I was so proud of you for wanting to do it for yourself, and guilty that you felt you had to do it to keep me. It shouldn’t have made me so happy, but it did, that my happiness was a part of the reason why. We’re going to get there, one day at a time, and when you are ready, I’ll ask you. No pressure until you’re ready.”
“Trey, you being so perfect is going to be really hard to deal with all the time.”
“I’m pretty sure I’m not perfect. What are the faults you listed the other day? I snore, I’m boss, which isn’t a real fault, considering how wet I know it makes you. I torture you for too long in bed, again, you love it, so I don’t know why you complain.
I will admit I’m bossy and I snore and I like to have my own way more often than not. There has also been a problem with thinking throwing money at a problem will make it go away. I’ve grown out of it, more or less, and figured out money doesn’t solve all problems. Before you I was a workaholic and content with that, now I loathe work when I know I could be home with you. Hmm, let’s see... I’m always right, and admitting I’m wrong will take a turn of the screws. Pretty much with anyone, but those most important to me, I’m not very patient.”
“Trey, even describing your faults you have a way of making them sound good and you are patient. I thought I was going to fling a salt shaker at the waitress that one night, and you were still all smiles. When that toddler almost took you out when we were walking out of the Art Institute, I was the one who yelled at his mother for not keeping a handle on him like some kind of shrew.”
“Would you like me to cultivate new bad habits, my dear? I’m sure if you give me some time—”
“Don’t even think about it. I’m bad enough for the both of us.”
“I hate when you talk like that about yourself. You are intelligent, funny, more patient than you give yourself credit for, and you have a kindness that, after all you’ve been through, still has me in awe of you. Yes, you are a tough talker and can go into—what was it you called it that night at the symphony? Bitch mode? I have to tell you, it made me so hard to watch you lay into the rude asshole who bumped you. You can take care of yourself, and you do it well. You just don’t have to anymore, and I love taking care of you when you let me.”
“You can’t protect me from all of the bad things out there.”
“Maybe not, but I can try, and when I can’t, I’ll be here for you. Speaking of taking care of you, I’m starving. Are you ready to go out for some food and we can go grocery shopping on the way back?”
I’m hungry, and agree.
***
That night he pulls out the ugliest and most uncomfortable-looking pajama sets for the both of us. He wasn’t joking, he went for flannel. I rub the material. They aren’t quite as uncomfortable as they look, but I sigh at the idea of actually wearing them. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. He looks like a little kid told that Santa doesn’t exist. “Maybe I should up it to three sessions a week instead of two.”
He looks up hopefully then shakes his head. “No, she recommended only two sessions a week. I don’t want to push you too hard. It’s already going to be rough. We can do this.”
***
The first night is rough, and I wish I could say it gets easier, but it never does. Over the next few weeks we fill the days to bursting. It’s fun and it’s manic, and we go from lovers to friends to desperately wanting to be lovers again. After each session, Trey holds me and rocks me through the pain and the memories. In those moments after, he follows my lead and allows me the space I need, or a few times the need to cling to him. We often have conversations about why we need to hold to the no-sex mandate by Joy, and once it somehow leads to a very sexually charged conversation that, were it over the phone, would have been called phone sex. Standing there, chests heaving, him hard and me wet, we both run for separate areas of the house.
We also have several power-shopping trips, which show clearly Trey knows his way around the sales floor and what looks good on me. I hate it, not wanting him to spend money on me, but he’s relentless. With all the trips to the symphony, theater, and of course the opera, which I love, the clothes are almost mandatory. A few times we encounter men and women who look me over with empty smiles, and I had felt my confidence sag beneath their glares. Trey feels it, and the fears are forced from me. When we first walked into the store I had wanted to run and then it had become fun to dress up and it made Trey happy and extremely hot. Now my side of the closet is filled with the designers I sold but never dared buy, and I hold my head high during intermission at the opera, at the catty bitches who once looked down on me.
***
After a few weeks, the oddest thing allows us both to let off tension, redecorating. The gallery event was simply another way to stay out late and away from home, but two paintings catch my eye, and Trey notices.
“Those would look good in our bedroom.” Arms come around me from behind. I lean into him.
“Mm.” I’m not letting myself commit, he’s already spent far too much money on me, and I’m still not comfortable with it, but the art is gorgeous. “I don’t know. The color on the walls in the bedroom is too dark for them.”
“I knew you didn’t like it. We’ll change it. I can call some painters in and have it done over the weekend.”
Sighing, I shake my head. “Why do you always have to call someone in? Painting seems relatively easy. If you’re really okay with changing the color, then I’ll do it. I have two days off in a row, starting tomorrow. I should be able to get it done.”
“I don’t like the idea of you working so hard and up and down off ladders. The ceilings are twelve feet. That doesn’t even cover the fumes and chemicals. Also, it sounds easy, but there’s a lot involved.”
“Have you ever painted anything?”
“I’ve had my condo painted, and it took a week and it was a mess. That’s as close as I want to get. I’m buying the paintings and we’ll pick out another color for the walls tomorrow.” He leaves a kiss on my temple before he goes off to look for someone from the gallery.
***
The next day finds us in a paint store that bears no resemblance to the big-box store I thought we were going to. Trey is insistent I make the color choice, admitting the color on the walls is something he hadn’t liked since he moved back. Originally, he picked out the color in his teens and had no idea how it would look. I’m relieved, because the dark chocolate makes the room feel like a cave.
Color picked and an appointment made for painters to come three days later, Trey observes that now other things won’t match. I thought the same thing but was reluctant to say it.
On the street, he stops and tugs me into the shelter of a doorway. “I want you to stop it. I’ve told you, and I mean it this is your home now too, and you have a say in everything, from the paint on the walls to the bed set.”