Page 55 of So Thirsty

I’m quiet, waiting for some magical clarity. Do I bring up the woman, admit what I know, what I saw on that camera? Admit what I did last night, my own indiscretion? Or do I sweep it all under the rug? Does any of it really matter now?

“Sloane?”

“Thanks for the AirPods.”

“You’re welcome. Everything okay?”

Needing to fidget, my fingers stroke my neck. They find a silky patch of raised skin just below my ear. Where Henry stuck the spile in.

I’m tempted to say nothing. To keep the peace. It’s easier this way. So much easier to pretend. But here’s Naomi again, in my head. The choice was made for us.

“Joel. We have a doorbell camera.” I sound angry. Am angry. When did this happen? When did I wake this beast?

I get a flash of me beating the shit out of the skeleton man with a fire poker.

Where did she come from?

“What—what do you mean?” he asks.

“Denial? Really?”

“I’m not…I don’t…I—I…” he stutters. “What are you…”

“I saw a woman show up to our house Thursday night. Our house. My house. Hours after I left, after you sent me on this trip that you had the gall to pretend was a gift for me.”

“Sloane—”

“No, I get it. I’ve let a lot slide over the years because I genuinely didn’t want to know, didn’t want to deal with it. I think I checked out somewhere along the line. I know I’m not blameless in this situation, in our marriage. Which I used to tell myself was happy, despite the bullshit, but…it’s hollow. I’m hollow. And I’m…I think I’m done. Yeah. I’m done.”

“Sloane, slow down. I’ve made mistakes. I’m sorry. I am. But I love you. I’ve always loved you. I like our life. Our marriage…we can work on it.”

“Can we?”

“I can work on it,” he says, with such resolve. No one in his family has ever gotten a divorce. He has no divorced friends. Then there’s the issue of alimony. The house. That’s what he cares about, mostly, I bet. He doesn’t like hassle. To be fair, neither do I. “We should sit down and have a conversation when you get back and figure out a way forward. Together.”

I would have. And I would have been grateful, to go home and keep on pretending. To keep up the charade, to move through life as docile and unflinching as a rag doll until I died. Never feeling too much of anything. Thinking the emptiness was what I deserved.

But that’s no longer an option.

“I’m not coming back.”

“Sloane.”

I open the AirPods, pop one out of the packaging, twirl it between my fingers.

“Sloane? Please. I’m sorry. You know I am.”

“Are you?” I ask. “If you’re so sorry, why is this the third time? That I know of.”

“I—I’ve made some bad decisions. I don’t know why I…I don’t want to lose you. I just…I have these…urges. These needs.” It’s very evident that he wasn’t prepared to have this conversation. To explain himself. I can’t blame only him for that. “I’ve tried to figure out how to communicate them to you. My needs. I just…I don’t know.”

What I think he’s saying is, I didn’t fuck him enough. I wasn’t wild enough. Could be true. Could be that those of us who are ashamed of our needs inevitably become slaves to them.

He was too ashamed to ask me for more, and I, a reformed slut, was too ashamed to give it to him. Or maybe I just never loved him enough. He stirred such little want in me, and I thought it was my fault, that I was incapable. Until last night.

“Needs,” I repeat.

“Yeah. And then—then I go and do things, and then I regret it and then I do it again. Maybe it’s because of my dad. I just—it just happens.”