I’m reaching for the button on his pants when Josh bangs on the locked sliding glass door off of the kitchen; I can see him out of the corner of my eye. At the same exact time the doorbell rings. It’s Jordan. I know this by the ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong that reaches the kitchen and will continue until someone goes to the front door. Why don’t they ever use the same entrance? Thankfully, Chris shut the garage when he got home, otherwise they would have burst into the kitchen and caught us in flagrante delicto. The timer for the pasta goes off and the telephone rings, because apparently there’s not enough going on.

Chris groans in frustration and I want time to stand still, because Chris and I desperately need to finish what we’ve started. But instead I remove Chris’s hand, jump off the counter, and quickly zip my jeans and button my shirt, leaving my bra unhooked, focusing only on covering up my nakedness so my children won’t be traumatized. Chris opens the back door for Josh and I go to the front. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong.

“Stop ringing the doorbell,” I say when I unlock the door and fling it open.

“Hi, Mommy,” Jordan says. “Whatcha doin’?”

I step aside so she can come in. “Nothing,” I say. “Just making dinner. Go wash up.”

I turn off the stove, drain the pasta, and combine it with the marinara, then dash into the bathroom to fasten my bra and button my jeans. When I come out, Chris is standing there with rumpled hair and a smile on his face.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“You don’t even know how much,” he says.

I set the salad and pasta on the table and Chris and I transition into parenting mode. Jordan wants butter on her pasta, and a sprinkling of parmesan. “I don’t like Grandma Canton’s sauce. It’s too spicy,” she says.

“It’s not spicy at all,” I say. But Jordan thinks everything is spicy, and I knew this was coming, which is why I scooped some of the pasta into a separate bowl before I added the sauce. I decide this battle is not worth fighting and grab the butter and cheese.

Josh informs us he’s not eating any salad. “I only like ranch,” he says. He points to the bottle of Italian dressing. “I don’t like that kind.”

I get up and grab a new bottle of ranch from the cupboard and hand it to him.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says. Harmony restored. “How come you’re home so early, Dad?” Josh asks.

“I took an earlier flight. I missed you guys,” Chris says, reaching over to ruffle Josh’s hair. “Tell me about what’s going on at school.”

They take turns regaling Chris with their accomplishments and he splits his attention equally between them. At the end of the meal, when he asks them to help clear the table, they do his bidding eagerly, fighting over who gets to carry more dishes to the sink.

I send them off to play while I clean up the kitchen. A thought occurs to me when I’m loading the dishwasher, and I wipe my hands on a towel and open the cupboard. No matter how much I move things around, no matter how hard I search, I can’t find Chris’s bottle of antidepressants. I’d bet money that I will not be able to find the other bottle, the one he keeps in his suitcase, either.

At eight we give the kids a five-minute warning. We can perform this bedtime routine in our sleep: pajamas, brushing teeth, reading, and tucking in. Tonight, Chris takes Jordan and I take Josh. We field requests for one more kiss, a drink of water. Finally, we turn off their bedroom lights and reconvene downstairs.

“Goddamn it,” Chris yells. He’s gone into our home office to check his e-mail one last time.

I pop my head in. “What’s wrong?”

“Jim needs my reports. The ones I didn’t finish because I caught the earlier flight.” Chris exhales in frustration and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He said he didn’t need them until Monday, so I didn’t work on them on the plane. For once, I didn’t want to work on the plane.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll wait for you.”

Chris gets out of his chair and walks around to the front of the desk, where I’m standing. “I’ll be up as soon as I can. I promise. Give me one hour, two at the most.” He pulls me toward him and puts his arms around me. The kiss he places on my lips is tender and my joy knows no bounds because I feel as if my husband is finally trying to make his way back to me.

61

chris

My hatred of Jim grows every day. I have no doubt that asking for the reports is some kind of power play designed to make him feel as though he has the upper hand. He’s been extra difficult since I took that time off after Claire got out of the hospital.

I power up my laptop and open my spreadsheet, working as fast as I can. But then it hits me. If Claire is upstairs waiting for me, why the hell am I down here? Shouldn’t Jim be the one who has to wait? Hasn’t Claire waited long enough? I slam the lid of my laptop shut and take the stairs two at a time.

She’s lying in bed reading a book and she looks up when I open the door. “That was fast,” she says, smiling. “Are you done already?”

“No. I’ll work later.” I lock the door to ensure there are no interruptions. She’s wearing lingerie—I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s the kind I like: short, black, and low-cut, with thin straps. I strip off my shirt and unbutton my jeans as I walk toward the bed.

When I reach her I take the book out of her hands and lay it on the nightstand. I kick off my jeans and ease in next to her, leaning over to move one of the thin straps aside. I kiss her collarbone and work my way up her neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume.

“You smell so good,” I say.

She places her hands on my chest and runs her fingers lightly over my skin, leaving sparks trailing in their wake. Claire has always been able to turn me on with a touch of her hand and tonight is no exception. The first kiss I place on her lips is gentle, but when she opens her mouth to me I deepen it, taking my time. Gone is the frantic feeling of earlier today, because this time I’m not stopping until we’re done.

I grab the hem of her nightgown and pull the whole thing over her head. The site of Claire stripped down to her lacy black underwear almost sends me over the edge. I have no intention of turning off the lamp because I want to see every bit of this. She sighs when I rub her nipples. They harden instantly and I groan, loving the way they feel under my fingertips. I replace my fingers with my mouth and circle each nipple with my tongue. When I start to suck, Claire runs her hands through my hair and tells me how good it feels.

I kiss my way down, past her stomach. Kneeling between her legs, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down and throwing them on the floor. I look at her—laid out before me—and wonder how I was able to stand not being with her for so long.

I put my hand between her legs and stroke her. Her eyes are half lidded and her lips are parted as she draws in increasingly ragged breaths. I love watching Claire when she’s turned on, and all of her inhibitions are gone. I push her legs farther apart and use my mouth and my tongue. When I told her I’d forgotten what she tastes like, this is what I really meant.

Claire moans softly and repeatedly, and that’s a sound I love hearing her make. Always have. I can tell she’s close, very close, so I keep stroking and licking and I don’t stop until she comes.

When the aftershocks have subsided she pulls me up toward her and removes my boxer shorts. I’m dying for Claire to touch me, but I’d rather be inside of her, so I roll onto my back and pull her on top of me. She straddles me and guides me inside. We rock together and it feels incredible, and when I come I say her name over and over. I’m still inside her when she stretches out on top of me. I wrap my arms around her and we lay still, catching our breath.