Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ozzy
I didn’t mean to screw the life out of Maren, but she started it in the garage. All the close calls, teasing, dreaming, and anticipating didn’t disappoint. Did she leave thinking I couldn’t keep my dick out of her? The answer has to be yes.
For the record, there were so many times when I did control my urges.
But now, sitting in Brynn’s cream glider, alone in the living room with nothing but time and silence, a tsunami of guilt overtakes me, and I think of my wife.
Is it too soon? A decade after my uncle lost his wife, he still couldn’t say her name without getting choked up, let alone think of another woman. It’s taken me two years to feel ready again. But not just ready; I tried to screw someone else against every surface of the house my wife once lived in. What is wrong with me?
With my hands resting on the arms of the chair, fingers lightly drumming, I glide back and forth. The wind chime by the front door sings its gentle tune, and the kitchen still smells like burnt toaster waffles from the first one that got away from me.
When I close my eyes, I see Brynn moseying toward me in her short satin robe with tiny pink and yellow flowers.
“You’re in my chair.” With a grin, she gathered her curly blond hair and pulled it over one shoulder before sitting on my lap. She smelled like oranges and vanilla.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, buried my nose in her hair, and nuzzled my way to the back of her neck. When I playfully bit it, she jumped and giggled. My hand snaked between the gap in her robe, and she batted it away.
I made my case while my erection grew from sheer hope. “Lola’s still asleep.”
“I have to go grocery shopping.” She guided my hand away from her inner thigh. “And it’s morning. We’re not morning-sex people.”
I open my eyes, gaze affixing to the sofa where Maren straddled my lap, wearing nothing but my T-shirt. Reaching between us, I shoved down the front of my jogging shorts and briefs, and she happily sank onto me. That was after breakfast this morning.
It’s not that I was unhappy in my marriage. I loved Brynn, and I loved our life. But she was regimented.
Sex three times a week between ten and ten thirty.
No oral.
No showering together.
Never outside the bedroom.
Missionary position.
When it was over, she’d kiss my cheek and smile, saying, “Thanks. That was nice.”
While she was alive, I avoided comparing her to Tia. But in hindsight, I understand why Amos watches porn.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale a long breath as tears burn the back of my eyes. I fucking hate that my mind lets me remember anything but the good things about my marriage. I loved Brynn with my whole heart, and what made us great together had nothing to do with sex. Not once did I feel unhappy in my marriage. She made me smile for a million reasons that were deeper than physical intimacy.
There’s no need to justify my feelings for Maren. There’s no need for comparison. But this nagging guilt demands an explanation before it will let go.
Was Brynn not my soulmate, like my aunt was to my uncle? Am I a heartless failure of a husband for moving on so quickly? Is it cruel to let Brynn’s parents help with Lola while I’m sneaking around with Maren?
This goddamn guilt is poison.
The silence isn’t comforting, and neither are my thoughts, so I jump onto my bike and head to my mom’s, even though they aren’t expecting me for two more hours. Biking clears my mind, and with a clearer mind, I let go of the guilt. There’s no need to compare Maren to Brynn. I don’t need one to be better than the other to justify my feelings. There’s no choice to make. One is not better than the other—just different.
“Oswald.” Ruth drags out my name while inspecting me over her leopard-print-framed cat-eye glasses as I enter the house. She’s buried under her usual pile of yarn on the sofa—always crocheting. The bangs of her black bob-cut wig hang a little lower today. She needs to adjust it back a quarter inch.
“Ruth,” I say with a smile while closing the door behind me. “Where are Mom and Lola?”
“Gina’s in the bathroom. And Lola’s in the neighbor’s backyard. She made friends with Don and Gwenneth’s granddaughter.”
“Aren’t you early?” Mom says, making her way down the hall, running her fingertips along the wall, the sofa, and finally, her chair. I think her vision has gotten even worse, but she’ll never admit it.
“What can I say? I miss my girl.” I head into the kitchen to peer out the back window. Lola and the neighbor’s granddaughter are playing with bubbles.