K. Bromberg - Bend

Do I tell him? Do I go home and act like this never happened? Carry on life as usual all the while I’m reeling inside with … what? What exactly am I feeling?

Relieved.

Confused.

Sated.

“Oh God,” I whisper my mantra into the room. Memories stain my mind and unease reigns in my soul. One hand grips my phone—the platinum of my wedding ring clicking against it—while the other lifts involuntarily to cover my lips. I sag onto the bed and succumb to the onslaught of emotions I’m not quite sure how to handle.

I wasn’t harmed. I was put back in my hotel room. Is anyone going to really believe I was abducted, raped, and released physically uninjured? I blow out a breath, my fingers on my lips now beginning to tremble. I’m in a foreign country. Alone. I’ve just washed all traces of them from me without thought. If I went to the authorities, would they really believe me?

Indecision wars as time passes, the discomfort with each movement a subtle reminder of everything. Shadows shift across the room as the day wages on.

I cry when my cell rings. The sound seems so foreign in my echo chamber of thoughts. I fumble the phone momentarily, my hand sore from unconsciously gripping it all this time, and look down to see who’s calling.

Anderson.

I stare wide-eyed at his picture on the screen for what seems like forever but is really only two rings. The rush of blood in my ears drowns out the ringtone as I swallow over the lump in my throat. I know it’s only seconds that pass, but it feels like hours that I stare at the screen. Indecision wars. And then once I choose to answer, I can’t get the phone to my ear quick enough.

“Hello?” I’m already sobbing the words out, breath hitching, desperation echoing in my voice.

“Lil? Lil, what’s wrong?” And it’s his voice—concern, comfort, everything—that undoes me. Unravels me. Hits me like a sucker punch to the gut. I can’t catch my breath fast enough, can’t speak, because I’m overwhelmed by the truths I’m finally ready to face. To accept.

This man is my everything.

He has been for so long, how in the hell could I think of wanting anyone else? Sure sex might be a little boring sometimes, it might be predictable or scheduled to minimize the off chance of being interrupted by the boys, but is that really on him? Is the rut we’ve fallen into all his fault?

I’ve become complacent. I’ve taken his place beside me for granted. Aren’t I just as much to blame for this as he is? Haven’t I stopped putting our marriage first just as he has too?

“Lil, answer me! You’re scaring the shit out of me!” The urgency and fear in his voice comes through the connection loud and clear, jolting me from my thoughts. I can visualize him pacing in front of his desk, one hand on the phone, the other shoving through his hair.

“I’m okay,” I manage. “I’m okay.” I suck in a breath and will myself to calm down because I can’t answer the questions he’s going to ask, and the more composed I am, the less insistent he’ll be for a response.

“What’s going on?” His voice softens some but concern is still prominent.

“I just—I just miss you.” I hiccup the words, biting my knuckles to prevent another sob from falling out as the die is cast.

I can’t tell him.

I know I’m sealing my fate to Hell by lying, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t shatter that innate male instinct he has to protect me. I’m okay. I’m unharmed. The damage done to me is far less than what it would do to him. He would never look at me the same. His empathy—one of the reasons I fell in love with him in the first place—would lead him to coddle and handle me with kid gloves. The fact that everything happened—he’d look at it as a failure as a man, as a husband to protect me—would gnaw at him until he self-destructed.

Do I destroy the man I love to assuage my own guilt?

“Hun, you okay? Why are you crying?”

His words break through my thoughts. The tone of his voice almost shatters my resolve. The confession is on my tongue, but I close my eyes and force a swallow. Internalize my own pain to prevent his.

“Nothing. I just got sick and … and I can’t wait to come home. I miss you, the boys … home.” I press my thumb over the speaker on the phone so he can’t hear the telling sound of my hitching breath.

“Are you sure, Lil? You don’t sound good.” I’m silent. I don’t trust my voice just yet. “I’m flying out there.”

“No!” The words are out of my mouth, his declaration causing mine. A desperate plea. My epiphany so simple yet so daunting all at the same time. He can’t come see me because I need today and the next to compose myself, to absorb everything that happened, heal some of the physical marks, figure how to cope with the emotional reminders. To allow me the time to accept this experience has changed me and figure out the words to tell him I need a little more out of our sex life: experimenting, dominance, variation. To be able to express our marriage or him being enough for me isn’t the problem, no, but my need for him to give me something more in the bedroom is.

The answer I need to figure out though is, will that admission hurt him as much as me telling him about the rape? Blindside him when he thought we were happy and I’m far from it? Make him feel inadequate?

“I’ll be fine. I’m going to change my flight to tomorrow sometime and come home early.” I unfist my hands gripping the comforter and hold my breath waiting for his response.

“Lil, I don’t like—”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I stumble over the words, but I’m not sure if I’m trying to reassure him or me. “I’ve already looked at flights … I was just picking up the phone to call you and tell you.”

One lie upon another.

What a tangled web we weave.

“Lil …” His voice trails off, the unasked question falling into its silence.

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth and wait for the questions, the inkling that he knows what happened—guilt screaming loud like my own personal tell-tale heart.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I should have told work to go to Hell. I should be there with you, taking care of you.” I can hear the regret, the evidence that he’s beating himself up over choosing his career over us. My God, I can’t imagine what he’d be like if he really knew what happened.

“Ander—”

“Lil …” He blows out a long breath. “We need to … we’ll talk when you get home, okay? Text me your flight info when you change it and … get some rest, okay?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The line disconnects but I hold the phone to my ear for I don’t know how long, my decision warring against my rationality. And the only thing that breaks the endless spiral of guilt is when the words float through my mind like a distant memory.

Ora sei libero.

I can hear his voice say them, feel his breath heat my lips, but can’t remember anything else he said. I lower the phone from my ear and type the words in. My hands shake and I misspell them a few times but finally Google gives me the answer I am looking for.

I blink my eyes a couple of times and shake my head in what has to be misunderstanding of the words, their meaning.

You are now free.

“What’s brought all of this on?” The look of confusion on Anderson’s face worries me. Is he going to tell me no? Again? Reject me and my even-keeled plea?

You are now free.

I hiccup back the guilt—a heavy presence wanting to tell the truth—and lower my eyes to stare at my hands fiddling in my lap. Thoughts flash through my mind of earlier. The relief I felt seeing Anderson at the airport. The unfettered love that coursed through me when he wrapped his arms around me. The calm that came over me mixed with the feeling of safety, comfort, acceptance, loyalty with just the smell of his cologne and security of his arms. How I cried like a baby in the middle of the terminal as he held me, whispering reassurances to calm the outpouring of emotions he didn’t understand.

Driving home. Rapid-fire chat about what the other has been doing. And I tell him everything … everything but what I want to tell him the most. Apologies from him. How he screwed up, should have told work to take a hike, and put me first, put us first. How he’s thought about his priorities and where he’s gone wrong. How being all alone for a week—with nothing but your own thoughts—will do that to you.

I accept his apologies and then make my own—for the same reasons and for ones he’ll never have a clue about. The tears fall. Hope renews and murmured promises are made for the changes that need to be made.

And then we come home to a lonely house. My boys won’t be back from my mom’s for another day. Panic becomes hysteria; the thoughts I had those first few minutes after I woke up blindfolded flood back with a vengeance. I start to ramble, tell Anderson we need to get the boys now. Right now. I need to see them, kiss them, inhale their little boy scent as I hold them tight.

I begin to cry. Think of what I could have lost. Anderson calms me down, tells me travel arrangements are already made for tomorrow and too late to cancel. That we need to enjoy the one night we have together for our anniversary. Make the most of it. Start proving everything we just said to each other in the car.

I calm myself and stare at him for a moment before taking a deep breath to say what it feels has taken me a lifetime to confess. I ask that he doesn’t speak until I finish. I tell him I love him more than anything. I express to him that in losing the us that we once were, we also lost that spark in the bedroom. The want to please the other, the desire to be spontaneous, try new things, step outside of the box.

He nods his head at me, granting my request for silence as I gather my last thoughts together. The feelings evoked from the hotel room flood back tenfold and crowd the room around us, giving me the courage I need to finish what I need to say. We sit like this for some time, no words exchanged but our eyes speaking volumes: willingness and trust. Acceptance and understanding. But for some reason, the silence we sit in doesn’t seem so lonely anymore. It’s filled with a spark of what’s been missing for some time.

And so I add fuel to the spark, hoping it catches fire.

You are now free.

Instead of hinting at things I want as I have in the past, I flat out tell him. New positions, toys, anal, sex-swings, light bondage. Nothing earth-shattering to many these days but life changing for me. I say each sentence, pay particular attention to each word, and watch his reactions. I reassure that I love him, that I’m happy, that he’s more than enough, but that with age, with confidence, I want more. I need more.

And I want to find that more in him, with him.

I exhale loudly into the silence I’ve asked for. My nerves hum and I jostle my knee as we continue to stare at each other, his silence a slow torture to me. I need him to respond, need him to tell me that I’m not asking for too much. That he can give this to me.

But he doesn’t say a word but rather stands up and disappears from my sight. I bite my lip to fight the tears that threaten and the predicted rejection that lodges in my throat. It doesn’t matter how many times he rebuffs me, each time is just as devastating as the first. I squeeze my eyes, the gamut of emotions overtaking me as I hold everything in: Anderson’s dismissal after our promises earlier, the guilt and shame riding a close second.

The bed shifts and Anderson places his hand on my thigh, squeezing it when I refuse to open my eyes. “Lil?” There is a gentleness to his tone that pulls on so many things within me that I open my eyes to meet his. He reaches out and frames my face—his thumb brushing away the lone tear I couldn’t contain—and the tenderness in his touch almost makes me lose my hold on the reminder of them.

He repeats his question again, pulling me from my thoughts. “What brought all this on now? Is it because of these?”

He bends over to pick something off the floor beside the bed and I’m surprised to see the box from my closet. I stare at him as he takes the lid from it and sets the container between us. My eyes flicker back and forth, trying to gauge the expression on his face juxtaposed to the quiet ache that the sight of some of the toys create.

Because now I know just how much they can enhance my pleasure.