Page 21 of Midnight Mass (Priest 1.50)
Poppy leaned closer, her chest pressing into my ribs. From any other vantage than my own, it looked like a gesture of marital affection, but they couldn’t see the flare of her nostrils or the diamond-hard eyes that now glared up at me. “You are so jealous of Anton, and you know what? You should be. You should be jealous, because at the end of the day, he’s the one who is consistently there for me. He’s the one I tell my thoughts and fears to, and he’s the one who knows—” she broke off, her eyes sliding away from mine.
I found her chin with my fingers and turned her face back to mine. “Knows what, Poppy? What could he possibly know about you that I don’t?” Still holding her chin, I brought my mouth to her ear. “I know the things you think about when you’re alone. I know every single fantasy you have in that pretty head of yours, and I know which words and which sights get you wet. I know what the inside of your pussy feels like and I know what the inside of your soul feels like. I know what books you fall asleep reading at night and I know which blanket is your favorite to use by the fireplace and which is your favorite to use in the recliner. I know how to make you come so hard that you forget who you are, and I know that you are so hungry for my orgasm that you’d drop to your knees right now and let me jerk off onto your face. Right here, right now, in front of all these people. Wouldn’t you?”
Her breathing was rapid now, her chest expanding and deflating against my own chest, and there wasn’t a part of her that wasn’t covered in goose bumps. I let go of her face and pulled away, satisfied that I’d made my point, and for a minute, I thought it had really worked. I thought I’d convinced her to let go of her anger.
I was wrong.
She stumbled back as if I’d pushed her—which I had, in a way. I’d pushed her with my words, and she looked so stung and so stimulated—all wide pupils and parted lips and flushed skin—and then the tears surfaced, large glassy tears in those hazel eyes, spilling over onto her cheeks. She turned away and pushed past the guests in the loft to go downstairs.
I watched her go, that red lace fluttering around her legs as she fled from me, and I knew I should stay put. People don’t run away unless they want space, and Poppy had plenty of reason to want space from me right now, given that I’d just made her cry in front of all these influential people. Guilt held me by the back of my neck, closing my throat and twisting my gut, and I just wanted to smash something—a window or a car door or even my own bones. Even more than that, I wanted to chase after her and apologize for being such a giant prick, for being the worst husband in the world.
But Feminist Ally Tyler was telling me to respect her space and her boundaries, to accept that the rest of this discussion had to happen on her terms, and that meant not running after her and bending her over the nearest table.
Fuck.
I hated doing the right thing.
Hated it.
I lifted my eyes to the ceiling, wondering what God would want me to do. There were no bible verses for how to let your partner walk away from you when you were both mad as fuck, especially when you were both horny as fuck on top of it all. There were no bible verses for having an erection in a tuxedo or for watching your wife disappear down an open flight of stairs while the slow, jazzy strains of “S’Wonderful” echoed against the high white walls and glass ceiling.
I guess I’m on my own again, even though I’m doing the right thing and it fucking sucks. Thanks a lot.
I should go home. Poppy would have to come back eventually, and we would talk then. Except, I’d probably have to work on my dissertation all day tomorrow…and the day after that and the day after that, not even counting the classes that I would have to teach, and of course not counting the fact that Poppy would have to work herself…
Shit, I missed Missouri. I missed my entire world being focused on one building—St. Margaret’s—and I missed Poppy working from home and on her own schedule. How were we supposed to fix this when we had no time together?
It didn’t matter. I should go.
I started moving through the guests, towards the back staircase, when I noticed a familiar form descending down the large front stairs to the main studio, in the same trajectory Poppy had taken.
Anton was going alone, and while part of me reasoned that he probably just wanted to check on his friend whom he’d seen visibly upset as she ran away from her own party, another part of me churned back into full-blown rage. Fuck boundaries, fuck doing the right thing. He didn’t get to go after my wife. That was my prerogative, my privilege, my job.
I changed d
irections and followed him, my dress shoes loud on the steps as I descended into the studio. I couldn’t see Anton or Poppy, so I drifted around the corner into the long hallway that led to the smaller studio rooms, all with their large mirrors and long barres.
Empty studio after empty studio, and then, in the very last one, I saw Poppy. She was alone (thank God), hugging herself and looking out of the window, her back to the door and me. In the mingled light from the moon and the streetlights, I could see her shoulders shake as she cried softly to herself. A lone tendril of hair had escaped from her updo, hanging in an elegant curl against her neck.
I stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind me.
She turned her head, looking back over her shoulder. She didn’t speak.
“Tell me to leave, and I’ll leave,” I said, taking another step closer. “Tell me not to touch you, and I won’t.”
A tear spilled over her cheek, gliding down to her jaw. But she remained silent.
“Say red or whisper it or mouth it even—and I’ll go, no questions asked. I’ll get a hotel room so that you can come home without me there.”
Still nothing from her. I’d halved the distance between us and I kept coming closer, determined to give her a choice. To let her know that she could say no to me at any point, and that I would leave if she did.
I finally got close enough to touch my lamb, but I didn’t yet. I was so fucking hard for her, and my hands practically vibrated with the need to seize her, but I didn’t.
She was still looking at me over her shoulder. Tear tracks glistened on her face, and that stray lock of hair on her neck hung so gracefully against her skin…I wanted to tug on it. I wanted to bite that neck and suck hard on the delicate skin there.
“Just say red or leave or go, at any time. And I will stop.” I met her eyes. “Do you understand?”
Without blinking, she inclined her head the barest amount.
