Hot Ex-Sex

“No, I do know it says non-refundable,” Emily closed a window to block out the music from next door. Owen’s band was using the house to practise in again. Cars had been rocking up all morning, and the street was lined with beaten up, paint-challenged vans and Utes. Surely there was not so many people in the band? What were the rest of them there for? “But it says, non-refundable unless you manage to rebook the venue on that day.

“Now, I know for a fact you have waiting lists because I was on one. The date is still six months out. I am sure if you call one of the brides who were also on that waiting list, someone will want the venue on that date. Hell, if you give me the list of phone numbers, I will call them for you.”

As she moved through cancelling the many bookings that they had made for the wedding, Emily was learning to be pushy. People who had been only too happy to be helpful and answer any question they had, who had been always cheerful and pleasant to deal with, showed another face when it came to getting refunds.

Emily wondered again why she was the one having to call around and deal with the unpleasantness of cancelling, when Owen was the one who had ended their engagement. There was an unfairness with being left to untangle the mess of their lives when she had not been the one wanting to end it that burnt her oesophagus like acid.

Owen had not asked her about the renovations, or the refunds, nor had they discussed the joint credit card bill. On Megan’s advice, Emily had withdrawn half the money from their joint savings account and changed her pin on her personal account. It had felt odd doing so, however. Owen had always been the person she trusted with these things. To suddenly switch to not trusting… It didn’t sit right.

Had he done the same, barring her from his accounts? He had not touched the joint savings account, yet. She monitored it, waiting for some sign from him and trying to interpret whether him not doing anything was a sign that this separation was just transitory. A phase. Cold feet. An early midlife crisis. All the things her friends and family had told her it was when counselling her to be patient and wait it out – Owen would come round, they assured her. It was them, after all, Emily and Owen, they belonged together.

He was her beneficiary on her life insurance, she remembered. She probably was meant to change that too. What other things was she going to have to change that she had not yet thought of? The breadth of what lay before her was overwhelming, and she chewed on her resentment as she waited for the customer service representative to return to the line.

The front door opened. “Hey!” A woman called out cheerfully.

Emily stepped out of the kitchen where she had been pacing with her notebook before her and looked down the hallway in shock.

The wedding singer Cordelia stood in the door, the long line of portraits of smiling Owen and Emily framing her against the green of the front lawn, like arrows of accusation. Cordelia’s face fell. “Oh, shit, sorry, wrong house,” she said as she made a hasty exit, not even closing the door behind her.

Emily strode up the hallway and slammed and deadbolted the door behind her, and then rushed to the front window to watch as Cordelia loped across the lawn in platform high heels and a too tight pleather mini-skirt to the other house. How dim-witted did you have to be, Emily wondered maliciously, her heart racing in a chest too tight, to not realise the house all the band noise was coming from was the house you were meant to be at?

The neighbours were out in force, watering gardens that didn’t need watering, washing cars, walking dogs… watching their houses for the ever-unfolding drama. Her broken heart entertainment for virtual strangers.

“Look,” she growled into the phone as the customer service representative returned to the line and began to repeat his excuses. “I know it has nothing to do with you, and I am trying very hard to remain reasonable, but I am starting to think I am the only one who is. My fiancé called off our wedding, moved into the house next door, and quit his job. He is joining a band with our wedding singer, yes, you heard that right. He is sleeping with our wedding singer… Yes, just like the movie. Now I am here, trying to pick up the pieces of this absolutely… Thank you,” she closed her eyes, tension releasing. “I appreciate it. Yes. It is awful. Thanks again.”

She sighed as she disconnected.

There was a knock at the door. She groaned and banged her head against the wall in frustration, fighting back tears and wanting to tear her hair out. She glowered at the door. The knock came again, somewhat more hesitantly.

“Alright, I am coming,” she complained as she slid the deadbolt back to answer it. She almost wished it was Cordelia back again, as she wanted to unleash her outrage on someone. She could feel it building up within her, like she was a kettle reaching boiling point. She threw the door open, prepared for battle.

Owen ran his hand through his hair, setting the dark curls into disarray. He had a week’s worth of stubble on his cheeks, which gave him a dangerous, slightly rough edge, and set off his blue eyes. He was, frankly, gorgeous, and it pissed her off that she was noticing that now that he was no longer hers. 

“Em,” he said before the door was fully opened, uncomfortable, annoyed and apologetic. “Cordelia said she had knocked by mistake, and I wanted to say that I am sorry about that, and I hope we are not being too noisy. I know it is a bit… disruptive.”

“Which part?” Emily snapped, and burst into tears, which annoyed and frustrated her. She wanted to be angry, not sad, but the grief of it, seeing him before her, was tight around her heart. She pushed the tears away with the back of her hand, almost dropping her phone in the process. “Having this house on constant availability for the real estate agent to bring potential buyers through? Trying to ring around all the vendors for the wedding to cancel? Trying to separate our lives because you don’t want to share them anymore? Or having the wedding singer who I think you are sleeping with just walk into the house, unannounced?”

“Shit,” he glanced over his shoulder at the other house, and then stepped in closing the door behind him. “Em,” he put his arms around her and leaned his chin on her head, the way he had done since he’d had his growth spurt in the fourth grade and begun to tower over her. “I am sorry. I have been caught up with the band, getting the songs written, practising so we can record them… I have sort of left everything else to you. Which isn’t fair.”

She had been thinking the exact thing, she thought. As always, he seemed to read her mind. She laughed wetly against his shirt. “What part of this is fair?”

“Look,” he stroked her hair. “I have got a few more hours to work with the band, and when they head off to go get food, I will come over here, instead. We will order pizza, and share a bottle of wine, and make a list of what needs to be done. Alright?”

“No,” she said miserably. “None of this is alright. But, yes, I do need to talk to you about things, like the credit card, and the real estate agent, and what happens if the house sells…”

“Okay,” he pressed his lips to her forehead. “Okay, just chill out for the afternoon, hey, Em? I will come back, and we will sort it out.” Before she could answer, he was gone, closing the door behind him.

Chill out? She was so far from chilled out, if she touched wood, it would probably burn.

He had been so eager to get away, she thought wretchedly, as if she were an unpleasant task he had been putting off, like a visit to the dentist.

The music resumed next door and she groaned and fled through the house to the spare room.

She had stripped out the wedding stuff, managing to sell much of it online. Gone were the pretty little place markers, the guest gifts, the bridal magazines. Gone were the wedding boards and lists she had been using to keep track. The fabric samples, the paper samples… gone. She leaned against the door frame with a sigh. Just like her plans for the wedding, for the future, gone.

The agent had suggested she set up the spare room to look like a dual function zone. Possibly office, possibly bedroom. It would improve saleability she had said. The work involved in doing so was daunting. She would have to re-arrange the furniture, find a single bed or daybed she could borrow from someone…

“Screw that,” Emily closed the door behind her. Why should she go to the effort when Owen was not? Why should she put in the work to earn him better money in a sale? Why should she spend her suddenly incredible ample free time working for him, whilst he mucked around with his band next door, probably f-king Cordelia on his sleeping bag…

She was too angry to cry again. The anger was good, she told herself. She could get things done, angry. She took a notepad and pen to the kitchen and crossed off wedding venue as she programmed a reminder into her phone to check that the deposit went into the account as promised, and she started a new list to finalise her break up with Owen.

By the time the ugly, beaten-up cars that crowded the pretty little street began to pull away, and Owen knocked on her front door, she had ordered pizza, opened a bottle of wine, and had two lists lined up on the coffee table.

“Wow,” he said, shrugging out of the leather jacket as he entered. “We could use your skills for the band.”

“Shall we start at the top?” She was curt as she took her seat, pressing herself tightly against the arm of the couch, her knees tight and her ankle bones digging into each other, physically holding herself together as if doing so would hold her emotionally intact.

“Sure,” he said warily, sitting on the couch next to her, sitting close not out of desire for proximity but because it was practical in order to go through the lists with her, she knew. “You seem… mad.”

“Mad?” She repeated. “Why would I be mad? I have just spent twenty-two years of my life believing I loved someone and was loved back, only to find out that it was a lie, and now the future we had planned together, the future I had dreamed about, is gone, along with my best friend and my fiancé, and in his place is a stranger.”

“Em,” he put his arm around her shoulders, tugging her out of her tight corner and against him. The feel of him against her, the scent of his aftershave and skin, almost undid her grasp on her emotions. “I am not a stranger. I am still me.”

She shrugged his arm off before he broke her and picked up the list defensively. “Let’s start with the houses. This one belongs to you. That one belongs to me. You want to sell this one fine. I want to live in mine. Let’s swap back.”

“Em,” he protested gently, as if she were being unreasonable. “There are no furnishings in that one. It makes sense for you to stay here, where you are comfortable, and the furniture is.”

“The furniture can move over,” she pointed out stubbornly.

“And then this house will be bare for showing, which the agent says isn’t as good as having our furniture here,” there was a hint of irritability in his voice. She was being difficult, that tone said, on purpose, out of meanspirited, small-minded spite.

“And what happens when the house sells?”

He was silent for a moment. “I guess we will share, until the band begins to tour.”

“Not going to work for me,” she replied. “I still live a normal life with normal hours. I don’t want a band playing in my lounge room, nor your band friends coming and going.” Or to perhaps hear him f-king someone else in the spare room, having to share the kitchen and living areas with her ex-fiance’s new girlfriend… “No.”

“Look,” he ran his hands through his hair. “We will worry about that if it happens. Let’s not argue about something that might never be a problem.”

“Fine then. The credit card.”

He grimaced. “Yes?”

“I will take that on, as balance for the renovations in my house being finished.”

“There is just the floating floor to lay, and I am sure I can get that done,” he was relieved that she was being reasonable after all. “So, thanks.”

“The wedding deposits,” she said. “If I manage to get refunds, they will come to about eight grand.”

“Great,” he grinned. “That will be handy.”

It hurt that he felt so little about the cancellation of their wedding that she had to take a moment, staring at the list before her blindly, the letter incomprehensible and shifting on the page behind the liquid of unshed tears. She was not entirely sure that she could continue, for a moment. She desperately wanted not to cry during their conversation, to hold on to the anger that had fuelled her throughout the afternoon.

“I have transferred half the money from our joint savings account,” she managed, her throat tight and voice hoarse. “I suggest you do the same, and we will close the account.”

He drew in a breath. “You have really thought this through.”

“What did you expect me to do?” She retorted, taking a mouthful of wine, to wash away the sour taste of pain. “I will give you all of the wedding deposits, in return for the furniture and all the other bits and pieces in the house all being mine.”

“Fair enough.”

She took out the little black boxes that had meant so much, the discrete black felt hiding the promise of a future contained within, a promise that had been broken and would now never come to fruition. Little boxes, she thought, containing the pieces of her heart. An engagement ring in one and the wedding bands in the other.

It had hurt to remove the engagement ring. Perhaps because she had been so overwrought doing it, the ring had not wanted to come off, the finger seeming to swell around it. She had all but torn the skin trying to get it off, before spending twenty tearful minutes on the internet reading the various advice articles about removing rings that had become stuck on fingers. She had soaked her hand in ice water, crying bitter tears into the bowl, and then, with a little olive oil, had managed to remove it.

“I will sell these,” she said, swallowing hard. “And we can split the money. We bought them together.” A tear slipped free and wound its way down her cheek.

“Em,” he put his hand on her back and leaned his forehead to rest on the top of her head. “Em…”

She turned her face towards him out of habit, out of instinct, and he leaned down brushing his lips over hers. For a moment, he lingered, his breath on her lips, and then he closed the distance between their mouths again, his lips hot and his tongue coaxing its way into her mouth and tangling with hers, the kiss quickly building heat until she thought they would ignite under it.

When had they last kissed properly? she wondered. Had it really been so long she could not remember? When they had bought the house, they had barely been able to keep their hands off each other. When they had bought the couch they had f-ked on it and then spent hours making out and talking about their dreams for the future. But, somewhere along the line, between the renovations, their work, commuting, domestic chores, and all the detritus of life that passion had faded off… How had their kisses been relegated to closed mouth, polite pecks without them noticing?

She reached out for him, her fingers tangling in the over-grown curls of his hair, feeling the silken slip of them, the way they wrapped around her fingers, as he lifted her onto his lap, so that she straddled him. His lips travelled from hers, his stubble a pleasant masculine scratch against her skin, down the column of her neck, to the opening of her shirt, and back, and she arched into it, craving his touch, feeling his lips against her skin like a brand. There was a sense of urgency behind their touches and an edge of anger and hurt that burnt behind the desire.

“Owen,” it was a plea, but for what, she was not sure.

She heard her seam of the split of her skirt tear as he shifted so she was under him on the couch, and he shrugged, grabbing the material and shredding it to the waistband. She gasped in surprise but did not protest. The brutality of the action, the lust that drove it, made her heart race, as did the slightly feral look upon his face as he did it, as if he was discarding any politeness between them.

Her underwear shredded beneath his fingers, the lace giving easily, and she cried out as he tugged her to the edge of the couch and dropped to his knees, exposing her to his mouth. She arched into the stroke of his tongue against her flesh, his touch demanding and not gentle, pushing her to the boundaries of her tolerance, almost overstimulating her senses.

“Oh, f-k.” She loved it, loved the wildness of him, the feast of his desire, the uncompromising way he was taking what he wanted from her.

When had they last done this? She could not remember that either. Sex had become something structured and organised, as predictable as brushing teeth. Something that took place in the darkness in the minutes between turning out the light and sleep unless it was relegated to tomorrow because they were too tired or just could not be bothered. As her fingers closed in his hair, she realised what a shame that was.

He lifted over her, meeting her mouth with his. His lips were wet, and his tongue stroked against hers. He groaned, and she knew it was as much from the thought of them sharing the flavour of her between them as anything else, the wickedness of it thrilling. He reached between them to release his jeans, crying out against her lips as he lifted her hips to meet his as he thrusted into her.

She found his skin beneath the top she had not quite managed to strip from him, stroking along the smooth silk of his flesh, to feel his muscles bunch and relax as he pounded into her. His kisses were breathless and erratic, as his attention focussed lower. He swore, the cords of his neck and the muscles of his arms standing out as he shifted his grip and increased pace.

The rhythm of his body against hers, the demand of it, swept her away. She clung to him, sobbing out her moans, the sound of his flesh striking against hers a wickedly wanton percussion for the harmony of her voice.

They were not making love, she thought, they were f-king. But then, they had stopped making love a long time before and perhaps this was better, because at least it had colour and energy behind it. At least he could not call it beige.

“Yes,” he ground out between his teeth. “Yes, Emily, come for me.”

She did; and could not remember when the last time she had come during sex with him was. Orgasms had become something snatched in private moments in the bathroom with her vibrator, not shared with him. Their sex had become… obligatory. Mandatory. Mechanical.

He cried out as she tightened around him, and she felt the pulse of him within her before he collapsed over her heavily. His skin beneath the palm of her hands was damp with sweat, and his heartbeat erratically and heavily against his ribs as he caught his breath, his lips against the skin of her throat and his face lost in the tangle of her hair.

He moaned out another curse word. “Where did that come from?” He wondered, sounding as bewildered as she felt.

“I don’t know,” she was taken aback and a little embarrassed. “I liked it though.”

He laughed, a little wildly, unsteadily, as caught by surprise as she was.