Unwrapped (23 page)

She took pride in it. She might be a married woman nearing
thirty, but her body could still rock the club scene on its ass.

"Do you value your physical health more than the mental
or sexual?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"Under duress," he said, a slight lift to the
corner of his mouth taking the worst of the sting from the words.

She crossed her arms. "So?"

"You're clearly uncomfortable. We tend to see better
results with people who are actively engaged and," he gave a small cough,
"a bit more forthcoming."

"I'll work on it."
Stop being so sarcastic! You
want him on your side, remember?

Dr. Sloan waggled the silver pen in his fingers, his gaze
assessing. "And David?"

Gwen's heart squeezed in her chest. "He's been through
therapy already." Mental and physical. Had sailed through it, in fact, to
the delight of his superiors. While she. . .

"Did you attend together?"

"Some." And she'd hated every moment of it.

Gwen closed her eyes against the parade of images flashing
on the movie screen of her life. David wrapped in bandages, barely breathing.
In so much pain. The bright Irish blue of his eyes dimmed to anguished grey,
consumed with unwarranted guilt. Unable to attend the funerals.

Oh, God, the funerals. The hideous, bone-crushing weight of
sorrow bearing down on them all, on their entire community.

Don't remember, don't think about that, don't, don't,
don't.

Flash forward. David, on crutches—upright, finally,
thank God—but still so scary-thin. And frail. Frail in the way a big,
strong man should never be reduced to. Seeing him so weak had terrified her
most of all.

And grieving. Always grieving.

But through the pain, the trauma, the loss, he'd fought
back, spending hours working through the physical therapy. Never complaining,
staying so strong and positive for
her
.

And his beautiful hands. . .

Because her breath wanted to hitch, she took an extra moment
to calm herself.

"It was necessary to attend those sessions," she
said, relieved when her voice stayed steady. "I had to know how to help
him—"

"The physical recovery. What about the rest?"

"Isn't all that in my chart?" she asked,
dry-swallowing past the damn lump that kept rising into her throat and waving a
hand at the folders on top of his desk.

Dr. Sloan lasered her with that look again, reminding her unexpectedly
of David. She fiddled with the ends of her hair, fiery red against her pale
skin.

Okay, okay.
"Yes, we went to therapy."

"Did you find it helpful?"

Gwen shrugged, irritation rippling across her shoulders.
Would
I be here if I had?
This was not what she'd
come here for. The past was past.

"I didn't care for that therapist, if that's what
you're asking." Or all of her platitudes, her trite, phoned-in counseling.
Her paid-for-by-the-hour sympathy.

Dr. Sloan harrumphed over that comment, but let it go
without question. Instead he asked, "How have things been between you and
David since his recovery, other than sexually?"

"Fine," she said, and waited for her panties to
catch fire.

Of course they weren't fine. A three-alarm fire was blazing
right in the middle of their relationship, consuming everything that had been
good and loving and vital about them in its path. Nothing would be fine until
those flames were doused, which was the only reason Gwen had finally agreed to
go back to counseling. She needed the therapist to help her convince David she
was right.

Only then could they move on and truly put the fire and its
scars to rest.

Dr. Sloan raised his brows at her obvious untruth, but again
let it slide. Creaking his chair, he asked, "What about intercourse?"

"What about it?"

"Are you still having it?"

She shifted again, her eyes roaming the room, blinking at
the sun-spangled waters of the lake outside the window. Looking anywhere but
into Dr. Sloan's too-knowing gaze. His bookshelves needed dusting. She cleared
her throat.

"Not, um, exactly. Lately."

"Do you want to be?"

"I—"

How the hell to answer that question? Scenes of their years
together ran like film through her mind. David's eyes staring into hers,
transported with passion. The way they fit together so perfectly. Soaring
toward a shared climax.

But then, in memory as in reality, new images overlaid the
old. Icy dread skittered down her spine.

"No, I don't," she blurted. "I don't want
to." Oh, God! She shouldn't have said that out loud. "I
mean—"

What did she mean? Well, she meant exactly that. But. . .
Good Lord.
Breathe, Gwen. Breathe.

Dr. Sloan watched her, his hands folded on the paunch
straining over his belt, no judgment in his gaze. His calm acceptance of her
words allowed her to regroup. She had a strategy. She needed to stick to it.

"I mean, this-this problem, it's driving a wedge
between us, causing a lot of friction. I think it would be
smarter—healthier—for our marriage to table the sex." The lump
was back in her throat. Damn it. "F-for a while. Give us time to be
together without all that pressure. I mean. . ."
Don't babble! Stay in
control.
She trailed off, waiting through
the thick silence coating the office like fire retardant.

"How does David feel about that idea?"

Are you kidding?

"We haven't discussed it."

Because she shut him down whenever he brought it up, with
that look in his deep blue eyes cindering the chambers of her heart. How could
she possibly tell him she didn't want him to touch her anymore?

"Why is banning sex your solution?" Dr. Sloan
asked.

"It's just. . . just. . ."

"It strikes me, perhaps, as a bit drastic. What else
have you tried?"

She tossed her hands out, exasperated. "Books, online
forums, massage therapy, dietary changes, deep breathing," she ticked them
off on her fingertips one by one. "CD's, hypnosis—" David
didn't even know about that one "—journaling, visualization. .
."

"That's quite a list."

He wrote busily on his paper pad. Gwen slumped against the
back of the couch. Finding a solution to the panic attacks had become a
full-time occupation. And she'd failed. Tabling their sex life was the only
option left.

Did she want to live without David's touch, without the
physical expression of their love for even a day, never mind the rest of her
life?

Everything inside her cried out in denial, in pain, gripped
by the jaws of a merciless vise.

No, she didn't want to. She
had
to. To survive.

Maybe someday she'd overcome the fear and get back to
normal. If the break was long enough, if she kept trying. But for now, she
could only think in terms of forever, all or nothing. There was security in
black and white. No grey areas, no chinks for the smoke to slither through and
burst back into flame.

But telling David. . .

Yet here she sat, on a shrink's couch, said shrink digging
relentlessly into her emotional nooks and crannies with the very purpose of
getting her to talk about it all. Honestly.

Out loud.

The prickling at the backs of her eyes annoyed her. She
seemed constantly on the verge of tears lately, and she hated their useless,
draining weakness. Hadn't she cried a lake full of tears after the accident? It
hadn't done a wisp of good for either of them. She switched her emotional
faucet firmly back to the 'off' position and cranked it tight.

Dr. Sloan rocked in his chair, his shrewd grey eyes peeling
her apart layer by layer until she felt far more exposed than she should, given
the relatively little she'd revealed.

"Would you be willing to have your husband attend a few
sessions with you?"

Gwen stared out the picture window at the smoothly rolling
water flowing onto the shore. How could the lake be so calm, when inside her
everything rose and fell in waves of turmoil?

In truth, she needed David there, needed him to hear the
doctor say she wasn't crazy. That forgetting about the orgasm issue was
reasonable. It
was
. She'd put so much
thought into it all, and it was perfectly clear. It was the only way.

David loved her, wanted the best for her. Once he
understood, truly understood, he'd see that a sexless marriage was the only way
forward. They could be happy again. Secure. A lot of couples didn't sleep
together and were perfectly fine.

"I suppose," she said, even as the floor seemed to
drop away, leaving her feet dangling over the edge of a dark and dangerous
precipice, her heart pounding sickly in her throat.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Gwen headed straight to the gym after her session with Dr.
Sloan, panic building with every step until she all but ran through the double
glass doors in her haste to get to her favorite treadmill in the far corner of
the cardio room. She didn't even bother changing out of her street clothes,
just threw her running shoes on, tossed her bag next to the machine and hopped
aboard. She skipped her warm up, cranked the speed and the incline, and took
off.

How could she have been so stupid, agreeing to mutual
sessions? How could she look David in the eye and tell him what she really
wanted? He'd never agree. He'd think she'd gone crazy.

Maybe she had.

She must be crazy. How could she possibly deny either of
them one of their greatest pleasures? She loved her husband desperately,
urgently. With such intensity that just watching him open his eyes in the
morning, bleary with sleep, shivered her entire being, covered her skin in
goose bumps and trip-hammered her pulse.

Watching as the brilliant blue focused and warmed, watching
as those gorgeous eyes filled with love and gladness for seeing her beside him,
as they crinkled with his smile, was her favorite way to begin the day. His
smile could send such a shaft of adoration spearing through her body, it was
nearly painful.

Still. After all these years.

The love they shared was a constant miracle to her. Their
emotions were so tightly entwined it was difficult to know where hers ended and
his began, and never more so than when they made love.

But therein lay the danger for her now. His joys were her
joys, his hurts, her hurts. The overwhelming power of their joining left her
shattered, defenseless. And open to the storm.

He was hurting now, feeling the distance she'd placed
between them. He was frustrated with her for shutting him out. It made her
heart ache to know she was causing him pain.

But how much worse would it be if the attacks continued, if
she told him the truth? The guilt would devastate him. It wouldn't matter that
the guilt was unjustified. His Irish-Catholic soul would torment him over a
force beyond either of their control.

She couldn't do that to him. She wouldn't.

He'd turned the screws on her to get her to go back to
therapy, shouting that if she wouldn't talk to him, then by God, talk to
someone. Anyone. Just get some help. She'd agreed, but not for the reasons
David believed. The ferocity of the fear she experienced during sex was
consuming her, bleeding into the rest of their life together, affecting every
moment. It had to stop.

It had to stop.

Somehow, she had to protect him, and their relationship. She
had to protect herself. Removing lovemaking from their marriage was a last
resort, to be sure, but it was the only option left. She'd get her emotions back
under her command, and everything else would go back to normal.

It would. It had to.

David would never have to know the cause, would never suffer
that groundless guilt eating at him. And they'd be happy.

He wouldn't like the no-sex idea. But eventually, if she
could just get him to agree, he'd see that it was for the best.

Gwen swiped a hand over her brow. Her muscles complained at
her pace, her lungs burned. Her hair, left hanging down her back, became a
cloying mass, and the jeans were a mistake, encasing her legs in steaming,
melting-hot denim.

She ignored it all, tuning out the voice in her head urging
her to slow down.

The treadmill sat in a corner formed by tall, narrow
windows, one overlooking the lake and the other facing the forest neighboring
the building. A beaten path looped through mounds of colorful wildflowers
before meandering into the woods.

She used to love jogging that path, running outside with
David beside her, breathing in the scents of the flowers, the trees, the lake.
She used to find the view soothing. These days, all she saw was the fire
hazard.

Too many trees, too many weeds, too much brush.

Constant danger.

Gwen kept her gaze focused on the flashing red dots
highlighting her route around the digital track on the treadmill's control
panel, blinking furiously to keep those dots from blurring through the moisture
gathering in her eyes.

She'd forgotten her iPod, but it didn't matter. Her pounding
feet and rasping breaths filled her ears. The rest of the club fell
away—the chatter, the clanking weights—until she became only
pumping body and thrumming machine.

No thoughts. No memories. No questions.

When a hand patted her shoulder, she screamed in fright and
nearly fell. Instinct saved her. She grabbed for the handrails with both hands,
jumping her feet to either side of the hurtling belt.

"Oh, my God, Gwen, I'm so sorry!"

"J-Julie," Gwen gasped, stopping the treadmill and
dropping her hands to her knees, her head hanging while she tried to catch her
breath.

"I called you, but you didn't hear me, so I—wow,
sorry."

Gwen nodded as she straightened and stepped off the machine,
but big, greasy black spots swarmed in front of her eyes and she did fall,
tripping straight back into a huge rack of free-weights. Momentum worked
against her and she toppled down the rack, landing on top of the larger weights
stacked on the floor and slamming her hip, side and shoulder. Pain exploded.
Dizzy, she bit down hard on her lip to beat back the blasted tears she'd just
outrun.