Page 19 of Hotwife
A graveled chuckled left my throat. “Hotwife? What a stupid name. Sounds like a smutty novel I’d read late at night.”
“I sold you a lie, Dot. I promised to care for you, and what have I done? Sex was great the first couple years until…” He took another long draw of his smoke. “Then I dragged you out here. You pretend to like it, but I know you hate it. I don’t particularly like it here, either.”
I sighed. “We’ve done the best we can—”
“And now I think you should try this. If we’re committed to each other for the rest of our lives, what’s sex in the long run, hm? I have your heart, and I know that.”
My chest constricted with pain. I don’t know if it was his resignation or his acceptance of this alternative plan, but mixed together, they created an excruciating cocktail in my soul. My husband was impassive about me sleeping around. Not only unbothered by it, he wanted it.
“We’d have to agree to some stipulations, which we can go over later. But I think this settles it. It’s the best solution we’ve got.”
No, the best solution is you getting past this hang-up and having sex with me like you used to.
Maybe I should have said that out loud instead of only thinking it. Maybe I should have fought harder. If I had, everything would have been different. But instead, I watched an old couple walking their dog, arm in arm, and without even glancing up at my husband, I signed our marriage away.
“Okay.”
* * *
PRESENT
No one would call me a sentimental person. When I left my childhood home, I took nothing with me. My church dresses stood hovering in my closet. The shoebox under a floorboard remained loaded with makeup, a half-empty box of Marlboro Reds, and a Spice Girls CD. Odette’s face when I told her it was all hers now still made me giggle when I remembered it. But I didn’t care anymore. That Dorthea was gone. The church girl that had to hide who she was from her family couldn’t accompany me in my new life. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I was Dorthea Winslow now. Mrs. Cedric Winslow. My husband saw me for who I was and loved me. Our age-gap didn’t matter, though Odie was more skeptical than my mother once she found out. My father, of course, was livid.
My mother offered me my grandmother’s fine china as a wedding gift. I’d spent so much of my childhood memorizing the delicate pink flowery designs on the plates behind the glass of the antique display cabinet in our modest dining room. Daydreaming into the daisy petals was the only thing that kept me awake through hundreds of my father’s mandatory Bible studies around the table.
But even when she offered up every bowl, teacup, and salad plate, I declined.
Sentimentality wasn’t for me.
However, the smell of greasy, salty bacon and bitter coffee floating through the air before my eyes even opened? That was a feeling I wanted to hold close forever. I’d carry the feeling of Cedric making me breakfast into every home I ever walked into.
I was sentimental about that. That and the vintage gold ring he proposed with. It had belonged to his great grandmother. It looked like a flower. Ironically, it resembled the daisies on my mom’s china.
The sound of my husband clearing his throat from my doorway jostled me from my closed eyelid thoughts. With a stretch, I sat up, yawning. “Hey, you’re home,” I smiled, sleep rasping my voice.
Air touched my bare skin and I remembered I was topless. Before clutching a blanket, my eyes caught his dropping to my bare breasts. “Good morning, Dotty. Breakfast in bed?” He held out a tray and my stomach rumbled.
“Yes, please,” I nodded enthusiastically, crawling to the top of my bed and under the duvet, propping up pillows behind me. “Join me?”
Cedric hovered in the doorway, glancing lightly down to my breasts and then up to me. Thoughts flurried through his mind. Thoughts he wouldn’t share even if I asked. I knew that by now. He didn’t immediately say no, though, and I could work with that.
He walked to the foot of the bed and extended my tray to me, perching on the corner. Yanking up my duvet, I covered myself and positioned my breakfast over my lap. Like a barrier, a pen. Hey look, I won’t jump you, don’t worry.
My husband was like a wild animal I was fearful to spook.
“I suppose I can join you for a bit,” he smiled, walking around and sitting next to me. My gaze wandered to the darkening circles under his eyes. The wrinkles that were appearing beside his soulful blue stare. Not from age, though, from worry. My heart ached. Clutching my mug in my palms was the only thing keeping my hands from flying out to rub his jaw, to kiss him, to comfort him. A sip of sweet, foamy coffee warmed my throat.
“Best brew in Seattle,” I said appreciatively.
He chuckled. “High praise being we’re in one of the best places for coffee in the world. I need to take you to Paris again. Remember the espresso from that little cafe?”
I groaned, taking a bite of jellied toast. “How could I forget? Wait, I mean, yes, I’ve totally forgotten and you need to remind me immediately.”
He laughed again, his stressed edges softening, shoulders relaxing. A grin curved my lips in accomplishment. I loved soaking away some of his burden.
“I may need to promise you a European excursion to make up for what I’m about to tell you,” he said, giving a sideways glance.