will step up and help out with the social aspects of our life.
It isn’t too much to ask, but it’s suffocating at times. Everything had been so different before we got married. So different on the honeymoon. He was relaxed. He joked. We spent hours exploring each other in bed.
But then we came back, and he became a different person.
For the past few months, I swore he didn’t know me for who I really am, but when looking at the entire picture, it can be said that I don’t really know him all that well either.
How do you go three years dating a person without learning who they are? I don’t understand it. But I’m living with it now.
Oddly, though, I slept well after talking to him. The usual anger and hurt I feel wasn’t there. My thoughts had drifted off into the hobbies I used to love.
I’m excited for once.
I spend the morning pulling my camera out from the closet where it has sat unused since the day I moved into the new house. Flipping open the heavy latches of the case causes my heartbeat to jump. Opening the lid makes me feel like a small child at Christmas. Pulling the camera itself from the foam padding eases the tension in my shoulders for the first time in months.
Brushing my finger over the shutter button, I power on the camera and pull off the lens cap. Looking through the viewfinder, I grin to be reminded how much I’d once loved this.
After snapping off a few shots of the inside of my closet, I forget about all the wife chores I have to do, my focus completely locked on finally photographing the mausoleum.
And Ari.
I can’t forget him.
Just the thought of seeing him again makes me nervous, my thumb moving to my wedding ring as if that alone can protect me from feeling what I shouldn’t be feeling.
Interest.
Curiosity.
Heat.
And longing. That’s the worst feeling. A very wrong feeling. I’m a married woman. I shouldn’t be thinking this way about another man.
“What exactly are you doing, Adeline?”
I jump at Grant’s voice, feeling like a kid caught doing something I shouldn’t. Setting my camera down, I turn to look up at him, shrinking back when I see his green eyes narrow on the equipment spread around me.
“What is this?”
His brown hair is a mess around his face, lines marring the normally smooth skin. Dark stubble shadows his jaw, his white dress shirt wrinkled and untucked from his slate grey pants.
Feeling guilty for the stress obvious in his shoulders and tired expression, I climb to my feet and stand in front of him.
“You look exhausted.”
Grant is a good-looking man. Tall, broad, in shape. He’s more lean than muscular, a runner’s body he earned running several miles every morning. He isn’t just strict with the people around him, he’s strict with himself as well.
Running a hand through his hair, he glances down at my camera again before turning away to walk toward our bed.
“Of course, I’m exhausted. I can’t sleep at home without my wife screaming and beating the shit out of me.”
With his back to me, he unbuttons his shirt, the fabric peeling away from his shoulders and down his arms. Dropping it on the bed, he turns back.
“And you refuse to do anything about it. A bit selfish, don’t you think?”
The tension returns, my spine locking in place. “We have guest rooms.”
“And I’m supposed to sleep in a fucking guest bedroom in my own fucking home?” he roars, the volume of his voice knocking me back.
No. We can’t be fighting like this. Not yet. We haven’t even been married for a year. He’s just grumpy when tired. Work has been busy. I’m having my issues. I can fix this.
Maybe it’s selfish of me to refuse the pills, but they’re a quick fix and nothing else. The doctor told me there were other ways. It would just take time.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, I step up to him, placing my palms on his chest. His heartbeat is so strong, I can count every pulse, can see the rapid pace of it in his throat.
“The doctor said there is behavioral therapy I can try. Other types of medications that aren’t addictive.”
His eyes pin mine, not a drop of mercy in them. “That’ll take months I don’t have.”
I run my palms up his chest to grab his shoulders. “I can sleep in the guest room until the symptoms calm down again.”
His anger boils over,