Merry Christmas, You Filthy Cheater

The silk nightgown clung to my skin like a whispered promise, its deep burgundy fabric catching the dim lamplight as I shifted beneath the covers. I'd spent twenty minutes in the bathroom, brushing my hair until it fell in soft waves over my shoulders, applying just enough perfume to make Ryan notice when he finally turned around.

But he hadn't turned around.

For the past hour, Ryan had been lying with his back to me, shoulders rigid beneath his plain white t-shirt, fingers tapping relentlessly against his phone screen. The blue glow illuminated the sharp line of his jaw, casting shadows that made him look like a stranger.

"Ryan?" My voice came out softer than intended, almost hesitant.

His typing didn't pause. "Mmm?"

I traced a finger along the edge of the comforter, gathering courage. Christmas was only a week away, and we hadn't touched each other in... God, how long had it been? Three weeks? A month? The space between us felt like an ocean.

"Could you maybe put the phone down?" I shifted closer, letting my hand graze his shoulder blade. "It's been such a long day, and I thought we could—"

"Sarah." Ryan's voice cut through my words like ice. He finally turned, but his expression made me wish he hadn't. His dark eyes, once warm when they looked at me, now held nothing but irritation. "I'm exhausted. The company's hemorrhaging money, and there's talk of layoffs after New Year's. I've got spreadsheets to review, budgets to finalize—"

"I know, but—"

"Do you?" He sat up abruptly, running a hand through his disheveled brown hair. "Because it doesn't seem like you understand the pressure I'm under. I can't just turn it off because you're feeling... what's the word?" His gaze swept over my nightgown with something that looked almost like disgust. "Needy?"

The word hit me like a physical blow. Heat flooded my cheeks, shame crawling up my throat like bile. I pulled the covers higher, suddenly conscious of every inch of exposed skin.

"I'm not—" I started, then stopped. What could I say? That I missed him? That I felt like we were roommates instead of husband and wife? That sometimes I caught him looking at me like I was an inconvenience?

"Look, I get it," Ryan continued, his tone softening just enough to sound condescending. "You're home all day while I'm dealing with the real world. But some of us have actual responsibilities. Can't you find something else to occupy your time? Read a book, call your sister, I don't know. Just... don't be so desperate, okay?"

Desperate.

The word echoed in my head as I sank deeper into the mattress, wishing I could disappear entirely. My throat constricted, making it hard to breathe. When had I become this person? When had wanting my own husband's attention become desperate?

"You're right," I whispered, turning away from him. "I'm sorry."

Ryan was already facing his phone again, dismissing me with practiced ease. "It's fine. Just... let me finish this, okay?"

I curled into myself, pulling my knees to my chest as the silk nightgown twisted around my legs. The fabric that had felt sensual minutes ago now felt ridiculous, like a costume for a role I was failing to play. Through the thin walls of our bedroom, I could hear the neighbor's Christmas music drifting over—something cheerful about love and togetherness that made my chest ache.

Behind me, Ryan's fingers resumed their frantic dance across his screen. But something about the rhythm seemed different now. Faster. More urgent. Not like someone reviewing spreadsheets.

I closed my eyes, trying to block out the soft sound of his typing, the way his breath quickened slightly when a message came through. Trying not to think about how long it had been since he'd touched me with even a fraction of the attention he gave that phone.

The typing stopped for a moment, and I heard him take a sharp breath. Then came the soft whoosh of a message being sent, followed immediately by another incoming notification. His phone buzzed again, and I felt him shift behind me, his movements careful and quiet.

Too quiet.

I kept my breathing even, feigning sleep as curiosity and dread warred in my stomach. The bed dipped slightly as Ryan adjusted his position, and I caught a glimpse of light as he angled his phone away from me, shielding the screen.

Another message. Another careful, silent response.

My heart hammered against my ribs as pieces of a puzzle I didn't want to solve began clicking into place. The late nights. The sudden need for privacy. The way he'd started showering immediately when he came home, as if washing something away.

The way he looked at me now—not with love, not even with indifference, but with guilt.

I bit down on my lip to keep from making a sound as Ryan's fingers moved across his screen with the kind of tenderness he used to reserve for touching my face. Whatever he was typing, whoever he was talking to, it mattered to him in a way I no longer did.

The realization settled over me like a weight, pressing down until I could barely breathe. I was twenty-eight years old, lying in bed next to my husband of three years, wearing lingerie he wouldn't even look at, and I had never felt more alone.

Ryan's phone buzzed one more time. This time, I heard him smile—actually heard the soft intake of breath, the barely audible sound of lips curving upward. It was a sound I remembered from our early days together, when his messages had been for me.

Now that smile belonged to someone else.