A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (feel good books .txt) 📕

on holidays and the locum, like so many doctors in the country, had a heavy accent that was challenging to understand. But he asked all the important questions and sewed like a tailor so Tara relaxed.

Despite the chasm of coolness stretching between them, here in the treatment room it seemed the most natural thing in the world to slip her hand into Jon’s. He didn’t object. In fact his thumb moved jerkily back and forth, caressing her skin while the doctor stitched his scalp. It was as close as they’d been in months and she blinked fast to stop tears from falling.

When the doctor left to get the tetanus injection, Jon squeezed her hand. ‘Sorry.’

‘This isn’t your fault.’

‘No.’ A long breath shuddered out of him. ‘I love you, T.’

‘I love you too.’ She did, but recently he was hard to like.

His troubled gaze sought hers. ‘We’re okay, aren’t we?’

His need for reassurance dug in under the wobbly foundations of their current relationship. The problem was, she couldn’t tell if it was shoring them up or destabilising them.

Her phone buzzed in her bag. Zac. Familiar tingles swirled across her skin. Guilt chased them.

‘I want us to be okay, Jon. I really do.’

‘So do I.’

Did this mean he was prepared to do something about their sex life? ‘I want things to be like they used to be, don’t you?’

His expression smoothed into an unreadable mask. Her heart sank. Keep going. It’s too important to let this slide.

‘Ask the doctor about the drop in your sex drive.’

Horror streaked across his face. ‘No way!’

How could he ask her to confirm they were okay as a couple when clearly they hadn’t been for months, yet not want to do something about fixing their biggest problem? She knew he wouldn’t make an appointment off his own bat to discuss his erectile dysfunction and they’d just end up having another argument. Everything would be her fault. Again.

‘But you’re right here. Please.’

The doctor returned holding a syringe. After jabbing Jon in the arm and thrusting a page of printed instructions at Tara, he said, ‘Anything else today?’

‘All good,’ Jon said as Tara said, ‘Actually, yes.’

The doctor glanced between them, clearly confused. Jon’s previously impassive expression twisted into anger.

Tara looked away, holding her nerve as guilt bounced off frustration, neatly dodging anything connected to betrayal. If Jon truly loved her and wanted things to improve, this was the solution. If he couldn’t see that, she’d step up for them both and to hell with embarrassment. And, God! Why was he even embarrassed? Women had to expose their private parts for breast checks, pap tests and childbirth. Jon’s problem didn’t even need an examination.

She cleared her throat. ‘Recently, my husband’s had some trouble with …’ Sweat beaded on her forehead. This was harder than she thought. ‘Things in bed have been … We need a prescription for Viagra,’ she finished quickly.

Jon was breathing hard and he’d knotted his hands in his lap. The doctor stared at his shoes and Tara’s heart raced as hard as if she’d just sprinted a hundred metres. For a moment, taut silence stretched between the three of them, then the doctor tapped on his iPad. A printer across the room whirred into action.

Relief surged through Tara, justifying the excruciating encounter.

Jon heaved, the sound violent, and vomited onto the floor.

Tara bypassed the silk lingerie and pulled out an old pair of shortie cotton pyjamas that predated Flynn’s arrival. She thought she’d turned them into rags a long time ago but apparently they’d been missed in a regular clear-out. There was nothing sexy about them. She’d bought them specifically for a camping trip so she could walk to the toilet block without being arrested for indecent exposure. But they were cotton and soft—two things Jon had told her he missed.

Jon’s head had healed fast and his stitches were out. Neither of them had mentioned the Viagra. The prescription had sat for a week with the wound care instructions and the repeat prescription for antibiotics. Tara had crossed her fingers that Jon would take responsibility for it and get it filled, but as each day passed, hope shrivelled. Today she’d caved in, driven to Cobram and got it filled there.

She’d read the instructions—take the tablet between thirty minutes and four hours before intercourse. She’d been tempted to crush one into his dinner but the subterfuge went against the spirit of the endeavour to bring them closer together. So she’d left the packet and the instructions on the ensuite vanity so he’d see them when he took his after-work shower. It had almost killed her not asking him if he’d taken a pill, but his earlier words of ‘too much pressure’ silenced her. He’d shaved, which bolstered her hopes. So did the fact he was now cleaning his teeth instead of being downstairs watching TV or in bed asleep.

She heard the flush of the toilet and his call, ‘Bathroom’s yours.’

By the time she’d pulled on the pyjamas and finished brushing her hair, he was already in bed and reaching for his bedside lamp.

Panic skittered through her. ‘I won’t be long.’

She lifted the toilet lid and was turning to sit when something in the bottom of the bowl caught her eye. Leaning down, she noticed flecks of blue, except the blue toilet cleaner had run out and she was yet to replace it. Suspicion stung like a dart. Her foot hit the pedal on the bathroom bin; nestled under a discarded toothpaste tube and her make-up remover wipes were two empty silver pill foils.

Fury blew through her like a hot northerly, scorching everything in its path.

She stomped out of the bathroom and turned on the overhead lights. ‘You flushed them down the toilet?!’

Jon’s arm rose to shield his eyes. ‘I don’t need them.’

‘You do need them! We need them.’

He grunted and pulled the sheet over his head before rolling away from the light.

She sprinted across the room and hauled back the sheet. ‘No! You don’t get to do this.