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It’s fine if she doesn’t want to have sex—that’s not what’s eating at me. She seems distant and cagey and I want to figure out why. Maybe I’m using the gray pants as bait, but I’m going to get answers one way or the other.
When I get to the kitchen, she’s at the stove mixing pasta and a light green sauce and plating it up. “Smells good,” I lie and cozy up to her back, placing my hands on her hips and kissing her neck.
“Oh,” she says shakily, almost like she’s nervous. “Yeah, this sounded good. I’m just,” she huffs and squirms from my touch again. “Sorry, I’m just not in the mood. I’m starving. Let’s just eat,” she smiles and takes both plates to the dining table with silverware.
She walks away, and I slowly follow and pull out her chair. “I thought you said watching me play rugby turned you on?”
Setting the plates at our spots but not looking at me, she says, “Did I? Oh. So how’s work going? You never talk about it. Is Cora a good boss?” She’s obviously trying to change the subject, so I let her. If something is really going on, she’ll tell me when she’s ready.
After she takes her first bite, I take mine and nearly choke, but I try to hide it. She’s already having a third bite when I ask, “This is great. What’s in this?”
“It’s linguine with alfredo and pesto mixed together. I added some vinegar. I think it really adds that umami flavor, you know?”
It adds something alright, I think to myself. Her tastes have been out of control lately, but I’m not going to say a word. She’s carrying my children and I won’t make her feel weird for liking what she likes. She’s still mad about the ghost pepper salsa.
So I eat it—every bite—and tell her about how much I love my job and working for Cora. How the company has turned a new leaf and how much I’m trying to prove myself.
When she goes back for seconds, I take the opportunity to clean everything up and make some Old Bay-dusted popcorn. Because tonight is trash TV night and it’s our tradition. She seems on board with our routine, and when I hand her the bowl, she takes it with a real smile and makes her way to the living room to turn on Million Dollar Listing.
Finishing up, I press start on the dishwasher and head for the couch where she’s already sitting with her feet up on the cushioned ottoman and Razz perched behind her. She’s changed into one of her loose-fitting maternity nightgowns. It’s pretty on her. It’s short sleeve and medieval-looking. Reminds me of that time we played the duke and tavern wench, and I chuckle to myself at the fond memory.
Taking my place next to her, we comfortably watch and banter back and forth about the stars of the show and their methods of selling high-end real estate in Los Angeles. When the popcorn runs out, I set the bowl on the side table and lean over to place my head in her lap like I’ve done for years. Except the softness and warmth I expect is stiff and jerky.
She nudges my shoulder. “Can you get off me please? You’re just…really warm and it’s too much.”
“Oh, sure.” I sit up right away because I know how overstimulated she can get lately. Just the way a fabric will rub can send her senses on high alert and her heart rate skyrocketing.
So we just sit there. We’re a couple feet away from each other, and even though we’re on a plush, oversized couch, I’m uncomfortable.
What is going on with me?
When the commercials run, a steamy movie trailer plays for some action-romance that I think she might be interested in. Hell, I’m interested in it based on the way my groin perks up. But when I side glance at Angie, she’s looking anywhere but the TV. Her throat swallows on nothing and she’s fidgeting with a seam on her nightgown.
I’m about to ask her if she’d like to see the movie, but she bolts up. “I’m tired,” she says, then makes her way to the stairs. “I’m going to bed.”
Shutting the TV off, I follow her. “Okay. We can go to bed now if you want.”
She spins on her heel and puts up a hand to stop me from coming closer. “No,” she spits out with eyes round. “I want to sleep in my own bed tonight.” I study her. “Alone please,” she adds.
Now I’m really worried. I thought what we’ve been doing has been working out great. I've grown accustomed to her bed and our bodies tangled in it. I thought she liked it, too. I thought she wanted it.
She has the right to sleep alone if she wants to, my conscience reminds me. But this distance between us today has me on-edge.
I force myself to stay planted where I am as I watch her ascend the stairs again without a look back. She gives me a perfunctory “Good night,” and then the latch to her door clicks.
I stand there dazed and replaying everything that has happened since we got home. Because that’s when it all changed. But what exactly is it? What changed? I can’t pinpoint any one thing. Something is off between us and it’s making my skin crawl.
In a swirl of distress, I shoot upstairs with feather-light steps and lean against the door frame. When I make out the sound of her crying, every nerve in my body electrifies, and I can’t stop myself from knocking. “Angel, what’s going on? Can you talk to me?”
Immediately her crying stops and her throat clears. “I’m fine, Raf. I just need some space.”
“You’re not fine—”
“Raf,” she bellows. “I swear to god, if you don’t leave me alone, I’m going to castrate you!”
Taking the not-so-subtle hint, I back off. “Okay. Fair enough. Goodnight, Ang.” Maybe this is a mood swing. I’ve read numerous pregnancy articles and blogs about this very thing. She’s probably just been out in the sun all day and she’s tired. If she wants space, I can give that to her. I’m here for her no matter what she needs, I remind myself.
As I step away from her door, I hear music play. Lingering a moment longer, I recognize it as Fancy by Iggy Azalea and I try to put together the most impossible puzzle in my mind.
