Page 45 of The Thinnest Air
MEREDITH
Twenty-Four Months Ago
I tried to enjoy it.
But what began with a hard and fast pull of my zipper and the trail of his fingertips along my inner thigh ended with my husband screwing me like he was on a time crunch, neglecting to so much as look me in the eye or press his lips into mine.
The entire thing was a jarring experience, one that left a lingering soreness between my legs.
He’s never fucked me like that.
How everything could flip on its back after a short twelve months is beyond me, but as I lie in the middle of a king-size bed in the presidential suite of a luxury resort in Phuket, I’m at a loss for words.
The door to the bathroom is cracked open a few inches, steam escaping from the shower that Andrew insisted on taking the second he was finished, like he couldn’t wait to wash me off him.
Mustering the strength to forge on like everything’s fine, I peel myself up and make my way to our hotel en suite to clean up and change into a bikini. Though we landed in Thailand a couple of hours ago, it’s late morning here and a balmy eighty-four degrees.
“I’m going to the pool,” I tell him a few minutes later, tugging a cover-up over my shoulders.
Andrew’s wet, matted head emerges from behind the fogged glass door. “Why are you wearing that?”
“The cover-up?”
“Yeah.” He smirks, like everything is normal and he didn’t just fuck me like I was a coke-addicted hooker. “That thing.”
I get it.
He likes attention. He likes knowing that he has something he thinks everyone else wants. I’m realizing this now.
I can’t count how many times I’ve been hit on at the grocery store or the gym or on my way to the ladies’ room at a restaurant, and any time I mentioned it to Andrew, his face would light, proud and gratified, and he’d tell me I should be flattered.
Now I know it was never about me—it was always about him.
Tossing a towel over my shoulder, I leave the bathroom just as he shuts off the water; I grab a paperback, a pair of sunglasses, my phone, and a room key before heading downstairs.
The pool area is moderately packed, but there are no children laughing and splashing about because Andrew selected an adults-only resort. Only tropical music and exotic alcohol.
I find a couple of empty chairs in a sunny corner and situate myself, propping the back of the chair up so I can simultaneously suntan and people-watch while pretending to read.
The kind of people who can afford to vacation at this resort are mostly of the rich, eclectic variety. The kind who spend $14,000 on jewel-encrusted swords emblazoned with their family crest just for the fun of it. The kind who hire entire teams of nannies to look after their bevy of spoiled children. The kind who trade in their Italian luxury sports cars for new models every six months for no other reason besides that they can.
A woman with a face full of fillers and dark hair extensions dripping down to the small of her back saunters past with a younger man. His body is taut and ripped, and he can’t keep his hands off her. I imagine she’s recently divorced, the recipient of a generous settlement, and he’s nothing but a plaything, yet another luxury only afforded to the rich.
I wonder if other people look at the two of us the way I’m looking at the two of them.
Curious. Quietly judgmental.
I don’t want to think about that anymore, about the two of us being a spectacle.
Several seats down, a man is being slathered in suntan oil by a girl who appears to be barely one-third his age, her soft hands working his glistening chest hairs. People watch the couple as if they’re some kind of entertainment.
A shadow covers me. “There you are.”
I shield my eyes, glancing to my left to where my husband stands. A pair of red and white striped swim trunks are tied low on his narrow hips, revealing his washboard abs and smooth chest. A disgustingly expensive pair of sunglasses rests on top of his head, and he slips them over his nose before taking the seat beside me.
We are these people.
Revolting wealth. Unapologetic self-indulgence.
