Page 32 of Marriage & Mockery

“Good point.” He lifted me and settled me on top of him with my legs straddling his waist. “We better go again if I want any hope of catching up.”

Bennett quickly proved he wasn’t joking by taking me another time. And one more for good measure. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had sex three times in one night. Neither of us were getting any younger, and I’d probably wake up with aches that wouldn’t go away all day. The makeup artist would have a harder time fixing my face so I was camera ready, and I’d still feel where he’d been during my morning interview.

But I couldn’t bring myself to regret a single minute of it…even though the fate of our marriage was still up in the air.

17

BENNETT

After two nights sharing a bed with my wife in New York, waking up alone in our bedroom was even harder. I’d done it eight more times, reaching out for her over and over again before I remembered we were back home and she was in the guest room again.

Laina had been clear that what happened in New York stayed in New York. It hadn’t meant we were back together again, no matter how much I wished differently.

But that stolen time had given me hope that I’d be able to earn my wife back.

Pulling on a T-shirt and pajama pants over my boxer briefs, I went downstairs. The house was quiet since Lucy had stayed over at Shelly’s last night after the football game, and Laina’s bedroom door was still closed.

To get caught up on the days I’d missed while out of town, I’d put in long hours this past week. But I didn’t head to the studio this morning to go over the rough cuts. Instead, I brought my shot of espresso into my home office—after leaving a latte in the fridge for Laina, of course. A habit I had no intention of breaking since I liked starting my day by doing something to let my sweet wife know I was thinking of her.

Opening the secure screening software on my laptop, I mirrored the screen to the monitor I bought last weekend before pulling up yesterday’s rough cuts and putting my new headphones on. Two small purchases to improve my home setup allowed me to catch most of the minor visual glitches or audio issues that I’d previously thought I needed to be in the studio to find.

I logged in and started the first file, feeling less pressure than I expected for mid-October. Season five was performing better than anything we’d ever put out. The first two episodes had gotten the highest viewership numbers in the show’s history. The same executives who had fretted over the statement were now sending congratulatory emails like the controversy had been a marketing plan. Even more surprisingly, the network was already talking about renewing for two more seasons instead of just one.

It was all I’d ever wanted for the show, providing my team with long-term stability and immense creative freedom. A guaranteed two-year runway would give us room to map out complex, multi-season character arcs. Including Sally.

More importantly, the new material we were working on was completely disconnected from Laina’s inspiration.

The writers had found fresh pressure points for Sally that didn’t touch anything private. She still brought chaos in a hilarious way. Watching the cuts, I could see the character still working without needing to strip-mine my marriage for the laughs.

The only thing that would make me happier was working things out with Laina. But that had to happen on her timeframe, not mine. All I could do at the moment was focus on the work in front of me.

I made a few timing notes, flagged one reaction shot that ran long, and let the footage play. After a couple of hours, my eyes started to burn. The rough cuts were clean enough, so I logged out of the software, set my headphones on the desk, and headed for the kitchen.

Laina was at the counter with her iced latte in front of her. She looked up at the sound of my footsteps and went still. “Oh. You’re home.”

I wasn’t surprised she’d been too tired to notice the shopping bags I’d brought home last Saturday or that I hadn’t gone to the studio. She’d been totally wiped from her interviews that Friday evening but still insisted she had enough energy to go watch Lucy perform at an away game about an hour from our house.

“I fixed up my home office so I can work from here on the weekends.”

Her eyes widened at my explanation. “Really?”

“Yes.” I halved the distance between us. “I get that you’re not ready to hash everything out between us yet, but I want you to know that you were right to walk out that night.”

“I was?” she echoed, pressing a hand to her chest.

I flashed her a wry smile. “I fucking hated not knowing where you were, but it knocked some of the asshole out of me.”

“I wouldn’t call you an asshole.” She rolled her eyes. “Okay, maybe I did a few times during that first week, but I don’t really think you’re one.”

Raking my fingers through my hair, I admitted, “But I let my ego get the better of me. And not just with using some of your adorable quirks as inspiration without talking to you about it first.”

Her eyes narrowed, and her body tensed as though she was getting ready to run in the opposite direction. “What else did you do?”

I hated that I’d earned her mistrust. “Nothing as awful as that, but I took you for granted in so many other ways.”

My gaze dropped to her iced latte, and when I met hers again, she asked, “Is that why you keep making these for me each morning?”

“That first morning without you, one of the things I missed was how you always got up and made an espresso for me even though my day usually starts earlier than yours,” I admitted. “It’s just one of the many ways you show your love for me, and I want to do the same for you. Even if it’s with something small that only takes me five minutes before I go on with my day.”