Method

“Make sure it doesn’t, or I’ll find someone else to take a percentage to fucking translate.” I end the call and continue rowing. I can’t bring myself to look at my wife. I’m pissed, and I just want to stay that way. Somewhere between answering my phone five days ago and this moment, my confidence has been shaken in a way I can’t grasp, and I don’t want her to see.

“You’re not ready,” Mila whispers behind me.

“I’m not going to just sit in the house and wait for the egg to crack.”

“Then let’s go somewhere,” she pleads. “Anywhere.”

“I want to work.”

She circles me to stand in my line of vision. Every time I see this woman, the epiphany strikes much like the first time I saw her. For me, she is the very look and definition of love. There’s nothing I should be afraid to tell her, she’s fully aware of my insecurities because she worked hard to unveil them and embrace them. I knew she was the one mere hours after I laid eyes on her.

My anger is overshadowing all of these facts as I gaze up at her astoundingly beautiful form. From her polished toes, her lithe frame, to bee-stung lips and almond-shaped gray eyes, she’s unbelievable. My anger doesn’t change my desire for her. I know I’m hurting her with my silence. We’ve never felt this far apart when I wasn’t on the job. Not for a single day in the last five years we’ve been married, and I can’t bring myself to try and fix it. I stop my rowing, exhausted as she kneels next to me, her chalk-white sundress flaring around her knees. She looks over at me through rain-cloud-colored eyes and thick black lashes, her lips still a bit swollen from all the unearned punishment I’ve been doling out. Most would consider our relationship a bit co-dependent, and they would be exactly fucking right. We don’t do much of anything without the other. We don’t need space to be individuals, because we’re the better version of ourselves when we’re together, at least I am. But when I got that call, something I didn’t know was thinning in me snapped, and I can’t figure out where it came from or how to tie it back together. I’m exhausted on a level I’m unfamiliar with, and I just want to get past it.

“Tell me what you need,” she says, running fingers through my sweat-soaked hair. “You’re pushing too hard.”

“So are you,” I let out gruffly, while contradictorily sinking into her touch.

She ignores my snark. “You’re restless.”

I pull her to me, dousing her clean cotton dress with the filthy aftermath of my workout.

Her eyes widen when she detects the evidence of my growing erection. I’ve been fucking her every few hours for the last couple of days. Maybe it’s a way of coping, but it’s also invigorating. Every time I’m inside my wife, I feel better, stronger, and worshipped, even if it’s short-lived. I am loved by her in a way no other woman could ever master. Mila is the answer, my answer. I’m lucky. Blake never found his. But this problem she can’t solve. This sin she can’t absolve me of. I’m guilty in a way I can’t be redeemed, and there’s no coming back. There’s no way to make it up to him.

I get to be happy. I get the career, I get to live. And the man I loved as a brother will never meet my future son or daughter because his instincts failed him. Life had disappointed him to the point he severed ties with it.

“What are you thinking?” she asks, looking down at me with a soft gaze.

“Baby. I want one.”

She shakes her head allowing me to soil her before pulling me closer. “We can talk about this in a few months.”

I kiss the skin of

her throat as she wraps her long legs around me.

“You aren’t well, my love.”

“I’m fine. Stop it. He’ll still be dead in a few months.”

“Maybe so, but I want you to remember all of it.”

I jerk my head back and look up at her. “What?”

She pauses, eyeing me cautiously. “Thanksgiving, last year. How did we spend it?”

I wrack my brain but can’t come up with anything.

“I don’t remember.”

“Exactly.” She pulls away and stands to linger above me.

“We weren’t home?” Confused, I look up at her for an answer.

She slowly shakes her head. “You were working on Erosion.”

“Oh,” I say. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, you couldn’t repeat a word I said that whole damned two months you were shooting. This is a prime example of why I want to wait. You don’t even remember where we were. You barely came home at Christmas.”