Betrayed Hearts

***Six Months Ago*** "Please, Timmy." Tears are streaming down my face now, and I don't even care anymore. I'm on my knees beside our bed, tugging at his pants, desperate to touch him. To feel him touch me back. "Please, baby, I need you. I can't take this anymore." My hands are shaking as I reach for him. It's been so long. Six months since he left for that business trip. Six months of barely any calls, conversations that last two minutes before he says he's too busy. And now he's finally home, and I just need him to want me again. "Amber, stop." His voice is cold. But I can't stop. My body is aching for him. That empty, hollow feeling between my legs that won't go away no matter what I do. I need him inside me. I need to feel connected to him again, to remember what it was like when we were us. "Just tonight," I beg, my fingers finding his waistband. "Please, we don't have to" His hand shoots out and shoves me hard. I fall backward off the bed, my back hitting the floor with a painful thud. The air gets knocked out of my lungs, and for a second I just lie there, stunned, staring up at the ceiling. "Enough!" His voice cuts through the room like a whip. "Get a grip on yourself. Control yourself,Amber." I push myself up slowly, my tailbone throbbing. He's looking down at me from the bed, and the expression on his face makes my stomach twist. Disgust. He's looking at me with disgust. Something inside me shrivels up and dies. "I'm sorry," I whisper, pulling my knees to my chest. The shame is so hot I feel like I'm burning alive. "I'm sorry, I just... I missed you so much." His face softens a little. Just a little. "It's not that I don't want you. You know I do. But I'm exhausted. Work has been insane. I'm tired,Amber. I just need rest." "You've been gone for six months." My voice comes out small and broken. "Six months, Timmy. You barely called. You barely talked to me. And now you're home and you still won't" I can't finish. My throat closes up. "Don't you miss me?" I finally manage. "Don't you miss us?" "Of course I do." He's already lying back down, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. "But I told you, I need to rest. We'll talk tomorrow." He turns his back to me. Within minutes, I hear him snoring. I sit on that cold floor for a long time, hugging myself. The ache between my legs hasn't gone away. If anything, it's worse now, a constant throbbing reminder of everything I'm not getting. Everything he won't give me. Eventually I drag myself to the bathroom and close the door. I open the drawer where I keep them the collection of toys he bought me over the past year. "To help you relax," he'd said when he gave me the first one. Like plastic could replace his touch. I grab one and sit on the edge of the tub. But as I stare at it in my hand, something breaks inside me. I'm so tired of this. So tired of being alone while my husband sleeps in our bed. So tired of wanting someone who doesn't want me back. I use it anyway because what else am I supposed to do? But afterward I feel more empty than before. Hollow. Used up. The next morning, he leaves for another six-month trip. He kisses my forehead on his way out. Like I'm his sister. Like I'm nothing. ***Present Day*** I married Timothy Chandler when I was twenty-two—my first love, my first kiss, my first everything. He was passionate then and couldn't keep his hands off me. I remember our wedding night and how nervous and excited I was. How gentle he'd been. I don't know when that man disappeared. His mother lives in the other wing of our mansion. She's never liked me—thinks I'm not good enough for her precious son. Maybe she's right. Maybe if I were better, prettier, and more interesting, he'd still want me. Stop it. You're beautiful. You're enough. I've been a stay-at-home wife like he wanted, taking care of our home, cooking his meals, and keeping everything perfect. I write stories online in my spare time—romance, ironically. Stories about people who want each other, who can't keep their hands off each other. Stories about everything I don't have. I stand outside our bedroom door, my hand shaking on the doorknob. He came back three days ago. Three days of me trying everything—looking pretty, cooking his favorite meals, and being understanding. Three days of nothing. But tonight is different. Tonight I'm done waiting. If the mountain doesn't come to me,I'll go to the mountain. This has to work. It has to. The towel wrapped around me is small, barely covering anything. I worked out so hard while he was gone. My body looks amazing. He has to notice. He has to. I push open the door. Timothee is on the bed with his laptop, exactly like always. He doesn't look up. "Hey," I say softly. "Mm." I walk to the dresser, my heart pounding. The hairbrush is right on the edge where I left it. I shift my weight and bump it with my hip. It crashes to the floor. That gets his attention. "Sorry," I say, turning to give him an innocent smile. "Clumsy." Then I turn back around and bend down slowly to pick it up. The towel rides up, and I know exactly what he can see. Everything. I take my time straightening up, catching his reflection in the mirror. He's staring. Finally. His laptop is forgotten, and his eyes are locked on me. It's working. I turn to face him, hairbrush in hand. Our eyes meet, and for just a second I see it—that heat, that want I remember from before. I let the towel drop. It pools at my feet, and I just stand there, completely bare, letting him look at me. My heart is hammering so hard I can barely breathe. “Amber..." His voice sounds strangled. "I miss you," I whisper. "I miss us. Don't you miss this?" I take a step toward the bed. Then another. He's frozen, gripping his laptop so hard his knuckles are white. I can see his chest rising and falling faster. He wants me. I can see it in his eyes. "Timothee," I say his name like a prayer. "It's been so long. Please." "I'm your wife," I continue, my voice breaking. "Don't I deserve to be touched? To be wanted?" I'm at the foot of the bed now. Close enough to touch him. "Amber, stop." The words hit me like ice water. "I can't do this right now," he says, looking everywhere but at me. "I have that presentation tomorrow, and I'm tired—" "You're always tired!" I can't hold it back anymore. "You're always busy! I'm standing here naked, and you're talking about work?" His face goes hard. "Don't make this into something it's not." "Then what is it?" I'm crying now; I can't help it. "What did I do wrong? Just tell me and I'll fix it!" "You didn't do anything." He closes his laptop with a sharp snap. "This isn't about you." "Then what is it about? Because I don't understand! I'm your wife!" He stands up and grabs his phone. "I can't have this conversation right now." "When, Timothee? When can we have it?" He walks past me like I'm not even there. Like I'm not standing naked and falling apart. At the door he pauses. Doesn't turn around. "Put some clothes on, A mber," he says quietly. "You're embarrassing yourself." Then he's gone.