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Authors: Lisa Kleypas
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when I did something if it would be received with praise or displeasure. It made me anxious, always hunting for clues about how I should behave.
Nick remembered everything I had ever told him about my family and childhood, but he colored it all differently. He told me I had never really been loved by anyone but him. He told me what I really thought, who I really was, and he was so authoritative on the subject of me that I began to doubt my own perceptions. Especially when he echoed the standard phrases from my childhood . . . “You need to get over it.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You take everything too personally.” My own mother had said those things to me, and now Nick was saying them too.
His temper exploded without warning when I made the wrong sandwich for his lunch, when I’d forgotten to run a particular errand. Since I didn’t have a car, I had to walk or bike a quarter mile to the grocery store, and I didn’t always have time to accomplish all I needed to do. Nick never hit me after that first time. Instead he broke possessions I valued, jerking a delicate gold necklace from my throat, throwing a crystal vase. Sometimes he would push me against the wall and shout into my face. I dreaded that more than anything, the force of Nick’s voice blowing all circuitry, shattering parts of me that couldn’t be reassembled.
I began to lie compulsively, afraid to reveal some little thing I had said or done that Nick wouldn’t like, anything that might set him off.
I became a sycophant, assuring Nick he was smarter than everyone else put together, smarter than his boss, than the people at the bank, than anyone in his family or mine. I told him he was right even when it was obvious he was wrong. And in spite of all that, he was never satisfied.
Our sex life went downhill, at least from my perspective, and I was fairly certain Nick didn’t even notice. We had never been all that successful in the bedroom — I’d had no experience before Nick, and I had no way of knowing what to do.
In the beginning of our relationship, I’d found some pleasure in being with him. But gradually he had stopped doing the things he knew I liked, and sex became a slam-bam deal. Even if I had known enough to explain to Nick what I needed, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He had no interest in the possibilities of sex beyond the simple matter of one body entering another.
I tried to be as accommodating as possible, doing what was necessary to get it over with quickly. Nick’s favorite position was from behind, driving into me with straight, selfish thrusts that gave me no stimulation. He praised me for being one of those women who didn’t make a big deal about foreplay. In truth, I was fine without foreplay — it would only have prolonged an act that was messy, often uncomfortable, and not at all romantic.
I realized that I was not a sexual person. I was not moved by the sight of Nick’s well-exercised body, toned from spending most of his lunch hours at the gym. When we went out, I saw the way other women stared at my handsome husband and envied me.
I Got a call one night from Liberty, and from the sound of her voice,] knew instantly that something was wrong. “Haven, I’ve got some bad news. It’s about Gretchen . . . ” As she went on, I felt weighted with shock and despair, and I strained to understand her, as if she were speaking in a foreign language. Gretchen had had a headache for about two days, and had fallen unconscious in her room — Dad had heard the thud from down the hall. She was dead by the time the paramedics arrived. A cerebral aneurism, they said at the hospital.
“I’m so sorry,” Liberty said, her voice tear-clotted. I heard the sounds of her blowing her nose. “She was such a wonderful person. I know how much you loved each other.”
I sat on the sofa and leaned my head back, letting tears run in a hot trail down the sides of my face. “When is the funeral?” I
Nick remembered everything I had ever told him about my family and childhood, but he colored it all differently. He told me I had never really been loved by anyone but him. He told me what I really thought, who I really was, and he was so authoritative on the subject of me that I began to doubt my own perceptions. Especially when he echoed the standard phrases from my childhood . . . “You need to get over it.”
“You’re overreacting.”
“You take everything too personally.” My own mother had said those things to me, and now Nick was saying them too.
His temper exploded without warning when I made the wrong sandwich for his lunch, when I’d forgotten to run a particular errand. Since I didn’t have a car, I had to walk or bike a quarter mile to the grocery store, and I didn’t always have time to accomplish all I needed to do. Nick never hit me after that first time. Instead he broke possessions I valued, jerking a delicate gold necklace from my throat, throwing a crystal vase. Sometimes he would push me against the wall and shout into my face. I dreaded that more than anything, the force of Nick’s voice blowing all circuitry, shattering parts of me that couldn’t be reassembled.
I began to lie compulsively, afraid to reveal some little thing I had said or done that Nick wouldn’t like, anything that might set him off.
I became a sycophant, assuring Nick he was smarter than everyone else put together, smarter than his boss, than the people at the bank, than anyone in his family or mine. I told him he was right even when it was obvious he was wrong. And in spite of all that, he was never satisfied.
Our sex life went downhill, at least from my perspective, and I was fairly certain Nick didn’t even notice. We had never been all that successful in the bedroom — I’d had no experience before Nick, and I had no way of knowing what to do.
In the beginning of our relationship, I’d found some pleasure in being with him. But gradually he had stopped doing the things he knew I liked, and sex became a slam-bam deal. Even if I had known enough to explain to Nick what I needed, it wouldn’t have made a difference. He had no interest in the possibilities of sex beyond the simple matter of one body entering another.
I tried to be as accommodating as possible, doing what was necessary to get it over with quickly. Nick’s favorite position was from behind, driving into me with straight, selfish thrusts that gave me no stimulation. He praised me for being one of those women who didn’t make a big deal about foreplay. In truth, I was fine without foreplay — it would only have prolonged an act that was messy, often uncomfortable, and not at all romantic.
I realized that I was not a sexual person. I was not moved by the sight of Nick’s well-exercised body, toned from spending most of his lunch hours at the gym. When we went out, I saw the way other women stared at my handsome husband and envied me.
I Got a call one night from Liberty, and from the sound of her voice,] knew instantly that something was wrong. “Haven, I’ve got some bad news. It’s about Gretchen . . . ” As she went on, I felt weighted with shock and despair, and I strained to understand her, as if she were speaking in a foreign language. Gretchen had had a headache for about two days, and had fallen unconscious in her room — Dad had heard the thud from down the hall. She was dead by the time the paramedics arrived. A cerebral aneurism, they said at the hospital.
“I’m so sorry,” Liberty said, her voice tear-clotted. I heard the sounds of her blowing her nose. “She was such a wonderful person. I know how much you loved each other.”
I sat on the sofa and leaned my head back, letting tears run in a hot trail down the sides of my face. “When is the funeral?” I
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