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“You’re fucking frigid,” he yells. “And I’m sick and tired of having to live with someone who makes me feel like a freak because I don’t just want to have sex in missionary with the lights out.”
I don’t respond. Anything I say will only make this worse.
He waits for me to speak, his jaw working with fury and resentment. When he realizes I’m not going to take the bait, he picks up his phone. “I’ll sleep in the spare room,” he states. “I guess it’s what you think I deserve.” He walks out, closing the door a little too loudly.
I sink onto the bed and let out a big breath. I feel as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. The rich dessert has mixed with the wine, and I feel a bit sick. I take deep breaths, fighting against the despair that threatens to overwhelm me.
When the sickness subsides, I turn to sit back against the headboard and pull the duvet up close around me. My eyes prick with tears, and it’s hard to swallow.
I think about Cam in the spare bedroom. This has happened often enough that I know this won’t end until I instigate it. Usually, after a while, I get up, go into his room, slide beneath the duvet, and cuddle up to him. He’d be stiff and resentful for a while, but if I were to say I’m sorry and nuzzle up to him, eventually he’d let himself be talked around. Normally I do it because I hate atmospheres, and I want things to be better.
Tonight, I stay where I am. Fuck him.
It’s an easy thing to think, but I’m shaking. We’ve had arguments a lot worse than this, but for some reason I feel more upset than angry, like I normally do.
I know that arguments are necessary in relationships. They rebalance the power dynamic when one person is taking advantage of the other, and they usually clear the air, even if they’re horrible at the time. But tonight it doesn’t feel like that. It feels as if what we had is fragmenting, tearing apart at the seams.
I’ve tried so hard to make it work. And I know he’s right—he’s not a freak, and lots of people experiment in their sex lives. Why can’t I do what he wants?
You shouldn’t have to change yourself to please him, or do things you don’t want to do.
Oh, Henry…
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. I glance at it, and my heart skips a beat as I see a green banner that tells me I have a text waiting. From Henry.
Heart racing, I open it. It says just two words, You okay?
I press the fingers of my left hand to my lips as I reply with my right. Not really. Why did you message me?
Henry: I’m worried about you. Has something happened?
Me: We’ve just had an argument. He’s gone into the spare room.
I hope he doesn’t gloat or sound smug. I couldn’t bear that right now.
Henry: Ah, I’m so sorry.
Tears blur my eyes, then tip over my lashes. I brush them away as I reply.
Me: It was horrible.
Henry: Arguments always are.
Me: He knows right where to slide the knife.
Me: Not literally btw.
Henry: I should hope not. And of course he does. That’s what happens when you’re with someone for a long time.
Me: Do you think it always has to be like that?
Henry: No. I think if you truly love someone, even in an argument, you choose not to breach their defenses.
I lean back tiredly, sliding down the pillows a little. I shouldn’t be texting him. Communicating with Henry is cheating on Cam, no matter what form the communication takes. But right now I don’t care. I’m hurting, and he makes me feel better.
Henry: Do you want to talk about it?
Me: It was the usual stuff. He accused me of being vanilla. He said I make him feel like a freak because I only want to have sex in missionary with the lights out.
