And so I nuzzle him back and, flushed with victory, he scoops me up in his arms and grandly carries me upstairs. It all feels a bit forced, a bit too much, but I make myself go along with it, laughing and putting my arms around his neck as he lumbers up the stairs.
In the bedroom, we shed clothes quickly—the mundane details of this sexy morning—and then slip under the covers. Nick draws me towards him, and after ten days of sleeping in the guest room with Dylan, the bump and slide of flesh on flesh shocks me. But it does feel good to have Nick’s naked body next to mine, to remember how we fit, how we work. We need this, even if my heart hasn’t been in it. I pull him closer, determined to make up for my lack of feeling. In any case, I don’t think Nick notices.
Afterwards, he rolls onto his back and lets out a deep, satisfied sigh, before he checks his watch and makes a clucking noise, like he needs to get going.
“You haven’t asked how Dylan got on at school,” I say before I can stop myself.
Nick rolls out of bed and reaches for his boxers. “How did he?”
“I’m not sure I even know. I left quickly. It seemed as if they wanted me to.”
“Okay, then,” Nick says, as if that proves he didn’t actually need to ask, and maybe he didn’t. I feel as if I’ve been trying to pick a fight, but I don’t want to. I just want him to care.
“So back to work?” I say, trying for a light tone.
“I’ve got a meeting at eleven.”
“Wow, this was a quick one.”
He flashes me a quick smile. “But definitely worth it.” He leans over and kisses me, and I close my eyes, wanting to savor it. “Love you.”
“I love you, too.” No matter what tensions have been between us lately, I mean it.
“See you tonight. Text me when you pick up Dylan and let me know how his day went.”
“I will.” I stay in bed as I hear Nick jog down the stairs and then the front door close. This wasn’t how I planned my morning at all, but now that I’m in bed I feel like I could just curl up and go to sleep. I’m tempted to do just that, but necessity compels me to get up.
I take a quick shower and dress again, and then, not ready to face work, I decide to do some housework. I have, strangely enough, always enjoyed cleaning—the satisfaction of seeing the results, of putting some elbow grease into something and making it shine. I blitz the downstairs with cleaning spray and then vacuum, and then I decide to brave the pit of despair that is Josh’s room.
Once upon a time it was a cute, boyish bedroom with a solar system theme, a wicker basket full of Legos, and framed pictures that Josh had drawn in elementary school. When Josh started junior high, sports trophies—the kind all the kids got—decorated the top of the dresser.
At some point—four or five years ago—all that went into a storage bin and was replaced by a plain black duvet, a black varnished desk from IKEA, and a laptop. Josh’s baseball and cross-country trophies are in Nick’s study. I think he’s prouder of them than Josh is.
Now I open the door, take a deep breath, and step inside. The curtains are drawn, the duvet a rumpled lump on the bed, clothes in dirty heaps on the floor. The room holds a stale, sweaty smell of unwashed clothes and cheap deodorant. I push the curtains open and crack the window, grateful for the cold, fresh breeze that blows over me.
First, I strip the bed, bundling the sheets into the laundry basket I’ve brought with me. Then I quickly spray the dresser and desktop with furniture polish and wipe them down. Lastly, I start sorting through the piles of clothes on the floor to try to determine which are actually dirty and which are clean but never made it into the drawers. It requires the unenviable sniff test, and I wince every time I get it wrong, before hurling the offending item into the laundry basket.
I am refolding the clean clothes and putting them in the drawers, thinking about how I need to get started on my own work, when I feel something lumpy and solid underneath Josh’s boxers.