Leave it to Brent to make this her fault. Just as it had been her fault that she hadn’t understood that when he said he wanted children later, he’d meant he didn’t want them—ever.
“I’ve never turned you away when you’ve asked for sex.”
“Who wants to have to ask?” His voice was quiet, his expression tired. “I want a woman who’s eager to be in my arms, Sara. One who enjoys my touch.”
“I enjoy it.”
“Sometimes,” he allowed. “And other times, you lie there and make the right moves and wait for it to be over.”
Didn’t every woman? When she was tired? Feeling taken for granted?
Is that how it had been for her the night of Ryan’s conception? Had she lain there, her thoughts and emotions separate from what they were doing to her body?
Sara shook her head, pulling her thoughts back from places she’d left behind long ago. She hadn’t considered that night for years. At least not for more than a second or two. Ryan’s visit was costing her greatly.
“If you were eager, Sara, you’d want to experiment.”
She stared at him, knowing she should speak up. Knowing there were things she needed to say. But she couldn’t bring them to mind, couldn’t focus. All she could do was hold back the tears.
“We’ve been married fifteen years. And in the same standard missionary position, with the same foreplay, for all of them. If you were doing more than your duty, feeling more, you’d need some variety, something to keep things fresh and new.”
“Why?” she suddenly spouted, not recognizing her own voice. “When apparently you’ve been getting fresh and new for years?”
His shoulders dropped more.
“I’m sorry,” she said, out of years of habit—and because she meant it. “That was beneath me.”
“Just think about what I’m saying for a minute,” Brent said, his voice soft, almost pleading, and Sara wondered if he actually wanted her blessing for his actions. Her approval. Maybe even a go-ahead to continue? “When’s the last time we made love?”
She tried to remember. Picturing them in bed. At night. On Sunday mornings. The last time they’d been in a hotel together.
“You can’t remember.”
Her mind scrambling, she stared at him.
“Can you?”
Sara shook her head.
“I can,” he surprised her by saying. “It was two months ago. On a Saturday morning. You’d had a bad dream and cuddled up behind me. I actually thought you were finally making a move on me and before I realized that you were still half asleep, I’d already gotten your attention and you finished what you’d inadvertently started.”
She remembered. Not the dream—that was long gone. But how she’d felt, needing comfort. Needing to be held. And having to have sex instead.
She’d taken comfort from the fact that making love was something that she and Brent shared that no one else had a part in; that it was something that he gave only to her, and she to him.
She hadn’t needed it often. But she’d valued the connection.
“How do I know you haven’t given me some kind of infection or disease?”
“I always use a condom,” he said, as if that made the fact that he’d been screwing his assistant while sleeping with Sara, too, okay.
It wasn’t. Right now it felt as if nothing would ever be okay again.
Finding it harder and harder to breathe, Sara considered her options. And she couldn’t find any.
“I’m filing for divorce.”
He set his cup down. “You can’t be serious.”
Maybe not. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough. But… “I am.” She waited for fear to make her take it back. To apologize. Or compromise. And it didn’t.
It sent fresh shards of panic through her, however, mingling with the despair. She couldn’t see beyond the hopelessness. But something inside her wouldn’t let her lie down, either.
She’d been a victim for such a long time. She just couldn’t do it anymore.
Brent sat forward, taking both her hands between his, holding them on her lap. “Don’t be ridiculous, Sara. We’re partners. We’re good together. We’ve built a great life.”
Drawing a strange kind of strength from the warmth of his hands, Sara listened to him. She recognized the words—they were the way she’d have described their relationship, too. A week ago.
“We’ve got a beautiful house,” she said slowly, as though waking from a deep sleep. “A healthy bank account. And a routine that works.”
When they weren’t eating out, she did the cooking. He did the dishes. She went to the grocery store and did the laundry; he looked after the cars and paid the bills. They took turns putting things back in place after the housekeeper had been in to clean. And they moved gracefully around each other in the bathroom every morning and night.
“Yes,” he said, sounding relieved.
And the things she’d been feeling since she’d found out about his adultery didn’t change at all. She might have been blind for a lot of years, but she wasn’t anymore.
“That’s an arrangement, not a relationship.”
“You’re just tired. Overwrought. I’m sorry you found out about Chloe, but this doesn’t change anything, Sara. Things are just as they were last week and the week before. You weren’t unhappy then.”
Wasn’t she? She hadn’t asked.
“You certainly weren’t thinking we needed to divorce.”
He was right. She’d never even considered the possibility. Despite the fact that she’d wanted children more than anything and he’d led her to believe he did, too, until it was too late for her to do much about it. Regardless of how unsexy he made her feel with his dissatisfaction.
Until two days ago, she’d been existing.
Her entire world had changed in the past forty-eight hours. She didn’t know how that could happen; how an inner self that had been complacent and exactly the same for more than twenty years could suddenly wear a completely different face. She just knew she wasn’t the same person she’d been when she’d run to answer the door two days before.
Funny how it seemed to be the unexpected instants in life that irrevocably changed things. Not the planned-for and worked-toward events.
“Are you going to stop seeing her?”
His hands dropped. So did his head. But when he looked up, she saw resolution in his eyes. “I will, if that’s what it takes to keep this together.”
What was “this,” exactly?
“For how long?”
Brent didn’t answer immediately. But she knew him well enough to know that he was attempting to be honest. “I can’t make any promises, Sara,” he finally said. “I’d like to tell you forever, but I just don’t know that. I guess it depends on how much you’re willing to do.”
“Me?”
“We could see a therapist. Work through your sexual issues and maybe…”
Sara stood, took her cup to the sink. “I’ve been through enough counseling sessions to write a book on the topic. Probably two,” she said. “I am what I am, Brent. A woman who doesn’t think sex is the be-all and end-all of life. I enjoy it when the timing is right. I can’t make the feelings come at random.”