Page 20 of Never Enough

His arm tightens around my middle, and that’s when I register the hard pipe pressed against my backside. Clearly, the impetus of my dream.

Sleeping Henry is completely unaware that two minutes ago, dream-him had his hand under my shirt and his teeth on my ear and was making sounds that are now permanently etched in a part of my brain I will never be able to access in polite company again.

His breathing is deep and even. The slow, rhythmic cadence of genuine sleep—not the performative version we were both doing when we first came to bed.

Meanwhile, my body still thrums with need. I swear I can still feel the phantom pressure of his mouth on my neck like a sunburn.

I need to leave.

I need to leave this bed, this room, this house, possibly this county.

I need to be somewhere that doesn't smell like Henry. Somewhere, I’m not tempted to lift his hand further beneath my shirt so he’ll touch my breast. Somewhere, I can’t roll my body over to straddle that erection and rub myself against it until my needy ache is sated.

I need to go to work.

Thank God. Thank God I have a job that requires me to be vertical and functioning at four in the morning. Thank God for yeast and flour and commercial ovens and the merciless, indifferent demands of sourdough starters that don't care if you're in the middle of a sexual crisis brought on by your fake husband's sleeping hand on your bare skin. The bread doesn't care. The bread needs to proof. The bread is the most emotionally uncomplicated relationship in my life right now, and I am going to go have a very productive morning with it.

Carefully, I lift his hand. His fingers are heavy with sleep. Warm. Slightly callused at the pads, exactly what you'd expect from a man who's spent fifteen years working a ranch with his hands. I hold his wrist for one second too long. Feel his pulse. Slow and steady beneath my thumb.

I set his hand on the mattress. Gently. He makes a sound. Just a low, unconscious murmur. His brow creases. His hand flexes once against the empty sheet, but then he settles.

I slide out of the bed like I'm escaping a crime scene. Feet on the hardwood—cool, grounding, the opposite of everything happening inside my body. I stand there in the dark for a three-count, making sure he doesn't wake, making sure the mattress doesn't betray me with a creak or a shift.

He sleeps on.

One arm still extended across my side of the bed. Face half-pressed into the pillow. Hair wrecked. T-shirt rucked up just enough to expose a strip of abdomen above his shorts that I look at for exactly one second and then forcefully redirect my gaze to the ceiling fan.

The ceiling fan is my friend. The ceiling fan is a safe space. The ceiling fan has never made me feel anything inappropriate.

I grab my phone from the nightstand. 3:47 a.m. Thirteen minutes before my alarm. Normally, I’d roll over and relish those extra minutes.

Today, though, I quickly gather my clothes in the dark. Jeans and a t-shirt. The early-morning bakery uniform for comfort and functionality. I take everything to the bathroom, close the door with a soft click, and get dressed, avoiding my own reflection because I already know what I'll see: flushed cheeks, pupils blown, the unmistakable face of a woman who just had the best sex of her life even though nothing actually happened.

I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I pull my hair back into a ponytail because I don’t have the patience right now to do my usual braids.

When I ease back through the bedroom, he's rolled onto his stomach. Both arms now occupy the full width of the mattress, like his body expanded to fill the space I vacated. The quilt—his grandmother's quilt, tumbling blocks, blue and gray—has slipped to one side, and his breathing has shifted into something deeper.

I don't look at the naked expanse of his back when I leave.

chapter

eight

Henry

The next couple of days pass by in a bit of a blur. I have to send my sister, Kelsie, flowers for keeping the secret from her. Then I have to send my sister, Addison, flowers because I sent some to Kelsie. My mother is avoiding me. Oliver keeps texting me about our grandparents’ caregiver, whom he thinks is ‘sketchy.’

My wife is sleeping in the guest room, and my dog has even abandoned me for her. I keep counting on everything changing once we make our big announcement at my grandparents’ anniversary party.

I hope everything changes then. I know that I need to come clean to Gracie. Tell her how I feel, how I’ve always felt, but I guess I’ve been waiting for her to not be annoyed with me.

I don’t know. Everything between us changed after the night she told me she loved me. Gone was our playful banter and camaraderie. In its place was politeness and avoiding eye contact.

I’ve missed her all these years.

chapter

nine