At First Sight - Nicholas Sparks [77]
“You woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” she remarked the morning after the first rejection.
“Didn’t sleep well.”
“Bad dreams?” she asked, sounding concerned.
Despite hair that was askew and long pajamas, she was strangely seductive, and he didn’t know whether to be angry or ashamed of himself for thinking about sex every time he saw her. This, he knew, was the danger of habits; where the previous weeks had become a pattern he welcomed, she was obviously of a different opinion. But if there was one thing he’d learned from his first marriage, it was never to complain about the frequency of sex. In this, men and women were different. Women sometimes wanted; men always needed. Big difference, one that in the best of circumstances reached a sort of reasonable compromise that fully satisfied neither but was somehow acceptable to both. But he knew he’d sound as if he were whining if he complained that he wished the honeymoon had lasted just a bit longer. Say, for instance, for the next fifty years.
“I’m not sure,” he finally responded.
His confusion during those next few weeks was underscored by the fact that during the day she seemed the same as always. They read their newspaper, shared the appropriate tidbits; she asked him to follow her to the bathroom while she got ready in the mornings, so they could continue their conversation.
He spent every day trying not to dwell on it.
But every night he would crawl into bed and steel himself for yet another round of rejection, doing his best to convince himself that he wouldn’t let it bother him. Of course, not before making the passive-aggressive move of turning the thermostat back to sixty-eight degrees. As the weeks passed, Jeremy grew increasingly frustrated and confused. One night they watched a bit of television, eventually turned off the lights, and Jeremy spooned with Lexie for a while before moving to the other side of the bed to cool off. In time, he felt her reach for his hand.
“Good night,” she said, her voice soft, her thumb moving slowly over his skin.
He didn’t bother to respond, but when he woke the following morning, Lexie seemed perturbed as she headed to the bathroom. He followed her in, and they brushed their teeth and gargled with mouthwash before she finally glared at him.
“So, what happened with you last night?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I was in the mood and you just went to sleep.”
“How was I supposed to know that?”
“I reached for your hand, didn’t I?”
Jeremy blinked. This was how she made a pass at him?
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s okay,” she said, shaking her head, sounding as if it weren’t okay at all.
As she headed to the kitchen, he made a mental note about the hand-holding-in-bed thing.
Two evenings later, while lying in bed, she reached for his hand again, and Jeremy spun toward her so fast, the sheets got tangled as he tried to kiss her.
“What are you doing?” she said, pulling back.
“You’re holding my hand,” he said.
“So?”
“Well, the last time that happened, it meant you were in the mood.”
“That time I was,” she said, “but I was sort of stroking your palm with my thumb, remember? This time I wasn’t.”
Jeremy tried his best to absorb that. “So you’re not in the mood?”
“I’m just not feeling up to it. You don’t mind if I just sleep, do you?”
He tried his best to avoid a sigh. “No, that’s okay.”
“Can we cuddle first?”
He paused before answering. “Why not?”
It wasn’t until the following morning that everything finally became clear. He woke to find her sitting on the couch—or rather looking as if she were trying to lie down and sit at exactly the same time—with her pajama top pulled up to her breasts. The lampshade was angled, casting light on her belly.
“What are you doing?” he asked, stretching his hands over his head.
“C’mere, quick,” she said. “Sit next to me.”
Jeremy took his place beside her on the couch as she pointed to