Violet Bloom
PARKER
Texting her shouldn’t be the first thing I do when my wife gets out of bed in the morning. Some days I don’t even wait for her to get out of bed. I wait for her to roll over, slap the snooze button on the alarm, and curl back into herself.
I can’t stop thinking about Lyric though. When she told me her name, I was convinced she was lying to me. What type of name is Lyric? It suited her though—at least everything I thought I knew about her.
I think she feels the same about me, unable to get me off her mind. Based on how quickly she always responds, she must, right?
I watch my wife go, the sleepy way she’s walking, blonde hair mussed as she goes into the bathroom. Trying to hide messages and be sneaky about it is challenging, but it makes this more exciting too.
Kyle stirs next to me, rolling over in his sleep. I love my son, but the night he sleeps in his own bed for an entire night, I’m throwing a party. Friends of ours have a son who did the same thing, and he didn’t stop sleeping in their bed until he was almost eleven. There’s no way I’m going to last that long. I’m a big guy, and Kyle definitely got my height. He’s already as tall as most eight-year-olds and he’s only five. We’re gonna need a bigger bed.
I text Lyric, just like I have every morning this week.
I love my wife, and I love our family. Shit’s just hard.
When Alison comes back out of the bathroom, she barely looks at me, still pissed off about our fight last night. I hate fighting with her, and I hate how long it drags out. We both need to apologize, but I’ll end up being the only one who does.
“Hey,” I greet her.
“Morning,” she mumbles back, still not looking at me.
Kyle rolls onto his back, eyes fluttering open.
“Morning, buddy.”
He groans, hating mornings as much as I do. I wish we could play hooky but he’s got school and I’ve got work. He grumbles something, eyes closing again.
“No time for that. We gotta get dressed.”
Alison is already out of the bedroom, leaving me to get dressed and dress him. It’s not a problem. Our morning routine is solid.
Our eldest, Kaleb, is ten, and gets himself ready without a problem as soon as she goes to wake him up. I get myself and Kyle ready while Alison makes the kids’ lunches, and then I’ll make us all breakfast.
We share the load—at least I think we do. Sometimes I think she doesn’t think we do, but I do laundry, cook, clean. I live here too. I’m a partner. I’m not that man who asks what needs to be done. I see something that needs cleaning, and I just do it, not expecting her to do all of it.
I hear my phone vibrate on the nightstand and I’m sure it’s Lyric. No one else is gonna text me this early. But it’s not early for her; she’s already almost to midday.
I don’t have time to type more than that when I hear footsteps coming back down the hall, so I hit Send and pocket my phone in my pants. Easily, I coax Kyle off the bed. He’s got bed head and a grumpy smile on his face. Secretly, I love the little attitude he has in the morning. Usually he’s nothing but smiles, and seeing the other side of his developing personality always makes me laugh.
The rest of the morning is mundane, exactly the same as every other weekday. I get Kyle dressed, make breakfast, and then I’m kissing the kids and my wife goodbye and heading to my car.
I woke up late this morning, so I couldn’t text Lyric as much as I’m used to, and I’m already missing her.
I pull up our thread and see she hasn’t sent anything, probably waiting for me to elaborate about the fight we had last night.
My phone connects to the Bluetooth in my car as soon as I turn it on, and the little phone icon in the top corner of the screen is the phone button. I know she’s alone, so I take a chance.
My heart speeds up as I click the button and hear the first ring. I think about turning it off, but I don’t. Is she going to answer?
That question is answered when she picks up on the third ring.
“Hello?” Her voice is soft, a little shy and reserved…so silky. Alluring.
“Hey,” I say, hoping I’m not shouting. I want her to be able to hear me and the Bluetooth doesn’t always work the way it’s supposed to. She’s quiet. “I’m surprised you answered.”
“Me too,” she responds with a breathy laugh.
There’s another heavy silence, both of us unsure. This feels so different, like hearing her voice makes her real and not just imaginary. Of course I knew she was real, but this is different.
“What was your fight about?” she finally asks.
“Stupid,” I mumble, checking my mirrors before switching lanes and hitting the gas to pass the car in front of me. “She was cold, and I told her to put a sweatshirt on before turning on the heat.”
She laughs, and it’s the first time I’ve heard it. It’s a little higher pitched than I was expecting, considering the raspiness of her voice. After she stops laughing, she makes a sound of agreement.
“And it just spiraled.”
“Marital spat,” she murmurs.
It was my turn to make a noise of acknowledgement.
“Why is this weird?” she asks.
I can hear her moving around, like she’s pacing.
“We’ve been talking every day for a week, but having you on the phone is making me nervous.”
“I don’t know, but I feel it too.” I pause for a minute, seeing if she’s going to say anything. “But I like it. I like the sound of your voice.”
“I like yours too. It’s deeper than I was expecting.”
“Yeah? You like it, baby girl?”
“Yes,” she whispers, voice getting breathier.
“Tell me about your daddy kink.”
We’ve only talked a little about it, but the more I talk to her, the more I want to know, and if she’s looking for something, I want to be the one to give it to her.
I can’t be. She can’t be looking for it with me, either. She needs to find it in her husband, and I need to figure out how to get through this brutal season of my marriage. But finding an escape in someone else has its appeal.
“I’ve always had it.”
She pauses, and I can almost feel her thinking through the phone. I bet her dark brows are pulled together, big brown eyes narrowing, licking across her lips.
“By the time I realized it wasn’t my husband’s, I was already in love with him, and I just kind of let it go.”
“But now that need is being neglected?”
“Yeah,” she breathes.
“Same for me. My wife will call me Daddy if I ask her to, but it never comes from her.”
“We shouldn’t be talking about this,” she whispers.
I can picture her clear as day just from the few pictures she’s sent me.
“No, we shouldn’t,” I agree. “But we are.”
“When’s the guilt going to come?”
“I dunno. I haven’t felt it yet.”
“Me either,” she replies.
“We’re not doing anything wrong.”
There’s a yet hanging heavy between us. We both know that the more we talk, the less likely this is to stay platonic, but neither of us is pulling back.
How is it possible I feel so connected to her? When she’s so far away? When it’s been like a week since we met?
You could be a good girl for Daddy.
The words are right there on the tip of my tongue. I want to play with her. It’s safe. She’s safe because she’s so far away. At least three thousand miles, but I haven’t actually looked up the distance, so it could be even farther.
Safe.
Yeah, she might feel safe, but the nagging in the back of my mind is reminding me she’s not. This isn’t a good idea, and I know it.
Maybe I should pull back, but I don’t want to, especially not after hearing her voice.
“I can’t believe I’m talking to you,” she whispers. “About this.”
The embarrassment is audible.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” I remind her. “But I’m pulling into work. Can I call you again?”
“Yes,” she whispers immediately. Almost like she’s ashamed of it, of how exciting she thinks it is to talk to me.
“Have a good day.”
“You too.”
She cuts the call, and the conflicting feelings about what I’m doing come back.
I’m climbing out of the car when my phone beeps.
The second text comes in shortly after the first, like she wasn’t sure she should send it, but she wanted to.
And that just made my whole day.