with a nice kitchen; they don’t look into buying a dining table because there are two high chairs, a nice, marbled breakfast bar, and not enough space for their clutters.
His book collection is something to behold – it covers at least three full-length bookcases, and she tells him to donate half or put them in a storage unit. He doesn’t relent, building instead a shelf that lines the perimeter of the ceiling, a contraption only he can reach. She tells him he’s dead if she finds dust bunnies coating their corners.
He makes her throw out her old, albeit lovely, green couch – the dark kind, not even one that looks like the ‘germ’ emoji – and bargains to keep five mugs in return of getting the larger drawer under the bathroom sink. She has fifteen mugs and he has none, so it’s quite stupid of him to ask because you definitely cannot have enough mugs in a house. (What will you do if you have to entertain fifteen guests in the middle of winter? Serve them iced teas?)
But she yields, in addition to a favour she’s going to redeem at some point in the future. Anyway, what is marriage, if not a give and take?
When they’ve finished arranging the furniture in a way that doesn’t make them puke – a grand mixture of his boring minimalism and her over-the-top maximalism – the first thing she does is change her emergency contact from Mrs. Kanata to him. He’s also been nominated to receive her widower’s pension once the inevitable happens, and appoints him the sole beneficiary of her will (it used to be split between a local animal shelter and the orphanage she grew up in). She keeps quiet about it, doesn’t let him know but thinks that maybe she should.
He’s her husband, isn’t he? Not just some guy she’s friends with.
“You don’t have to do it too, but I’m letting you know you have – uh, royalties, in case something were to happen to me.” She doesn’t look up from the pasta she’s draining, “I’ve sent the paperwork to HR this morning.”
He hums, reaches across her for the salt, and continues sautéing the onions and the meat. “It’s kind of nice.”
“Oh. Don’t worry about it. It’s not like there’s a lot – just a few bucks and the gold fish. Not enough to fund a full stock portfolio. You’d be underwhelmed –”
“No, I mean – it’s kind of nice to be the emergency contact.”
That night, she gets the left side of the bed.
The next day, he leaves the deed of assignment for his stock portfolio on the kitchen counter, with a little yellow sticker pointing where she has to sign as a joint owner.
The day after that, she has an email with the family domain.
And the following week, they share a Dropbox with all their taxations and other legal shits. A scanned copy of her will has its own folder, notarised and witnessed. Their marriage certificate is in another.
He hangs the pictures of their wedding on the wall behind the couch. Two eight by tens, in black and white.
This is her favorite night so far.
He picks her up after work because he said they’re due for a night out after all the shit storm they went through with the moving and the filing for taxes and all that grown up stuff. She mutters about staying up too late on a work night and he tells her the fish is fine and it can swim to its food by itself (she’s still doubtful).
They drive to a nearby dive, the one they used to go to when someone in their friend group turns 21. She isn’t really expecting him to take her to a fancy place with some fancy table cloths and some fancy engraved spoons, although they’re not exactly just friends now, are they? He can’t keep waxing poetic about doing a ‘night out’ like he’s implying they’re tired parents with three kids without taking her to somewhere unusual.
The dive bar? Not unusual at all.
Okay. Fine. It’s not as if she minds – he’s guaranteed the good company and split of rent, he’s not exactly being untrue. Plus, she’ll get anxiety over the menu of the fancy rich place.
She does laugh a little more. Maybe it’s the drinks, but she finds the time passing and he’s laughing along with her and she hasn’t checked her phone for any missed calls or emails about work since she got out of the car. He has his chin cupped by his palm and his legs are angled towards her, and in this moment he’s the only person who exists.
At some point, when she’s on a lengthy diatribe about the impracticality of five-minute hacks (“Look, I get it – some hacks really do help people who are having a hard time doing stuff, but oh my god, some of those hacks are just plain stupid. And lazy. And let me tell you, Ben – what they do for five, I can do for three!”), his hand falls on her jean-clad thigh, and he’s looking at her with this smile on his face. It says something she can’t quite understand but would like to, something uncertain and insecure, but he’s leaning closer, and he’s pressing his lips on hers, softly – just like boyfriends and girlfriends do.
“How come you always answer on the first ring?”
“Hmm?”
“I said: how come you always answer on the first ring? Like when I call? Like you don’t even look at the caller ID.”
“Oh. That.”
“Why are you laughing! Stop it!”
“You have a bespoke ringing tone so I know it’s always you.”
“Bespoke – Ben! What ringing tone?”
“Dial me.”
“…”
“…”
“Oh my fucking god – is that me singing Drift Away? Ben! Stop laughing! Get back here! I called you at work – you said you were in a meeting – holy shit! Did they –”
“Rey – stop – get off me – you’re heavy!”
“I am not! Change it!”
“To what? Ow – stop hitting me with the pillow, use your fist if you wanna fight, damn it! That’s expensive –”
“To a normal ringing tone, something with birds tweeting –”
“How would I know it’s you who’s calling – ouch! It doesn’t even reach the fun part before I swipe to answer!”
“Still – that is so embarrassing –”
“Argh. Calm down – okay, fine! I’m willing to change it, but you’d have to pick: it’s this or your rendition of Macklemore and Ryan Lewis’ Can’t Hold Us.”
“Dude! Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up –”
“I can’t believe you rap in the shower!”
They have sex the very first time about a couple of months after they were married.
She gets home at eight that night, exhausted, famished. There’s dinner on the table – some leftover pizza and a small tray of Spaghetti from the deli on the corner of the street. The promise of the long weekend and early summer are the only thing keeping her from bawling her eyes out of frustration.
He’s in one of the seats, watching Buzzfeed Unsolved on his phone, dipping the crust in melted butter for so long, it’s starting to look soggy. When he sees her standing, he gets up and sets her a plate of her own. “Long day?”
She nods, sitting next to him and laying her head on his biceps because he has bony shoulders but admittedly firm arm muscles. “You have no idea. I can’t believe I chose to work for a fucking non-profit.”
He wraps her in a side hug. “You do good work, my dear wife.”
“Feel like you should, too. Fucking corporate giants.” she grabs his wrist and shoves the drenched bread in her mouth, “And you still have time to catch Superstore.”
His fingers stay on her jaw, tracing a pattern on her skin she doesn’t understand, his stare burning.
“I haven’t slept with anyone since October last year.” He mumbles and leans down to press his lips on the corner of her mouth.
Her eyes flutter close, “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“Okay.” He gives her a lingering kiss, one that almost – almost – convinces her to stick out the hunger and keep going, a hand slowly creeping up his neck and tangling in his hair, toes curling in her fuzzy slippers. She licks his bottom lip and tastes butter with a hint of the mint toothpaste he uses. “Later.”
He can’t seem to keep his hand to himself after they pull away; there’s always the crumbs on her cheeks, tomato sauce on her chin. His other hand stays firmly on her thigh, thumb playing with the hem of her skirt and the sheer stockings underneath. She engages him in a few conversations, but even she tries to chew as fast as she can.
When at last, the final drop of her water is gone from her glass, he carries her across her midsection and runs to the bedroom.
“Ben,” she moans when he pushes her down the bed, sucking a bruise on her clavicle, “we have to clean up –“ a breathless sigh when he manages to press the bulge of his shorts right where she wants him, “– gonna get roaches.”
He lifts himself up to remove his shirt and looks at her with the buttons of her blouse undone. “Later. I’ll clean it all up later.”
And she doesn’t argue, lost in the hungry kisses he leaves down her body and the persistent way his fingers familiarize themselves with her skin.
“Shoulda made you my rebound fuck buddy a long time ago.”
“Bold of you to assume I’d agree.” She giggles, snuggling further to his warmth. “Come on, honey. You have plates to wash.”
He wraps his arms tighter around her, muttering his protests in her hair. “I’ll do it tomorrow, I promise.”
She sits up, glaring as his gaze shifts to her bare chest. Huffs: “Ben.”
“One more –”
“No. You told me –” She pulls the quilt to her but stops, realizing it’s the only thing covering him too. She doesn’t let her eyes linger on his cock when he’s removed his underwear, so afraid he’s going to get the wrong idea. He’ll think this is more to her than what it is – they’re only married. It’s not like they’re in love (or something). “– fine.”
Rolling her eyes, she gets out of bed and walks into the kitchen. Naked, with his cum dripping from her cunt.
She hears him follow a moment later, pushing her to the edge of the counter and lifting her up. He kisses her senseless, deep, until she isn’t sure why she’s pissed off to begin with. “That is so fucking hot.”
He does clean everything a while later, when the mess they made by the sink – from him, mostly – turns out to be a lot.
By the time the weekend’s over, the swell of her tits have had the most abuse from his mouth. Easy enough to cover with the right shirt.
At the end of that month, her neck. That, a much bigger problem.
One day, she forgets to put a layer of concealer on all the red spots, but is surprised she doesn’t mind; she owns the fact that she’s been getting it regularly. If anyone’s noticed, they don’t say a word about it when the ring on her finger tells the story without words.
She strolls into a nearby CVS to get a refill of her pills. Babies are definitely not something they’re ready for. Might not be something she will ever be ready for.
Hope that’s okay with him.
“Hey, do you ever want to fuck another person?” She says one night over dinner – grilled pepper chicken and hummus – “You don’t get sick of fucking me?”
He stops chewing. Looks at her dumbly. “You’re my wife? I’m literally promised to your cunt only. We have the paperwork and everything.”
“I know –” she fiddles with her kuboos, tears it by half, then another half. “– but I said, before we got married, that you may meet someone you might wanna sleep with.”
“Have you?” He frowns, and she feels a little bad. Last thing she wants is for him to be unhappy with their arrangement; she’s merely trying to be considerate of him, don’t want him bored with her plain-jane self.
She shakes her head. “We’re talking about you.”
“We should probably discuss this in-depth.” He wipes his fingers on the tissue, pushes the plate away from him. “Like I said, I’m down if you are. So tell me if you want to fuck someone else.”
Her eyes drift to his ring, then back at him. He’s staring at her, expression now unreadable. She sighs, “Let’s just drop it.”
The rest of the night is unbearably quiet; he’s not eaten since she’s closed the topic and she gets one-word answers when she asks him a question. He goes to shower while she cleans up (he did all the dishes the past two days), and his side lamp’s already off by the time she’s done with her skincare routine.
He’s on his side facing away from her. She hugs him from behind, her lips on the back of his neck. He puts his hand over her knuckles.
“I don’t want to fuck someone else.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured. Me too, by the way.”
When her gold fish dies, they bury it in a pot of monstera they keep by the window.
She gives a good cry and he says a few nice words, “I hope you find peace in the fish afterlife. And although I am burdened with the responsibility of taking care of you had your mother passed, I want you to know that it’s fine with me.”
He holds her hand while they walk around an animal shelter, looking at cats for adoption. A fat ginger tabby shows its belly in front of them, and when she tries to run her index finger across its fur, it doesn’t hesitate to scoot closer.
“Huh. Looks like you’ve been chosen.” He grins, patting its head.
She squeezes his wrist with both of her hands and stares up at him, “I want this cat. I’ll clean the litter box, I swear.”
He gives her a look that tells her he doesn’t believe a word she’s said. “I know you will. Is this your big favour?”
The thing is: he cannot stay mad at her for long.
Even back in college, he’s just not someone who holds grudges – at least, not where she’s concerned. She’s spilled coffee on his mini-thesis an hour it was due, had once booked an Uber for him to go to the wrong destination, forgot to return books she’s borrowed under his name from the library loads of time that even she’s lost count.
She has always thought he’s nicer to her than most because she’s his first friend in the whole city – two nineteen-year-olds who sat next to each other in freshmen orientation and decided they’ll stick through it. They’re not even from the same department (at least, not at first. She shifts courses halfway on the first semester because Marketing seems more fun than Accounting).
They’ve grown apart, embarrassingly, when she’s fallen in love and he’s started to date – it seems weird to have a friend of the opposite sex who’s platonic, and she reckons it’s not very attractive if you’re trying to get a girlfriend. She didn’t mind then – her focus wasn’t really on him too.
But it’s kind of fun to prove that people don’t change.
She forgets to clean the cat’s litter box on the third day they got it. He gets home earlier than she does, and he’s angrily scooping tiny balls of clump into a plastic bag when she enters the door. “I can’t believe you’ve broken your promise in less than a week! It smells like cat shit in here!”
Snickering, she crouches down and covers the cat’s ears, “Hush! You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“Oh, so it’s a he now?”
“He’s got a dick, what do you want me to say?”
“It’s an it!” He ties the bag so intensely she thinks he’s going to tear through the plastic. She’s not cleaning that up.
The cat purrs under her touch. She walks up to her husband, dropping her bag by the shoe rack (that she knows she’ll get an earful for later). He strides to the bin and throws the bag inside, washes his hands, then looks at her, his palms pressed on his hips. “You should feel bad. It stinks.”
“I’ll put in some deodorizer.” She stands on her tiptoes, arms looping over his shoulders. Rubs the spot under his right ear. “Sorry?”
He inhales. Exhales. “You’re not gonna get away with this easily, Rey.”
She gives him a kiss in the way he likes it best: her bottom lip in between his. Her back hits one of the stools and he helps her up to it, making space for himself between her legs. “I’ll put so much deodorizer in the box, you won’t even smell my shampoo.”
The tip of his nose bumps with hers, “I love the smell of your shampoo.”
“You always complain it’s too citrus-y.” One light kiss on his cheek. “Am I forgiven then?”
He groans, burying his face in her neck. “Yes, but you do the dishes tonight.”
Turns out he’s the same with the cat.
She gets up to use the bathroom that night and notices him hugging the damn animal to his chest, his snore light like he’s having a nice dream. She turns on her lamp and takes a picture.
Once she’s back, she moves closer to the two and joins in.
“Rey?” He’s knocking on the bathroom door, and she hates when he does this. She isn’t done with her shower yet, can’t he just go in? It’s not like they haven’t seen each other naked. “What! Give me a sec, I’m washing my hair.”
“Finn’s texted me. Said you’re not answering your phone.” He calls out, muffled by the sounds of water hitting the tiles.
She hates the fact that her heart speeds up at the sound of his name. It’s almost pavlovian. “Well, I’m in the shower. You can tell him that.”
There’s a moment of silence before he replies, “Okay.”
She hasn’t texted him since his wedding, but then again, he didn’t exactly reach out after. Supposedly, she can comment on his posts about the honeymoon, but she doesn’t even spare them a like.
Her husband’s right – she needs to move on.
Besides, she’s always hated being the one to text first. It makes her feel pathetic, too eager, unwanted.
Reaching for her towel, she thinks about what he’s up to, what he can possibly message her about. She wonders if he’s come to vent at her about his husband, and she’s not confident she’ll be able to turn him away.
“I can’t believe I have to find out from Poe – of all people!”
She examines the menu she’s known like the back of her hand, very much avoiding his gaze. “We haven’t really told anyone.”
“Except Poe, and apparently your boss?” He whines, snatching the laminated paper from her. “I didn’t even know you and him were dating – wait, you were dating, right? This isn’t like a sex thing.”
She looks at her nails, “The only person we told was his mother — who apparently told their whole family — and my work, when I updated my beneficiaries.” Her eyes lifts to his, mouth pressed in a thin line. He looks so betrayed. “We were gonna tell you in a few months.”
“Months?” He crosses his arms, “Rey, you’re my best friend. I would really appreciate if you tell me there’s a big something I should know about. Just because Poe and I are married doesn’t mean I care about you any less.”
She huffs, a small, irrational part of her missing him still. “I don’t need to ask for permission to marry Ben.”
“No, you don’t – look, I don’t want to argue about this. I just want to know how it happened.” He sighs, rubbing his temples, “I didn’t think – well… I didn’t really think you two were involved.”
“We… got involved,” she lies, “when we’re doing stuff for your wedding. I missed hanging out with him, and one thing led to another –”
“No, no. I do not want to hear about his sex life, okay? College-me has heard enough.” He gives her a smile, something that doesn’t reach his eyes. Something untrue. “You know, I kind of thought you liked me. Back in Uni.”
A shuddering breath, her heart sinking to the floor. “That’s crazy. We’re best friends.”
She finds him on the couch when she gets home, their cat curled by his thigh. He’s staring at the television playing Cobra Kai, but he doesn’t seem to be watching.
He doesn’t look at her though.
“Hey.” She drops beside him and lays her head on his shoulder. “You okay?”
It takes him a moment to answer, “Are you?”
She buries her face into his neck, “Could you hold me, please? I swear this is the last time I’m gonna cry about him.”
His arms hesitantly wrap around her back, and he shifts her around so she’s sitting on his lap. He combs his fingers through her hair, and presses his lips on her cheek. Like she matters – like she’s the only thing that matters.
“Okay. One last time.”
When she sees him on Thanksgiving with her in-laws and their extended family, she greets him without the hope in her heart that he’s going to finally see her for who she is. The hand at the small of her back, where her husband’s ring finger slots through a belt loop on her jeans, grounds her back to reality.
He sits beside her when it’s time to eat, and introduces her to his Uncle – not his mother’s brother, god knows where he is, he says, but his father’s friend, ‘the charmer’. His father shows her his baby pictures, something she has already seen because his mother had shown them back when she visited the day after they were moving their life in the apartment.
She doesn’t sneak glances, doesn’t watch him interact with his husband. She has one of her own, and she’s really looking forward to go home tonight.
Their first Christmas is a quiet event.
He’s making her stay in bed while he rushes out to get a tree – they didn’t plan to have one, since they’re not big fans of the holiday. It’s always been spent alone, or working. He hates carols, and she doesn’t have a family to go home to.
But she tells him, at midnight on Christmas eve, when they’re sitting on the carpet drinking red wine, that she’s never had a tree.
“What!” He looks affronted, their cat begging for his attention. “You’ve never had a tree?”
She nods, “I’m not even sure if I’m a Christian, so it’s not a big deal.”
“I’m not a Christian and even I had a tree.” He carries the cat in his arms and passes it to her. “That’s it – I’m getting you a tree, first thing tomorrow. Well, later, I suppose.”
Rolling her eyes, she takes the little devil from his hands and kisses its tiny head. “Merry Christmas.”
He takes a picture – this, it goes to his wallet. One she sees when he takes out his credit card to pay for their dinner on their first anniversary.
On his birthday, she sends him a picture of a lingerie set in his favorite color.
That night, he takes her in all fours, bites on the juncture of her shoulder and her neck, and entwines her left hand with his. In her peripheral, she can see the way the light bounces off of their rings, winking at her.
“My wife loves to distract me, doesn’t she? She loves it when I can’t focus on work, loves to drive me mad.” He pants in her ear, his other hand snaking down where they join and finding her clit. He rubs it the way she needs, an echo to his quick thrusts. “She loves being spread open for me, can’t even help herself. Loves to keep her husband happy. Loves my cum in her cunt all – night – long.”
She groans, her fingers curling on the sheet she’s just changed this morning. “I love having you around.”
“Yeah, you do. Because you’re mine. My pretty wife,” his movements are getting erratic, and she’s close – so very close – “does she want to come? Don’t want her lonely, no, don’t want her to go. She’s been good, hasn’t she? She deserves it. She deserves everything.”
“Please, please, please –” She gasps when he hits the spot, eyes rolling backwards, “please, Ben. Please.”
He brings her face to his and kisses her, messy, her moans swallowed into his mouth. When she comes, he follows.
He lets the radio play on Sunday mornings while he makes her breakfast.
She offers to make him a Spotify playlist with all those songs – they’re for old people, she’s always teased him. He says it reminds him of the best time in his childhood, running errands with his father on weekends and picking up his mother after whatever protest she’d attended (and led, let’s be real). The stereo’s dial was on their favorite FM station, the windows were down, and they’re singing along to Carpenters with their made-up lyrics. No Spotify playlist can ever top that.
So they’re stuck listening to Engelbert Humperdinck, then he’s pointing at her with the end of the wooden spatula, turning off the stove, walking around their little kitchen island, “You’re just too good to be true.”
He’s taking her hand and spinning her around, then back to him again. They bump into some furniture but she grins, her arms around his neck, and she sways slowly with him until the next song.
It has been two years since the day they were married.
Her period is late by a couple of weeks, and she thinks she may be pregnant though she’s seen some spotting on her underwear this morning. He’s been in a month-long conference overseas back in December (they’ve barely managed to spend the new year’s together), so when she’s forgotten to get a refill of her pills then, she isn’t really worried. Neither of them were a fan of polygamy, and she can definitely hold off having sex.
Stupid mistake.
It makes her wonder what he’ll think. They have this nice thing going on and this news may be too much. He hasn’t opened up about having kids yet (neither has she), it’s not within the five-year plan. His mother, though – she’s been asking about grandchildren for quite a while.
Just as she is walking to the cashier to pay for a pregnancy test to pee on, a sudden pain shoots down her belly. Her hands clutch her midsection like she’s afraid her intestines are going to fall out, and she bends down to alleviate some of the burn. One of the staff notices and asks if she needs any help.
“No, I’m fine. Could you help me stand up?”
That’s when she feels a cold wetness trailing down her legs.
The staff sees the drop of red on the floor, then looks at her, eyes wide. “Ma’am, are you really okay? Do you want me to call you an ambulance?”
Her heart rate speeds up and her palms start sweating. She can’t help the sob that comes out of her lungs, “I’m sorry, oh god. I’m so sorry for the mess. Can you get me a cab? Please.”
“Shit, shit, shit. Okay. Shit. Breathe. Breathe. I’ll call one for you, just wait here.” She hears, but it seems far away, like she’s listening from under water, and the waves drag her in.
“Is there anyone you’d like to call? A husband? Friend?”
“No, I – I’d really like to go home now. It’s our anniversary and I’m late, and —”
“Okay. I’ll get your discharge paperwork ready.”
The lights are dead when she gets home, but there are candles gleaming all over the living room.
He’s in the middle of the room, a bouquet of daisies in his hands. The first and the last person she wants to see tonight, “Happy anniversary, Rey.”
Her face crumples and she falls on her knees. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I lost it. I lost it.”
The doctor said it’s not impossible for her to get pregnant to term, but more often than not, she’s going to miscarry. They’ve given her a pamphlet stating her options, and she has it in the bottom of her bag, unread.
Will he even want her still? A damaged good, someone who can’t give him a happy family.
Being with him has been the only thing she’s looking forward to. He’s the person she can count on to be in her corner whatever happens, her comfort in her worst days. The best person she knows. She thinks she’s loved him for a while.
He crouches in front of her, fingers tucking the loose hair behind her ear. He’s rubbing circles on her temples, wiping her eyes, when she’s managed to choke out another apology.
“What happened?” He says, worry etched on his lovely face.
It takes her a while to tell him, the lump in her throat making it hard to speak. “I lost the baby. I’m so sorry.”
He holds her close the whole night, whispers “it’s okay” to her hair. She feels his own cheeks wet.
The early morning sunlight reflects on the strands of his hair, from the inch of open space that the curtain has allowed. They haven’t slept the whole night, she hasn’t even changed into her pajamas. Just looking at one another, as if they’re committing what they are now to memory.
Her face pressed against the pillow, she whispers to him, “If you leave, I’m not going to hold it against you.”
A tear slips from her eye, and she can’t bear to carry the weight of his stare any longer. Afraid of what his answer will be, afraid he’ll stop wanting her. He lifts his hand and wipes the trail from her cheek, but it just keeps going on and on when he doesn’t speak right away.
“Leave? Why would I want to leave?”
“Because.”
He sits up, runs his fingers through his hair. Exasperated, as if he has to explain something obvious. “Because what? Because you can’t have a baby? Did I fucking marry you for a baby?”
“Your mother’s asking for a grandchild since she’s found out about the wedding.” She goes to sit on the bed, too, their backs facing each other. “You marry someone with the view of starting a family.”
“Do you want a child?”
“I don’t know! But you’re in this too. If you want one, I can’t give it to you.” She covers her face with both hands, mouths, “I can’t.”
“So what? It’s your body.” His voice is rising, but he’s trying to keep himself in check. She feels the mattress lighten without his weight on it. “There are loads of parentless kids in the world, we’ll adopt one if we want to. What the hell is the problem with that?”
She doesn’t think about her childhood a lot, buried it deep like some enemy you don’t feel sorry for, but the ache has become a part of her personality she can’t always ignore. A life filled with so much insecurities, so much rejection, craving to belong – they come out at the worst of times, a demon she has to conquer and she doesn’t always win.
“They’re not going to be your own blood. They won’t have your ears, or your nose, or your eyes. You’re going to look at them and you won’t see me or you, nobody would say ‘your kid looks just like their mum’, you won’t get to compare how alike your baby pictures are and they’re never going to be sharing your natural quirks. I know how this feels, Ben.”
He’s pacing around the room, his steps a parallel to the sounds of her stuttered breaths. “You know what you’re doing – you’re picking up a fight. What are you so afraid of? That I’ll go because you can’t get pregnant? Is that how you think of me?”
“I’m giving you an out. This is what I was talking about when we decided to get married – we should’ve discussed the specifics –”
“No, what I asked for is you. Not some metaphorical baby you could’ve given me. It would’ve been lovely to be a father but I didn’t ask for it – I just want you.”
“Don’t you want a big family?”
“I am happy with what we have now. Isn’t that enough?”
She stands up, looks at him. It should be enough, but the blood in her underwear, something she’s thrown in the bin at the hospital, will be always be a testament of what she’s lacking, what she can’t give him.
“I just don’t want there to be a time where you change your mind if you know you can have something better.”
He walks closer, pulling her to him. “I won’t exchange this for a set of twin and a five-bedroom house in the suburbs.”
Their routine, something she’s always found comfort in, has become unfamiliar.
Her alarm blares out in the morning, at five, and she’s tangled up in his arms despite them sleeping with their backs turned. She reaches for her phone and thinks about hitting the snooze until she feels him moving against her, waking up.
In the dark of the morning, in a place where they don’t have to put up their defenses, he draws her a little closer, his breath warm against the back of her neck. He whispers: “five more minutes.”
That’s when she holds him tighter, lets herself think that they’re okay. She lets herself imagine a world in which he loves her back, their hearts beating in sync, that they didn’t just settle because they can’t have who they really wanted. But she’s wanted him for two of her birthdays now, how else will she ever stop wanting him?
She pretends that she has everything of him – not a part she would have to share with anyone else – until the alarm starts again and it’s time to pull away.
He starts the coffee and refills the cat’s timed feeder, then goes for a run. She showers, drinks a cup, and leaves for work. On the bus, she looks at her lock screen – him and the cat, sleeping.
They don’t see each other until they get home.
At dinner, their eyes are on their phones rather than asking each other about their days. He tries to show her something new he’s seen, or get her to talk about another shit her co-workers did – but he has limits, and she finds ways to get to bed early.
And maybe she’s being selfish, but she doesn’t want this to be over. Not yet. She can’t go through a world ending the second time.
There’s a lasagna recipe he’s torn off his grandmother’s diary; he asks, somewhat shyly, if he can pick her up after work to go to the grocery – as if he doesn’t have any right to do so anymore.
She tells him she’ll meet him in the dairy section in ten minutes, she wants to check out some new capsules for the Nespresso machine at work. There’s not much option, but she takes her time, and then some to check out the deals on cat food.
When twelve minutes and fifteen seconds have passed, she walks to their meeting place and sees him, grinning for the first time in weeks, his attention on someone. As she gets closer, she sees who it is, and finds herself thinking that it makes sense why he’s so happy.
Oh. She’s back in town.
Her chest feels heavy, her palms clammy, and she wants to vomit on the vinyl floor. There’s a stinging behind her eyes, but she can’t exactly break down in the middle of a Walmart, can she? God, it feels just like before – and this time, she’s perfectly aware she’s just borrowing, her claim lies on signed paperwork that doesn’t feel like it holds much value. Not with the way he’s smiling at her, or the way she touches his arm as if it doesn’t take her months to learn how to mould herself around him.
It’s been over two years, but she’s still the outsider looking in.
She fishes out the phone in her back pocket, dials his number. He answers after one ring, and even though she’s sifting through the crumbs of his affection, she can’t help but love him more for it. “Hey, where are you?”
“Hey,” she swallows, turning away from the two. “I need to go back to the office. I have to –”
“Wait, what? Now? Let me drive you back. I’ll just pay for these and –”
“No, no. I can take the bus. You go and, um, finish your list.”
“Rey –”
“I’ll see you at home, Ben.” Her voice cracks at the end, but she ends the call before he hears. She runs to the bus stop and she doesn’t look back.
When she gets home at eleven, the lasagna lies cold in the kitchen island, untouched. He’s in the bedroom, probably asleep.
She grabs a fork, starts with a square in the corner, and sits on a stool. Her tears fall, but she keeps eating because she knows he made this for her, he’s so excited for her to try it, and she can’t bear to let it all go to waste.
In her dream, she sees them back in the store, arguing about brands of wet food and trying to appease the toddler strapped on the trolley seat. Here, she sees herself as the one who is back in town, who says “it’s so nice to see you again – I can’t believe you two ended up together!”, who puts on a fake smile and waves her good bye to go the other way.
Like real life, she ends up in the bus; she looks down at her phone, on the lock screen showing a picture of a cactus, unchanged, since the day after The Wedding. It gnaws at her, the loneliness, something he’s promised she will never have with him.
Maybe it’s not a dream at all – maybe it’s a premonition, that kind of stuff happens sometimes, doesn’t it? Where you dream and it becomes real, then there’s the feeling of déjà vu and it makes the hair at the back of your neck stand up, gets you to ask yourself “now, where have I seen this before?”
But she wakes up in his arms when the alam rings at five, and he’s whispering stay here a moment with me, and she’s tugging him closer.
Just five more minutes.
Monday brings her to a book club organized by a girl from work, even though she isn’t a big reader. On Tuesday, a block away from the office, the pub hosts their weekly quiz night. The gym on her bus route has just re-opened and is offering membership discounts as part of their marketing strategy. She goes there the rest of the week, a note on their fridge saying: I’ll be out late. Don’t wait up.
On Friday, he’s on the carpet with a glass of whiskey, with the television the only source of light in the apartment. The volume is low, she can only make out a bit of what James Spader’s monologuing but there are subtitles and he’s never one for loud sounds.
The cat runs to greet her, the tiny clinks of its bell gives only a small respite from the conflict in her heart. She picks it up and hesitates; there are moments when she feels unwelcome in her own home, an intruder who knows the room like the back of her hand. Funny how such a small amount of time gets them back to where they started – strangers.
“There’s dinner on the table.” He says, low and bitter, “or, at least, if you can stomach eating with me in the room.”
She doesn’t take his bait, the cat struggling out of her hold. “Have you eaten?”
“Of course. It’s ten in the evening.” He takes a sip. “I cooked stir-fry noodles earlier. And chicken wings last night. And curry the night before that. I even bought the muffin you liked, the one from the shop near my old building – but you wouldn’t know, would you? Because you’re not here to eat with me.”
He’s just frustrated, she tells herself, opening the Tupperware and getting a fork. You haven’t really seen each other the whole week.
“We haven’t had sex in sixty seven days. I am counting, isn’t that pathetic?” He chuckles without humor, “You don’t even wait for me to come back from my run to kiss my cheek – you never used to complain even if I’m sweaty or if I smell. I fucking envy the cat because you’ve hugged him more than me.”
Blinking back the tears, she shoves more of the food in her mouth even though she’s finding it hard to swallow. Her eyes are fixed on the odd pattern of the marble that seems like a stain, and she rubs her thumb over it to prove it’s not.
“Do we have a problem, Rey?” He whispers, feels him walking closer. The glass lands lightly on the counter, and he embraces her from behind. The fabric of her blouse gets wet where his cheek rests. “You don’t seem excited to get home. It feels like you’re dreading to make small talk with me. You won’t even touch the water I’ve brought you to bed. I’ve tried cleaning the house, stocking the fridge. I’ve done the laundry. I’ve been trying to finish work in the office so I’d have all my attention to you, so you’d have something to look forward to. But you don’t even look at me.”
She draws a shaky breath, and puts her palms over his.
“I know that you’re going through a rough patch. I know you’re more affected by the loss of the baby more than you’d care to admit, but don’t push me away, Rey. I promised I’m not leaving, so let me in.” He kisses the nape of her neck, mouthing the words to her skin: “I just want my wife back.”
“I’m sorry.” That you’re hurting. That you may not be able to meet the girl you married again.
He keeps holding her – as if he’s afraid to let go, afraid she’ll pass through the gaps of his finger.
She tries a little harder, smiles a little wider.
He doesn’t force himself on her – just the kisses when she gets home, holding her hand when they walk around the street, pulling her closer when she gets to bed. He brings her the glass of water every night. Drives thirty minutes to buy a muffin she’s missed the taste of.
They’ve known each other for over eleven years, but there’s still so much to learn. She wouldn’t have thought his love language is somewhere in between acts of service and physical touch, but it’s not like they dated then.
They didn’t make room to discover such intimacy and that’s probably fine – there are things more important to know about each other than how much they love to get hugs.
He hates getting food from their campus vending machines, hates drinking from water fountains due to their close proximity with the toilets and the possibility of getting oral herpes. He absolutely cannot tolerate ripped jeans because his toe snags on the threads when he puts them on. If there’s a chance he won’t gain so much weight, he’ll probably eat cheese for the rest of his life. There isn’t anybody who is better in folding stuff than he is, he’s in the 98th percentile of the greatest folders ever; he can fold a fitted sheet like how Marie Kondo does it (she’s always asked him to do it for her on laundry days, even when he’s busy).
Layers and layers peeling, they add up. He’s become her favorite person because of these things, and it warms her up that she hasn’t reached the core of him yet because she can’t get enough – of him.
She’s so in love with her husband, it makes her skin crawl.
Christmas draws near. They didn’t get to spend it together last year, so he starts early. Like before-halloween early. October-ish.
He gets her a new tree, not some last minute buy that’s in the rejects aisle. Gets her all these cute ornaments – glittery gold balls, snowflakes, some fun, food-themed polymer clay baubles, small cat figurines they scatter around. They don’t put on a star, just a puffy Santa hat with their names embroidered along the white trim. A gift from his best friend.
Their cat, the little monster, knocks it down within the first twenty-four hours it’s built. In the middle of her riding his dick.
“Fucking knob head.” He mutters, rutting up against her.
She rubs her clit, palming her tits. “You – ah – better fix my tree. Or you’re not getting some until Thanksgiving with your parents.”
“Can you not talk about my parents now?” He puts his hands on her hips, sitting up and shooing her fingers away with his nose. He draws a nipple between his lips, “please?”
She breathes out a sigh, her eyes rolling backwards. “I’ll suck your dick in your bedroom. I’ll let you cum all over me. Back,” a scratch behind his right ear, “Tits. Face. Ass. We’ll be quiet. Nobody will hear a thing.”
He thrusts faster, her ass slapping on his hips bound to get red and warm. “Fuck – fuck – fuck – I’ll put up your goddamn tree. Fuck. I’ll put up twenty goddamn trees for you – I’ll cut them all myself.”
His phone pings while he’s in the shower. It’s 9:24 p.m., says so on the screen.
The green icon with a familiar name comes up, the preview says: Hey Ben! It’s nice to see you at work. Thanks for showing me around the office. I’m so excited to be working there! I’ll see…
Bile rises in her throat, and she wants to wretch tonight’s dinner but he’s still using the bathroom. She goes to the kitchen and drinks a glass of water – and another – until the bitter taste subsides. Her eyes well up in silent tears, and she hears the tap turn off from the other side of the wall. If he sees her like this, he’s for sure going to ask her what’s wrong.
And she can’t have that – what if he leaves? What if, when it goes down to it, he doesn’t pick her?
It’s like the best friend conundrum all over again. One day it’s okay, the next, it’s just shit.
She puts on her sweater and heads for the door.
Maybe she’s unlovable. Maybe that’s why the baby didn’t stick.
She knows that people choose who they love, and she’s chosen hers. Her life is one big tale of loving – her love for the parents who aren’t there and their temporary replacements, her love for pretty boys with prominent jawlines, her love for people who just won’t return her affections. She’s so full of love, she doesn’t know what to do with it because nobody will goddamn accept.
Funny how she never expected it to feel so draining.
She’s just so tired of loving, she wonders if she can continue living her life without bestowing anyone else an ounce of what she keeps giving. Will it leave her complete? Will it stop her heart breaking? Is there a way to find happiness in things gone?
Her phone keeps blowing up. She doesn’t answer his calls because when she hears his voice, she’ll start crying all over again. She texts him: I’m just out for a walk. Need to clear my head a little. I’ll see you at home.
He responds almost immediately: It’s almost ten in the evening. Go back. I miss you.
She can’t help but think he’s being cruel, making her think he loves her too. Sometimes he looks at her like she is the only person he’s ever wanted in his whole life, the only one who knows her – then the doubt creeps in, and she remembers he proposed because he’s feeling sorry. The dinners he cooked, the flowers he brought home – he’s just feeling sorry for you.
There’s a shop she passes by, the lights inside are all dimmed, the sign says ‘Closed’. She sees her reflection on the window – her haphazardly done bun, wrinkled cardigan, dry lips – and thinks to herself, why are you so unsatisfied with what you have? You’re not the prettiest girl. How can you demand so much by giving so little?
Same questions she’s had all those years ago – but she’s given everything she has, hasn’t she? It’s just not enough.
Her phone vibrates with another message: Where are you? I’m not comfortable with you out so late by yourself. I’ll come and get you.
She doesn’t reply, switching off the device.
When she gets home an hour later, he’s sitting on the front stairs of their building, back hunched, arms crossed over his chest and hands tucked in his armpits. His hair has already dried, and his cheeks are flushed red from the cold, autumn air. As her footsteps echo her arrival, he looks up – a mixture of worry and irritation on his beautiful face. His eyes are narrowed, and he’s about to speak when she wraps her arms around him.
Figure she’ll do this while she can.
The beer has long since lost its chill. It tastes like what she supposes piss will taste, kinda gross to drink.
The label is peeled, shredded into pieces on the sticky table with the strange red stain.
Her best friend goes on this long tirade about the joys of adopting, his existential crisis about being a good role model to the baby they’re expecting from a mom who’s chosen them. He goes on about his frustrations with the color of the nursery, if it’s smart to buy gender-neutral clothes or wait until the gender reveal (he’s booked a bakery he’s always loved). He doesn’t even notice she’s stopped listening; maybe her husband hadn’t told them about their loss.
Upon realizing this, she starts sobbing like a fucking lunatic, her lips on the rim of her bottle.
“– Rey? Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, “I’m sorry. I’ve just been under stress lately.” She rubs her nose with the back of her hand, “Go on. What did you say about the clothes again? Pink with Unicorn?”
“Stop. Dude –” he grabs her hand, turns it palm up. He rubs his thumb over her wrist, where her pulse is. “– you’re obviously not fine. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Her face falls, and tears continue to stream down her cheeks. “Ben’s not in love with me.”
“I’m sorry – what?”
It does sting when it’s said out loud. “Ben doesn’t love me. Not in the way I want.”
He stares at her like she’s grown two heads, “Did you hit your head? You’re literally married.”
“I know.” She sniffs, drinks her beer. “But he doesn’t love me.”
“You keep saying that, but I’m not processing what you mean.”
“We settled for each other, that’s the harsh truth. I feel like he thinks he’s never going to find someone else, and here’s poor Rey, who’s crazy about someone who just got married.”
“I thought you got together – oh.” He takes a long swig from his glass. She thunks her head on the surface, beer residue and weird stains be damned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“What’s there to say, Finn? I’ve loved you for four years before you’ve met Poe, but those four years, I’ve never stood a chance. I have been there for you through your break ups and I wouldn’t want to be someone you broke up with.”
He tries to coax her face up, but she won’t. This is not how she imagined telling him, and this is not how she imagined she would feel. Her old self, the one who’s hopelessly pining for the man sitting in front of her, is stuck in a time where it’s not too late and she’s pouring her heart out in three simple words.
Now, she’s just resigned to hear what he says. The rejection that’ll sting, but not too much. “Back in our last year at uni – when you’re so obsessed to graduate and I’m just walking around getting sad about guys who aren’t worth the hassle, I wasn’t really happy with myself. And I was so determined to love you. Like, too much. I was ready to ask you to date and really try, because I’m tired of fucking around, getting my heart broken. And maybe that says something about me, but I can’t imagine anyone dumb enough to have you and let you go.”
She raises her head to glare at him, eyes burning. “Bullshit. So I’m not the person people want to fool around with? That I’m safe? That I get the scraps after everybody’s had their piece? Will the world sleep with anyone else before me?”
He frowns, “No, never. You don’t get to think that about you.”
“I have loved you for eight years, Finn, and even you didn’t want me like that.”
“Look, Rey – what I’m trying to say is that the person who loves you becomes a different person to the one who hasn’t. It’s kind of like coming home.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, something she would’ve appreciated ten years ago. “There’s just no going back from that, and I wasn’t sure if I’m brave enough to be. I think, despite the fact that Solo has to work his ass off to deserve you, you quite belong together.”
A bitter chuckle rises out from her, “That’s the thing, isn’t it? When I started to know what it’s like to be his, I started to forget how it’s like to be anyone else.”
When it’s time to go, he gives her a warm hug and a kiss on her lips. She doesn’t know if she’s glad she’s gotten a form of closure, a layer of hurt to shred, or that she should be sad because it means there’s only one person she’d rather kiss for the rest of her life.
“See? It doesn’t matter anymore.”
The lights are off when she gets home, but she knows he’s awake.
It’s two in the morning, and although her steps are wobbly, she’s one hundred percent sober. She’s already vomited her whole stomach outside the building after her Uber dropped her off. BAC down to zero. Nada.
The cat trudges towards her, yawning but nonetheless a silly little thing who rubs its head on her calves. She picks it up and cuddles with it to the sofa, her head hitting the square pillow she’s brought from the move two years ago. It’s a bit worn out but still lovely, kind of like her (in a way).
She hears him coming out from their bedroom, his footsteps light but sure. She hugs the cat closer, burying her nose into its soft fur.
“Hey.” He crouches down in front of them, patting the orange head. It gives a little affectionate meow and licks his index finger. “Let’s get you to bed.”
She shakes her head, “Later, Ben.”
“You’re gonna fall asleep and you’ll get a crick in your neck tomorrow. Come on,” he tugs at her sleeves, “go to bed with me.”
“No.” Her eyes burn, her chin trembles. She hides her face into the crook of her arm so he won’t see. He does, anyway, even if the street lamps give very little light in the room.
He takes the cat from her and sets it down the carpet. “Are we okay, Rey?”
She takes a steadying breath. Her sweater feels wet. “Finn kissed me.”
A moment of silence. She dares one peek at him, his eyes somewhere on the fabric of the couch. He doesn’t say anything.
“It wasn’t like that.” She tells him anyway.
He looks at her and stands up, paces around the room. His fists clench and unclench, as if he’s feeling for something to hold on to. “I’ll kill him. I’ll fucking kill him.”
“Ben, look at me.” She sits up, grabs his wrist. “It wasn’t like that.”
“I can’t believe he kissed you –”
“It’s not – he didn’t mean it that way.”
“He fucking knows you’re married to me. And you, Rey – you would overthink this. You would analyze every look, every word he’s said. You’d pause every second and find underlying meaning in what he did –”
“I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t kiss him back.”
“And he did it because he knows you, too! He knows he’s got you wrapped around his fingers. And I would fucking pick up the pieces and cheer you up. I would be the one drinking with you, choosing your fucking Tinder hookups. You’re so fucking stubborn, Rey.” He’s fuming, and she’s never really seen him this mad before. “He’s got eight years of second chances, eight goddamn years of letting you fucking wallow in misery – and now, he kisses you?”
“You don’t have to be unkind.” She drops his hand.
“I’m unkind?” He hisses, “Maybe you’d chance a look at the mirror and see what you’re really doing –”
“I told you I didn’t kiss him back! Why are you getting so angry?”
“Because you agreed to marry me! And there are no take-backs. You married me,” he wipes his face with his palm; she doesn’t even notice he’s started crying too. “Not him.”
She nods, then repeats. “It wasn’t like that.”
He kneels in front of her, takes her hands in his. His voice cracks when he murmurs, “I don’t want to beg.”
A tear falls on her leggings, not her own. “I would never make you beg.”
He wraps his arms around her waist and buries his face in her lap. “But why do I feel like you’re going to leave me?”
She runs her fingers through his hair, “If I tell you I love you, will it be enough?”
He goes quiet. She releases a breath she’s holding and whispers. “You know, I realized something tonight – out of those years I’ve loved him, I was… satisfied with being a friend. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell him anything when I had the chance; why would I want to ruin something comfortable even though I know there’s no moving forward if I didn’t say anything? And I want to move forward, Ben.”
“Do you love me?” It’s as if he’s waiting for a rejection, that shoe to drop. The final shot.
But she’s so tired of letting things go, so done with being a coward. Life is supposed to hurt for good things to matter. She will move forward, and she wants them to do it together.
“I’m in love with you.”
He lets out a watery chuckle, grazes his thumb on the skin above the waistline of her underwear, “You’re the love of my life, Rey.”
“Rey.”
“What, Ben?”
“You’re in love me?”
“Go to sleep.”
“Come on. Say it one more time.”
“We’ll need to be up early tomorrow. Your mother hates it when the food gets cold.”
“Don’t cover your face with the blanket, I want to see you.”
“Shut up. Can’t believe you’re giving me a hard time! Stop giggling – it sounds awful on you.”
“No, it doesn’t. You’re in love with me. It should sound like bells ringing or whatever.”
“Go to sleep, or I swear to god – hey! Get off me. You’re heavy!”
“Not until you say it.”
“Fine.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m in love with you?”
“Are you asking me?”
“I’m in love with you.”
“You sure?”
“What. You won’t say it back?”
“I’m in love with you too.”
Year three.
Being in love with your husband isn’t really that complicated when he returns it back. It takes her a hell of a year and a few months of therapy to realize.
She is loved. She is okay. She doesn’t have to be alone in this.
She is beautiful. And strong. And he tells her everyday that she’s enough.
It’s been twelve years since they met, and her only regret might be that she didn’t love him earlier. And sure, if he propositioned her to be his rebound fuck all those years ago, she might’ve said yes. Like ninety-nine percent yes.
She’ll take this to the grave though.