“Fe . . .” He said it like a plea.
“I miss you.”
He gripped my wrist before I could move it lower, guessing my intentions correctly. I didn’t want to talk, not yet. Maybe later.
. . . maybe not.
“I miss the sound of your heartbeat,” I continued, because I did. I missed it. I craved it.
“You must stop,” he growled and groaned.
“Why?”
“Because I am worried. You cannot fathom how much I need you.”
“That sounds like a reason not to stop.”
His hold tightened as I halfheartedly tried to pull out of his grip.
He ignored me, instead clearing his throat and changing the subject. “You know I’m not one of those weird bastards that fixates on my partner’s eating habits, but I can’t help noticing you’re not eating at all. You’ve lost nearly a stone.”
“Remind me, how much is a stone? In pounds?”
“Fourteen pounds.”
“Hmm . . .”
“Hmm . . .” he mimicked, threading our fingers together and bringing our joined hands behind my back.
I hadn’t lost fourteen pounds. It was more like eleven pounds. And the reasons were simple: nothing tasted good and I was busy.
“What’s going on, Fe?”
I shrugged, lowering my eyes to his lips. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Things are . . . busy.”
“So busy you’re not eating? What can I do to help?”
Staring at his lips, my first thought was, kiss me.
My second thought was, touch me.
And my third thought was, hire me a nanny, chef, and housekeeper. . . and never leave me again.
I didn’t give voice to any of these thoughts. I was enjoying his nearness too much. The resultant combined warmth of our bodies wrapped around my limbs, heart, and mind, thawing the frigidity of loneliness.
While he was gone the bed was cold. Even in the summer, I would bring hot water bottles—three of them—into bed with me. I’d knitted them cozies. In a state of mild drunkenness one night, I’d sprayed the knitted cozies with his cologne.
Even though we were married, I had to admit the wool cozies that smelled like Greg were a little weird. I hadn’t told him about their existence. I wondered what, if anything, he did to battle the solitude.
“Momma?” Grace’s sad little voice pierced the blanket of warm silence that had fallen between us.
I lifted my head and waited. When she called out again, my head dropped back to the pillow and I sighed.
“I’ll get her.” Greg was already rolling away.
“She’s been having nightmares. I think she’s growing.”
He pulled on his boxers and grabbed his pajamas. “You think she’s having nightmares because she’s growing?”
“Yes.” I snuggled deeper into the bed, my hand gripping the sheet where he’d been laying, wishing I could grab and hold and keep the residual warmth of his body. “She gets emotional when she’s growing—temper tantrums, crying, nightmares—I think it’s low blood sugar. Give her a banana.”
“I got it.” Pajamas in place, Greg leaned forward and kissed my forehead. “Stay here and sleep. I’ll get the kids in the morning and keep them home from school.”
“No school today. It’s Saturday.” I stretched and yawned, thankful it was the weekend. Jack and Grace would go crazy if they thought Greg was at home without them. I reached for his pillow and hugged it.
Greg loitered at the edge of the bed, hesitating like he wanted to say something else. I stared at his greyish outline, blinking tiredly.
“Momma!” Grace’s urgent voice was closer than before. She must’ve left her bed.
“It’s good to be home,” he said finally. Reaching forward again, he cupped my cheek and brushed his thumb across my lips. “It’s good to touch you.”
Then he turned, pushing his fingers through his hair, and left the room. He closed the door with quiet carefulness. I pressed my face into his pillow and inhaled, because the weird wool cozies were paltry imposters in comparison to the lingering scent of him on his pillow.
I woke to the sound of the front door slamming, followed by Greg’s voice urging in a harsh whisper, “What did I tell you about slamming the door? Your mother needs her sleep cycles, otherwise she’ll keep malfunctioning and we’ll have to take her to the mechanic again.”
“Dad, Mommy is not a robot.” Jack sounded reluctantly amused.
“I never said she was a robot. I said she’s one-quarter robot. And as I’ve told you a hundred times, you’re one-sixteenth robot—why do you think you’re so good at math?”
“Dad . . .”