Free Crushing Crystal by Evan Marshall Page B

important to you to see Italy, but we’ll go another time. It’s not going anywhere.”
    â€œThat’s what they said about Pompeii,” I moped.
    â€œThat’s the spirit,” he said.
    How exactly is that the spirit? I thought. Did you even hear what I said?!
    After that, I should have known then that Reilly and I weren’t well-suited for each other, but never even considered canceling the wedding. The invitations had already been mailed. My bridesmaids paid for their dresses. My mother was so proud of my choice.
    I suggested we go to Italy for our fifth wedding anniversary, but Reilly said we needed to wait until we were more financially secure. We had no kids and each earned six-figure salaries. How much more secure could we get? I asked again on our tenth anniversary, but Reilly suggested that everything I would ever want to see at an Italian museum could be viewed on the Internet.
    Reilly said that he travels to different countries so much for his job as an international business consultant that he prefers to vacation at resorts. We’ve been to Cancun, Barbados, Puerta Vallarta, Bermuda and Jamaica. Once we took a cruise to Alaska.
    Reilly isn’t entirely to blame. I am a self-sufficient adult. I could’ve easily booked a flight for myself and taken off, but traveling to Europe alone held a certain stigma for me. Like I’m such a loser I couldn’t even get a date for this wonderful journey. Perhaps, Matt and I would go together, I thought. I drifted to sleep on the sweet thought of Matt and me together in Italy. In my dream, we were sitting outside the Coliseum in Rome having a picnic of nothing but candy. In real life I would never overdose on sugar this way, but in the dream I wasn’t the least bit concerned about my weight. I was practically drunk on strawberry cream–filled chocolates when I fell onto our picnic blanket laughing. I don’t remember what was so funny, but Matt was laughing too. He rolled onto me and began kissing me, moving down toward my stomach. He lifted my shirt ever so slightly and began nibbling my belly. Then he asked me if I was awake. “Prudence, are you up?” he whispered, kissing my stomach again. “Prudence,” he teased. “Wake up.” Then Reilly was there kissing my stomach too.
    Shit, this really is Reilly! I realized as I bolted upright in bed. Damn it. I was enjoying that dream until my husband sidled his way into the picture. In the dark of our bedroom, I saw Reilly leaning onto his right elbow, coming at me in his Ward Cleaver pajamas. I felt as sexually repulsed as the time when my twelfth-grade chemistry teacher hit on me during detention. Both times, I knew I couldn’t follow my instinct to bite and run. Then and now, I would have to come up with an excuse that spared the ego, but kept the enemy troops at bay.
    â€œReilly, I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow. I need my rest tonight,” I explained.
    â€œYou’ve got big meetings every day,” he reminded me.
    â€œI know, but I’m exhausted,” I said, irritated by his persistence.
    â€œThere’s a new one,” Reilly muttered just loud enough for me to hear.
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?” I shot back.
    Reilly started fiddling with the fitted sheet, trying to get it to hug the edge it had slipped from. After he accomplished this, he straightened the top sheet a bit.
    â€œHello?!” I sniped.
    â€œWhat?!” he took it up a notch.
    â€œI asked you what that comment was supposed to mean and all you’re doing is making the bed in the middle of the night. What did you mean, ‘That’s a new one’?” I said, using my dopey male voice as his.
    â€œI meant that you’ve been tired a lot lately,” he clipped.
    â€œI am tired,” I defended. “It’s not like I’m sitting around all day waiting for you to come home so I can put on my fucking kimono and