We spend the rest of the day in separate rooms of the house, an uneasy peace in place. Susan, in my body, retreats up to the man cave, and I squirm, the thought of her in my favorite room of the house suddenly uncomfortable. It's not like she'll find the stack of Playboy magazines, but it's my refuge space. At the same time, I feel most comfortable hiding in our bedroom, Susan's perfume lingering on the pillow as I toss and turn, finally falling asleep in a short nap.
I wake up a few hours later, realizing nothing has changed. I'm still in Susan's body, still wearing this damn tennis skirt, but at least my panties are dry now. At some point, I think she must have snuck in here, because there's a blanket draped over me and the Tides of Temptation book is on the bedside table. Grumbling, I toss the blanket to the side and get up, using the bathroom and then walking out to the kitchen.
Susan is sitting there, the expression of awkward shame a strange one of my old body's face. "I'm sorry," she manages, having trouble looking at me. "I shouldn't have said that."
I give a half-shrug, crossing my arms under my breasts, "Whatever." I can't forgive what she said that easily. She's not wrong, this body of hers was crying out, practically a scream, to get fucked by my old body. It wanted it more than it wanted the air it was breathing. But there's no way in the world that I can take a dick, so it will not happen.
"Can we play nice for a few hours in public?" She stands, and my eyes flicker across those pecs once more, the t-shirt straining across a broad chest, and I grumble. It's not fair when my body looks so good like that, it's hard to stay mad when Susan's body is craving that masculine touch, begging for attention.
"Yeah." Susan grabs a bottle of wine from the pantry and I grab a six-pack of craft beer, and we toss on sandals, walking down the street, awkwardly holding hands like a pair of pre-teens, as we approach the neighbor's house. The Morgans live two houses down and they're nice, from the little we've interacted with them. They have three young kids, and I know that it hurts Susan - like it does me - every time Sharon posted another pregnancy announcement on social media. And yet, they're so genuinely nice that I can't help but be happy for them, and want what they have.
Susan steps up, ringing the doorbell, and Sharon opens it, a low-cut sundress showing off her incredible post-pregnancy breasts and I feel an instant jealous cattiness raising its head as she looks up at my old body, "Ed!," then over at me, "Susan! So great of you both to come!"
"This is for you guys," I awkwardly say and we gesture toward the alcohol we're carrying. She smiles, opening the door and beckoning us in. The party seems to be mostly in the back yard, a crowd of about ten couples milling around, chatting, as her husband - I can't remember his name - mans the grill.
She takes the bottle of wine from me, glancing at the label appreciatively, "This looks lovely, thank you!" She gives me one of those half-hug things women give each other, and she loops an arm through mine and pulls me toward the kitchen, leaving Susan wearing my body in the living room by himself, standing awkwardly. Sharon whispers into my ear, "But I can't drink right now. Would you believe it, pregnant again?" She laughs, self-deprecatingly, "One of these days I'll stop, his cock is just too good to pass up, you know?"
My stomach sinks. Susan is going to shatter when she finds out Sharon is pregnant again. They're the same age as us, living the mom-life that Susan always wanted for herself and meanwhile we have paint chips for the nursery in a room in our house we never use anymore. I weakly nod, agreeing that husband-penis is the best, and pour myself a glass of wine from an open bottle, taking a healthy slug. This party could not possibly end fast enough.
Sharon leads me out back, where a crowd of wives stands around, sundresses and other flirty outfits on display in the South Carolina summer heat, a crowd of young children running around, tangling between legs. I swing by the food table, throwing a pair of hotdogs and some potato salad onto my plate, before rejoining the women. I take a bite of the hot dog right as one of the other women comments, "Susan, so great to see you. You look great, how's the diet going? Must be tough to eat so little."
I almost choke, the fucking bitch, and try to swallow the food and smile sweetly at her. "Going great." Cunt, I almost snap at her. I could choke-slam this bitch into the patio furniture and cunt-punt her into the next zip code. Susan doesn't diet, and I know that. She works hard in her various exercises classes and eats healthy, but never has to skip meals and has never struggled with eating disorders.
The rictus smile still plastered on my face, I turn away from her and gaze across the back yard, only to see one of the other wives wandering up to Susan, running a finger over the biceps straining through the too-snug t-shirt I'd recommended she put on my body. Growling, I stalk over, just in time to hear Karen Thompson comment, "Wow, you really work out a lot," and giggle as she's fondling my husband's arm. I hip-check her out of the way, sliding into place next to Susan, and pretend like I didn't see her.
"Karen! So great to see you here! Where's your husband?" Yeah, I've got my fangs out, this is not happening on my watch. My marriage may be going to shit, but I'll be fucking damned if I'm letting this skanky housewife paw up my man. I mean, my wife. In my body. My man? What the fuck?
She glares at me, "Susan! So good to see you." She air kisses toward me and I'm seeing red at how two-faced she is. "Ed was just telling me about his workout routine, I offered to come over and help some time. You know, I used to be a physical trainer." I grind my teeth so loudly I'm going to need to apologize to Susan later, nodding my head.
"That's very polite of you." She waves airily and walks off, on the prowl for another abandoned husband to flirt with, and Susan glances down at me.
"I didn't think that was necessary," she says, and I almost choke on my wine. After everything we've gone through, and that's her reply?
A cheer goes up from around the grill, a crowd of men raising beer bottles and high-fiving Shannon's husband, whose name I still can't remember, with shouts of "Way to fucking go, stud! FOUR!" The men start chanting "Four" like it's a touchdown celebration. I peek a glance over and see the exact moment that her heart stops. Susan's face has gone gray and she looks like she might puke. Shit.
I nudge her side, "We should go say congrats. Then do you want to go home?" She jerks her head in a nod and I place my small hand in her large one, squeezing it comfortingly as we walk over, congratulating the happy husband on knocking up his wife yet again. He seems genuinely nice, although goofy, and accepts the praise with a bashful smile.
And then he accidentally makes it so much worse, elbowing my old body in the ribs, "How about you, big guy? Gonna finally have some kids with that beautiful wife of yours?" Before Susan can react, I grab her hand, my hand - meaty and strong, and turn, yanking two hundred thirty pounds of heartbroken housewife in her husband's body toward the house and our exit before the tears begin. I don't know how this ends, but it cannot be good.
"Sorry, I'm not feeling well," I snap over my shoulder before anyone else can say a word and Susan follows along, letting herself be dragged by me piloting her tiny body. We make the walk back to our own house in silence, locking the front door and retiring to the bedroom. We take turns in the closet, changing away from each other's gaze, and I slide into bed wearing one of Susan's nightgowns. I stare at the wall, my mind still numb, as I feel my body climbing into bed alongside me a few minutes later.
"Lo-" A cough. "Good night." What did she almost just say? Not that, right? Definitely not 'Love you' - she hasn't said that in months. So what was it?
There's a lump in my throat and it takes a few tries before I'm finally able to make noises. "Night," I manage, and I feel something ripping my insides apart in the cruelest fashion as I curl around a pillow, biting my hand. The first sob is silent. I'm not sure about the rest, but Susan doesn't move, pretending to be asleep, but I can feel her - my old - body heaving as well. We are not well. At some point later, I finally run out of tears and drift into oblivion.