Chapter 3
The next day, I went to Mollie's friend's massage place. It was totally legit. The therapist was a woman, and honestly, her technique was pretty good.
Halfway through my session, there was suddenly a loud commotion outside.
I opened the door to see what was happening.
The police had shown up.
Apparently, someone reported the place for being shady.
Everyone got called into the lobby and had to line up while the cops checked our IDs one by one.
Standing there in the crowd, I was both embarrassed and pissed. I texted Mollie: [What the hell is going on with your friend's place?]
Mollie replied instantly: [WTF? That place is totally legit. It's been open for three years and never been checked by the cops. Who the hell reported it?]
The police looked around, found nothing, and left.
I went home, still pissed off.
Jenson was sitting in the living room, reading. When he saw me walk in, he looked up and asked, "How was the massage?"
"Oh, it was great," I said, heavy on the sarcasm. "Except the cops showed up. Someone reported the place for being shady."
He turned a page. "That place just didn't seem legit. Don't go there again."
I stared at him for three seconds.
His face didn't change one bit.
Then, out of nowhere, a thought hit me.
How did he know that place "didn't seem legit"?
I never told him where the shop was.
Mollie's friend's place was way out on the east side, and Jenson was always hanging around the west. How the hell would he know what it looked like?
I didn't ask because I knew if I did, he'd just give me some perfectly reasonable answer anyway.
After the whole massage parlor incident, I stopped trying anything for a while.
But Mollie wasn't ready to give up.
"Have you ever tried putting on another guy's jacket?" she asked.
"What?"
"Just take a guy's jacket, say it's a friend's who left it behind, and see how he reacts," Mollie said.
"Isn't that a little childish?" I asked.
"Doesn't matter if it's childish, as long as it works," Mollie shot back.
I figured, I'd already tried once, so trying again wouldn't hurt.
I asked Mollie for one of her boyfriend's old jackets and wore it home.
Jenson was in the kitchen cooking. I strutted in with the jacket on and said, "Had dinner with Mollie and her boyfriend today. He left his jacket in my car, so I brought it back."
He paused mid-chop for about a second, and then he went right back to chopping.
"Alright, just give it back to him tomorrow," he said.
Seriously? That was it?
I was so annoyed that I yanked off the jacket and tossed it onto the couch.
He came out carrying the food, spotted the jacket, and said, "Let me wash it before you return it."
"No need, Mollie said her boyfriend doesn't care," I replied.
"Still, better to wash it," he said, picking up the jacket. "It's just good manners."
Watching him carry some other man's jacket to the washing machine, I wondered if he still had a heart.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I lay in bed, tossing and turning, Mollie's words ringing in my ears. "Either he's gay, or he's seeing someone else, or he's got something wrong with him."
I thought it over for ages, crossed out the first two, and finally came to one conclusion.
He got something wrong with him.
Not something physical, it was all in his head.
He didn't need sex at all.
He needed to take care of someone.
He married me not because he loved me, but because my dad asked him to look after me before he died.
He got this over-the-top sense of duty, and taking care of me had become his life's mission.
And I was just the vessel for his mission.
Suddenly, I felt really cold.
I rolled over and watched him sleep.
He looked gorgeous asleep—long lashes, lips gently pressed together, breathing so quietly.
I reached out and touched his face.
He didn't wake up.
I whispered, "Jenson, do you even like me?"
He didn't answer.
Of course not, he was asleep.
But even if he was awake, he wouldn't answer either.
He never says he likes me, never says he loves me, never says he wants me.
All he ever says was "Be careful," "Get some sleep," "Let me wash it for you", like some emotionless man-mom.
I rolled over, turned my back to him.
How much longer can I go on like this?
I decided I needed to sit down and talk seriously with Jenson, not an argument, just a genuine, honest talk.
*****
Saturday night, like always, he turned off the lights.
I grabbed his hand just as he started to unbutton his shirt.
"Hold on," I said.
"What's up?" he asked.
"I want to talk to you about something," I said.
He paused, propping himself up over me. In the darkness, I couldn't see his face, but I could feel his breathing get really quiet.
"Go ahead," he said softly.
"I..." I took a deep breath. "I feel like something's off between us."
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Don't you think our sex life is just way too bland?" I said.
He went silent for three seconds.
"Are you uncomfortable?" he asked.