What About Me?

The kitchen smells like burnt toast, I stand by the sink, running my fingers over the chipped rim of a blue mug. Outside, the backyard's a mess--grass too long, chairs toppled. It's all falling apart. My husband, Mark, is at the table behind me, hunched over his phone, thumb tapping away like nothing's wrong. Three weeks since I let it happen--since he wanted it to happen. Three weeks since the ground slipped out from under me.

It started with Mark, that wild glint in his eyes I used to love. He stumbled in late from the bar one night, whiskey on his breath, and sprawled next to me on the couch. "Jake's obsessed with you," he said, smirking over his beer. "Thinks you're some untouchable goddess." Jake--his scrawny co-worker with that lopsided grin and cheap cologne that stings my nose. I laughed, swatted his arm. "He's a creep," I said, but Mark's voice turned low, dangerous. "What if we let him think he could?" His hand slid up my thigh, and I felt a shiver I couldn't name.

I went along with it because it woke something up in me. Seven years with Mark, and we'd faded into a dull hum--work, bills, dinners where we barely look at each other. This was a spark, a jolt. So when he suggested inviting Jake over, I didn't say no. "Just dinner," he promised, but his eyes lied.

He was insufferable over the ensuing days. At every turn he brought up finally doing something "fun" and "out there." He heralded it as "our thing." I pushed back, sternly, reminding him that it was "just dinner." But, at the least, it was unspoken: I needed to lead Jake on. My body was the main course.

That night, I wore the black dress he picked--tight, short, bold. I caught myself in the mirror and barely knew the woman staring back: sharp cheekbones, dark hair spilling loose, cheeks flushed from nerves and wine. Mark poured the drinks, Jake bumbled through small talk, and I felt the air shift every time Mark glanced my way. After three glasses, he leaned back, legs wide, and said, "Go on, Jake. Tell her what you told me."

Jake's face turned red, his throat bobbing. "I know this is weird but...you're the hottest woman I've ever seen. Like I've met a thousand women and seen a million more and I really think you are. Like, legit." he mumbled, eyes on the floor. My heart raced--half embarrassment, half something darker, curling low in my gut. Mark grinned like a wolf and nodded at me. "See? Told you." Then, quieter: "Get up and let him get a look at you."

I should've stopped it. Laughed it off, sent Jake packing. But Mark's stare pinned me, daring me. I leaned across the table allowing my cleavage to do the talking. We were all motionless until he found some bravery and raised his arm, looking at me for permission. I let Jake's shaky hand graze my arm, then my neck, then lower, tugging at my dress. Mark didn't flinch. He watched, breathing hard, as Jake's fingers pulled the straps down, as I let myself fall into things--knowing it was wrong.

It spiraled fast. Jake walked around the table and was on me, clumsy but eager, and Mark just sat there, eyes locked on us, one hand on his glass, the other a fist. My mind screamed stop, but my body didn't listen. Jake yanked the dress to my waist and I felt bare, raw, the air biting where it shouldn't.

"Yea..." Mark growled, his voice rough. I looked at him, begging for an out, but he was gone--lost in whatever this was. Jake hesitated, hands on my hips, mumbling, "You sure?" Mark's nod answered for me.

I didn't fight as Jake pulled me to the table's edge, glasses clinking, wine spilling. He fumbled with his belt, desperate, and I gasped as he pushed inside me, rough and messy. It wasn't tender--just need, pure and sloppy. His hands gripped my hips, his rhythm all over the place, and I hated how the heat built anyway, shame twisting with something I couldn't stop. Mark leaned closer, jaw tight, and that look sent me crashing over the edge, a shudder I couldn't hide.

"Fuck," Jake grunted, speeding up, and then, "I'm gonna--" One hard thrust, and I felt it--warm, sudden, spilling inside me. He hadn't pulled out. My eyes snapped wide, panic flashing, but he was already slumping, panting, clueless. Mark made some asinine comments. Jake looked me in the eye and I had a warmth towards him that wasn't there before. He fumbled out of me and dressed himself. He bolted, muttering "thanks" as he belted his pants and made an excuse to leave.

I slid off the table, legs shaking, the dress a mess around my waist, his mess dripping down my thighs. Mark played it off like he'd watched the end of a good football game. The next morning, we pretended--coffee, "it's fine," "our thing." But the silence grew claws.

Three weeks later, I'm here, clutching this mug, my stomach churning. It's not just guilt. The nausea started days ago--mornings, coffee smells, a weight in my chest. I bought a test, hid it in my purse, took it this morning before Mark woke.

"Rain's picking up," he says, flat, like he's reading the weather. I nod, my knuckles white. Has he noticed I skip wine now, gag at his coffee? Does he care?

"Jake asked about you yesterday," he adds, eyes on his phone. "Misses our dinners."

He looked up from his phone, "Misses those big pale tits."

My breath catches, sharp. I turn, meet his gaze--dark, unreadable, a flicker of something that pricks my skin. "What'd you tell him?" I whisper.

He shrugs, slow, fake. "We'd think about having him back." A smirk creeps up. "You want him back, don't you?"

The mug slips, I clumsily pick it up. Thoughts of another man in me get me spiraling. The guilt is all mixed up. "I need to tell you something," I say, standing, a bloody shard in my hand.

His smirk fades. "What?"

"I took a test this morning," I force out, eyes burning.

Silence swallows us. His face blanks, then hardens. He actually put his phone down.

"There's a baby," I say, breaking.

He stares "Is it..." He stops, fists clenching. "Mine?"

I don't know. That night--no condoms, no sense, just chaos. "Maybe," I admit.

He laughs, bitter, hollow. "Jesus, Em."

I sit in the moment and feel my disappointment, waiting to see if he can recover. He doesn't.

"I can't stay here," I whisper, dropping the shard. "I need to think." I grab my purse, keys, and run into the rain.

I drive to Jake's--dingy, cramped. He opens the door in a stained shirt, eyes wide. "Emily? What--"

I say the pedestrian words. We sit in his tiny living room. I make sure he's ready to hear what I have to say.

His face is stunned. "Mine?"

I nod, collapse on his couch, soaked. "Not sure.

He sits close, knee jittering. "A kid. With you." His grin flickers. "Hey, that doesn't sound so bad..."

"Don't," I snap, chest tight. "I'm married."

"To a guy who watched me fuck you," he fires back. "We could do this. A family."

"A family?" I laugh, bitter. "I barely know you. Mark is my life, fucked up or not. I can't just leave."

He scoffs. "You've known me for years."

I roll my eyes.

"Why not?" His hand brushes my arm. "He doesn't deserve you."

"It's not simple," I say, tears rising. "Seven years." But his fingers find my cheek, warm, and I don't pull away. The room shrinks.

He kisses me--soft, then deep, pulling me to him. I give in, let him lead me to his bedroom, because taking his lead makes the pain go away. His touch is gentle now, not like a dog like before--lips on my jaw, my collarbone, peeling off my wet clothes like I'm fragile. I arch as he slides inside me, slow, our breaths tangling in the dark. It's not wild--it's heavy, real. It matters.

"Stay," he whispers, moving in me, hands on my hips. "Our baby."

I shake my head, "This isn't good..."

He pauses, looks at me, voice soft. "What about me? What do you want it to get from me?"

I shoot him a confused look. "What?"

"What about me...unnnghh...is good? What about me would you want to be in the baby?"

I falter, caught in his rhythm, fingers digging into him. "Your optimism," I breathe. "That dumb hope you've got."

He smiles against my neck, thrusts deepening. "What about you?" I ask, trembling as the heat climbs. "What do you want it to have from me?"

"Your strength," he says, steady, sure. "The way you don't break." He kisses me hard, and I feel it--too much, too close.

I grip him tight, nails in his back, and we unravel together, his warmth spilling into me again, deliberate this time. We lie there after, sheets rough, rain fading. "What would we name it?" he asks, tracing my stomach.

"I don't know," I say, throat tight. "I can't see that far." His hope stabs me. "I'm scared, Jake."

"I'd be there," he says, kissing my forehead.

I stay, curled against him, but sleep doesn't come. His arm's heavy across me, his snores soft, and I stare at the cracked ceiling, picturing it--a baby with his grin. For a moment, I let myself dream: us in this dump, him fumbling with bottles, me holding us up. But then I see it clear--Jake's got nothing. No money, barely scraping by with that dead-end job. No drive, just that goofy hope and a crooked smile. I'd be the one working, paying, carrying it all while he drifts, dreaming. I can't raise a kid like that--not here, not with him. It's a fantasy, not a life. By morning, I slip out, leaving him asleep, and drive home with my head aching.

A week drags by. Mark's a ghost, silent, aloof. Jake texts--names, gynos, cribs...it feels like nonsense. I stop answering when the sickness hits harder, when it's too real. I book the clinic alone, two towns over, sit there clutching the test, shaking. It's quick, but it guts me--more than I expected.

I go to Jake's that night, steady. We're on the couch again. He has a big grin.

"I got rid of it," I say, his grin dying.

His face crumbles. "Why didn't you tell me? We could've--"

"It was a mistake. It wasn't right," I cut in, flat. "Not for me."

"Emily," he chokes, tears falling, "that was ours."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and leave him. Too cowardly to watch him break.

Home, Mark's in the kitchen, that table between us. "It's gone," I mutter. "I took care of it."

He breathes out, relieved, shoulders easing. "Oh," he says, looking at me finally. "That's... good."

I nod, hollow, wondering.

---

Thirty years later, I'm alone, backpack slung over my shoulder, wandering some dusty town in Portugal. Mark's long gone--I was in a lawyer's office a few months after everything...after the cracks got too wide. No kids, no ties, just me and the world.

I'm at a market, haggling over a sack of oranges, when the vendor's cart jams. I heft it free, muscles straining but steady, and a woman nearby--gray hair, foam coffee cup in hand, bright scarf--smiles. "I wish I was you in the old age...you haven't lost the strength," she says, her English clipped.

I freeze, the words sinking in. A hand on my stomach, a fleeting hope. I manage a nod, pay for the oranges, and find a bench by the square. The sack's heavy in my lap, and I sit there, staring at the void, a quiet sob catching in my throat. Tears slip out, small and private. There's a weight. Heavier than a strong, lazy working-class kid with a goofy grin.