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My answer has always been no. For as long as I can remember, I have never wanted to marry anyone. Not even Vaughn Asher, movie star. In fact, I have no idea what marriage looks like. I never prepared for it.
“Grace, you’re making me nervous.”
All this is new to me. I’m at a loss on how to answer.
He unhooks the spreader bar from my ankles and throws it across the room and then he pulls my upper body up off his lap and then stands, leaving me on the couch. He walks out of the living room and I’m too shocked to stop him.
He doesn’t go to our bedroom, I know that because a few minutes later I see light flickering down the hallway. Lights coming from the home theatre.
A few minutes go by and then I hear sounds coming from the theatre room.
I’m making a huge mistake, I know this. But it feels wrong to say I feel the same as he does. I don’t.
I get up and walk down the hallway until I reach the theatre room and then I prop myself up against the doorjamb. He’s watching a George Clooney movie that I love about some escaped convicts during the Great Depression who become famous for a song they sing.
“I love this movie.”
“Me too,” he answers without turning his head to look at me.
“You never asked me.”
“I did ask you. You said yes.”
“I was drunk. I don’t remember.”
“Well, I remember.”
“You’re only one half of this team, Asher. You never asked me. Me. Sober Grace was never consulted. I can’t be held responsible for drunk Grace’s actions. I was beyond drunk. I blacked out. It’s not fair that I found out about our marriage from the TV. It’s not fair that it all happened in the same moment that I was taken again. It’s not fair that—” I stop talking because he never turns. Does he even want to know? Is he even interested? He says he wants me to trust him, but he scares me when he walks away. “I want you to ask me.”
“I want you to remember.”
“How do I make myself remember?”
Finally he turns his head. “Grace, you talked for hours on end that night. It’s impossible that you just don’t remember. It makes no sense. Yes, you were drinking. But you said so many things that night. Thoughtful, well-articulated things.”
“I don’t remember.”
He turns away again. “I’m not telling you. I refuse to paraphrase what happened that night. I won’t do it. I refuse to reduce it to a retelling.”
I sigh and walk around to the front of the massive square sectional couch. I crawl across it, my bound hands keeping me off balance a little, and nestle as close to him as I can, laying my head on his shoulder. “I want you. Is that enough?”
He doesn’t embrace me. He makes no move to cuddle me and make me feel loved. He doesn’t offer to untie my wrists.
“I’m past wanting you, Grace. I have you. Or at least I thought I did. And now everything is up in the air. I just want to settle. I’m tired of juggling life. I’m tired of coming home to an empty house.”
“You’ve been coming home to me for almost three months. That’s not empty.”
“No,” he says sharply. “How do you not see that you’re not here? This place is a fucking mess. You don’t do anything but mope. It’s a goddamned miracle that you came to see me at the studio this week. And to be perfectly honest, after the flight coordinator called to let me know you scheduled the jet, the more I thought about it, the better I felt. I was happy that you took an interest in something. But you went about your life. All fucking day. And never once thought about me. I don’t matter to you.”
“That’s not true. I…” I what? What am I trying to say?
“You can’t even say it. You can’t even admit you love me. You chased me for three years online, telling the whole world your feelings and your desires. You’ve fucked me in public. You married me. And right now, you can’t even say you love me.”
“I love you, Vaughn. I do. That’s not why I’m hesitating.”
“Then what is it?” His voice booms through the movie room and I startle backwards a few inches. “Why are you not here? Why are you unsure? What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Untie me.” I hold out my wrists. He looks down at them, then up at my eyes. I can see the pain in there. The uncertainty I’m causing him. I hate that I’m making him feel this way. “Untie me,” I say again.
He shakes his head, sighing a long breath of air that lets me know he’s beyond pissed. And then swiftly releases the knots that bind my hands. “There. You’re free.” He balls up the silk tie and throws it across the room.
I lay my chest across his lap and place my face alongside the cushions. My back is slightly arched and my ass is in the air like an invitation.
“What are you doing?” he asks, still very irritated.
“Making a decision,” I reply. “I want to be yours. Spank me.”
“Oh my God. You drive me insane, woman.” I chance a peek up at him and he’s rubbing his hand down his face, like he really is exasperated.
“Spank me for being bad.”
“Jesus, Grace. Why? Why are you doing this?”
I turn on my side so I can really look at him. And for the first time in years, maybe ten or more years… I’m honest. “Because I want to cry.”
He just stares at me, a wave of horror flashing across his face.
“I want you to spank me so I can cry. And then I want you to fuck me and make it better.”
His first smack is loud and hard. It stings. I lower my head back to the cushions and prepare for the next one. It comes swiftly. Then the next and the next. The stings become burns and then there’s no distinguishing one from the next. The sharp pain from each smack runs together until I begin to sob. They are soft at first. When they are just from the pain of his hands on my bottom, they are soft.
But then I forget where I am and the memories take over. I feel the guilt of living. I feel the pain of knowing I am alone. That my family is dead. That my brother never got a chance to be there for me when I needed him. For my parents, who were as nonexistent at my own wedding as I was. For all the family members who turned their backs on me.
I feel the shame. Shame for allowing that monster to take me and keep me and make me into someone I didn’t even recognize.
“Grace, you’re making me nervous.”
All this is new to me. I’m at a loss on how to answer.
He unhooks the spreader bar from my ankles and throws it across the room and then he pulls my upper body up off his lap and then stands, leaving me on the couch. He walks out of the living room and I’m too shocked to stop him.
He doesn’t go to our bedroom, I know that because a few minutes later I see light flickering down the hallway. Lights coming from the home theatre.
A few minutes go by and then I hear sounds coming from the theatre room.
I’m making a huge mistake, I know this. But it feels wrong to say I feel the same as he does. I don’t.
I get up and walk down the hallway until I reach the theatre room and then I prop myself up against the doorjamb. He’s watching a George Clooney movie that I love about some escaped convicts during the Great Depression who become famous for a song they sing.
“I love this movie.”
“Me too,” he answers without turning his head to look at me.
“You never asked me.”
“I did ask you. You said yes.”
“I was drunk. I don’t remember.”
“Well, I remember.”
“You’re only one half of this team, Asher. You never asked me. Me. Sober Grace was never consulted. I can’t be held responsible for drunk Grace’s actions. I was beyond drunk. I blacked out. It’s not fair that I found out about our marriage from the TV. It’s not fair that it all happened in the same moment that I was taken again. It’s not fair that—” I stop talking because he never turns. Does he even want to know? Is he even interested? He says he wants me to trust him, but he scares me when he walks away. “I want you to ask me.”
“I want you to remember.”
“How do I make myself remember?”
Finally he turns his head. “Grace, you talked for hours on end that night. It’s impossible that you just don’t remember. It makes no sense. Yes, you were drinking. But you said so many things that night. Thoughtful, well-articulated things.”
“I don’t remember.”
He turns away again. “I’m not telling you. I refuse to paraphrase what happened that night. I won’t do it. I refuse to reduce it to a retelling.”
I sigh and walk around to the front of the massive square sectional couch. I crawl across it, my bound hands keeping me off balance a little, and nestle as close to him as I can, laying my head on his shoulder. “I want you. Is that enough?”
He doesn’t embrace me. He makes no move to cuddle me and make me feel loved. He doesn’t offer to untie my wrists.
“I’m past wanting you, Grace. I have you. Or at least I thought I did. And now everything is up in the air. I just want to settle. I’m tired of juggling life. I’m tired of coming home to an empty house.”
“You’ve been coming home to me for almost three months. That’s not empty.”
“No,” he says sharply. “How do you not see that you’re not here? This place is a fucking mess. You don’t do anything but mope. It’s a goddamned miracle that you came to see me at the studio this week. And to be perfectly honest, after the flight coordinator called to let me know you scheduled the jet, the more I thought about it, the better I felt. I was happy that you took an interest in something. But you went about your life. All fucking day. And never once thought about me. I don’t matter to you.”
“That’s not true. I…” I what? What am I trying to say?
“You can’t even say it. You can’t even admit you love me. You chased me for three years online, telling the whole world your feelings and your desires. You’ve fucked me in public. You married me. And right now, you can’t even say you love me.”
“I love you, Vaughn. I do. That’s not why I’m hesitating.”
“Then what is it?” His voice booms through the movie room and I startle backwards a few inches. “Why are you not here? Why are you unsure? What the fuck do you want from me?”
“Untie me.” I hold out my wrists. He looks down at them, then up at my eyes. I can see the pain in there. The uncertainty I’m causing him. I hate that I’m making him feel this way. “Untie me,” I say again.
He shakes his head, sighing a long breath of air that lets me know he’s beyond pissed. And then swiftly releases the knots that bind my hands. “There. You’re free.” He balls up the silk tie and throws it across the room.
I lay my chest across his lap and place my face alongside the cushions. My back is slightly arched and my ass is in the air like an invitation.
“What are you doing?” he asks, still very irritated.
“Making a decision,” I reply. “I want to be yours. Spank me.”
“Oh my God. You drive me insane, woman.” I chance a peek up at him and he’s rubbing his hand down his face, like he really is exasperated.
“Spank me for being bad.”
“Jesus, Grace. Why? Why are you doing this?”
I turn on my side so I can really look at him. And for the first time in years, maybe ten or more years… I’m honest. “Because I want to cry.”
He just stares at me, a wave of horror flashing across his face.
“I want you to spank me so I can cry. And then I want you to fuck me and make it better.”
His first smack is loud and hard. It stings. I lower my head back to the cushions and prepare for the next one. It comes swiftly. Then the next and the next. The stings become burns and then there’s no distinguishing one from the next. The sharp pain from each smack runs together until I begin to sob. They are soft at first. When they are just from the pain of his hands on my bottom, they are soft.
But then I forget where I am and the memories take over. I feel the guilt of living. I feel the pain of knowing I am alone. That my family is dead. That my brother never got a chance to be there for me when I needed him. For my parents, who were as nonexistent at my own wedding as I was. For all the family members who turned their backs on me.
I feel the shame. Shame for allowing that monster to take me and keep me and make me into someone I didn’t even recognize.
