Untouchable Only To Him

For five years of marriage, my husband and I lived with fifteen feet of open air between us. It was the rule. He had been diagnosed with severe sensory overload syndrome—a violent tactile defensiveness that triggered acute panic and nausea whenever another human being breached his perimeter. And so we drifted through our home like two parallel lines drawn on the same floor plan, forever visible to each other, never destined to intersect. At dinner, he ate at the dining table while I sat on a stool by the kitchen island. At night, he slept in the master suite, and I slept down the hall in the guest room. Whenever we stepped outside, he walked ahead with long, deliberate strides, while I trailed fifteen paces behind his shoulder, like a shadow that had learned not to cast itself too close. Until the night my appendix threatened to burst. The agony began deep in my lower right abdomen—a savage, tearing sensation that brought me straight to my knees. The pain doubled me over, radiating up through my ribcage until every breath tasted like copper. I dragged myself across the hardwood floor on my elbows, clawing my way to his closed bedroom door, and hammered against the wood with the flat of my palm. "Simon... please," I choked out, forehead pressed to the cool frame. "My stomach... something is tearing inside me. Please, drive me to the hospital..." The lock clicked. The door swung open. Simon stepped into the hallway, his tall silhouette outlined by the dim lamp behind him. He kept his hands buried in his pockets, his gaze deliberately fixed on a point somewhere above my head. "Naomi, you know my condition," he said, his voice flat, devoid of panic. "I can't be in an enclosed car with someone right now. Besides, I have an urgent matter to take care of at the office. I called nine-one-one. The ambulance will be here shortly." I watched him grab his coat, unlock the deadbolt, and walk out into the sheet of torrential rain drowning the city. I closed my eyes. By the time the paramedics broke through the front door, my appendix had perforated. I had already slipped into septic shock, my body going cold against the floorboards. When I opened my eyes again, the harsh fluorescent glare of a recovery room blinded me. High on the wall, a television was playing on mute, closed captions rolling across the bottom of the local morning news: "A driver risked treacherous conditions on the northbound interstate late last night to reach a stranded motorist. On the return trip, the vehicle hydroplaned into the concrete median. The female passenger sustained head injuries, and the driver shielded her in the wreckage through the night to prevent hypothermia. Both were extracted by first responders early this morning..." The screen flashed a grainy, handheld photograph of the crash site. Even through the pixelated broadcast, I recognized him instantly. Simon. And cradled tightly against his chest, her pale face buried into the hollow of his neck, was Mallory—his executive assistant. It turned out he wasn't incapable of being close to people. He was only incapable of being close to me. Lying in that narrow hospital bed, smelling of antiseptic and stale sweat, I realized with devastating clarity that the distance between us was never a medical condition. It was a chasm I would never cross. … The surgeon examined my fresh incision, letting out a heavy breath. "You cut it incredibly close, Ms. Price. Another ten minutes, and the sepsis would have been irreversible. Where is your family? Why hasn't your husband signed your intake paperwork?" The image of Simon holding Mallory on the news lingered behind my eyelids like an acid burn. I offered a dry, brittle smile. "I don't have family." The doctor looked at me with quiet sympathy, shook his head, and stepped out into the corridor. Moments later, a flurry of hurried footsteps and rubber wheels squeaked outside my door. A gurney was pushed past, surrounded by a swarm of trauma nurses and resident physicians. "Doctor, how bad is the head trauma? Could there be a skull fracture? Will there be cognitive deficits?" That voice. Crisp, resonant, but laced with a frantic, breathless terror I had never heard in it before. I turned my head toward the doorway. Simon stood there. His right hand was wrapped in thick white gauze, his eyes webbed with broken red veins, his linen shirt wrinkled and stained with road grime. His eyes never wavered from the pale, bruised woman on the gurney. "Sir, try to stay calm," a nurse told him gently. "Your girlfriend only has superficial contusions from what we can see, but we need to run a full CT scan to rule out a concussion." Simon exhaled a trembling breath. He ran his uninjured hand through his hair, looked up, and his gaze collided with mine across the threshold of my room. The breath caught in his throat. His entire body locked up, and then, with instinctive guilt, he averted his eyes. He waited until the medical team disappeared around the corner before walking into my room with hesitant, uneven steps. "Naomi... how are you? Are you feeling any better?" I glanced toward the curtained alcove where they had wheeled Mallory. The corner of my mouth pulled up. "Girlfriend?" Simon's face went gray. "No. They just jumped to conclusions. It's a misunderstanding—" "I understand perfectly," I cut in, my voice devoid of inflection. "You couldn't share an SUV with me to save my life, but you could spend an entire night trapped inside a crushed sedan, holding her against your skin. Isn't that right?" Simon's brow furrowed, his jaw hardening into that familiar wall of defensive irritation. "Last night was an emergency. Mallory was driving back from a regional conference and got trapped on the highway in a flash flood. As her direct supervisor, it was my duty to step in. What was I supposed to do, leave her there? Besides, I called nine-one-one for you before I walked out the door!" He deflected every word back onto me, his tone turning sharp, making it sound as though my ruptured appendix was an inconvenient temper tantrum. In truth, the landscape of our marriage had begun shifting the day Mallory was hired six months ago. A man who had spent five years avoiding contact, terrified of human presence, had suddenly found the bandwidth to help his assistant carry boxes when she moved into her new brownstone. When she came down with a stomach virus, he personally arranged appointments with private specialists. When her mother passed away three months ago, he flew two states over just to attend the memorial service. "Naomi... please don't be mad at Simon." Mallory had woken up. She lay in the adjacent bay, her delicate face streaked with tears as she peered through the gap in the partition. "I was the one who called him. I don't have any family or close friends in the city... I had no one else to turn to..." The second Simon heard her voice, he spun around, crossing the room in two strides, leaning over her bed with an intimacy that felt second nature. "Don't talk," he murmured, his voice softening into a register I had almost forgotten existed. "How's your head? Are you dizzy?" Mallory propped herself up on her forearms, trying to sit. As she moved, a jade medallion slipped out from beneath her hospital gown, swinging gently on a red silk cord. My chest seized. It was an intricately carved piece of pale nephrite jade. Five years ago, when Simon first became sick, I had traveled to an old sanctuary in the mountains, fasting and waiting outside the temple for three days until the abbot blessed it for protection. Because Simon couldn't bear my touch, I gave him that pendant so that something of my love could stay close to his skin, guarding him when I wasn't allowed to. And he had hung it around her neck. Simon gently pressed her shoulder down. "Lie still. You hit your head on the passenger window. They're taking you down for a scan." "I'm fine, really," Mallory whispered, casting a guilty glance in my direction. "Simon, you should go check on Naomi. I don't want her to misunderstand..." She pushed the blanket back, swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, and took an unsteady step forward. "I'll give it back right now—" Her knees buckled. She fell directly toward me, her entire weight crashing into the edge of my bed—right over my freshly stapled abdominal incision. A blinding flare of white-hot agony tore through my core. I gasped, choking on my own breath, spots of black dancing before my eyes. In an instant, Simon lunged forward, sweeping Mallory effortlessly into his arms. He didn't look at me once. He bolted out into the hallway, screaming, "Nurse! Somebody get in here! She collapsed!" I looked down. Through the white cotton gown, bright crimson was blooming across the sterile gauze, spreading like ink in water. They rushed me back into the procedure room to restitch the torn sutures. As they wheeled my bed past the emergency wing, Simon was pacing the floor outside trauma bay four. His fingers were tangled in his hair, his face pale with a terror so raw it gutted me. He stared relentlessly at the frosted glass doors, completely oblivious to me rolling past him just three feet away. Under the surgical lights, the doctor sighed as he prepped the tray. "Ms. Price, you had maximum local anesthetic yesterday. We can't safely administer another nerve block right now. You're going to feel this. Try to stay still." I nodded. The curved needle pierced the raw flesh. Pull, knot, cinch. A sharp, burning sting with every stitch that sank deep into my muscle, bleeding straight down into my bones. I clenched my fists into the sheets, bit down on my lower lip until I tasted blood, and did not make a single sound. When they wheeled me back into the ward, I lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take me. The door was kicked open with a violent thud. Simon stormed in, his presence radiating fury. He raised his hand and hurled the red-corded jade pendant straight at my face. It clipped my cheekbone and crashed against the linoleum floor, shattering into three clean, irreparable pieces. "Is this what you wanted, Naomi?" he snarled, chest heaving. "It's a piece of carved rock! Mallory has a severe concussion. She was already traumatized from the crash, and now she's unresponsive because of your petty, jealous tantrum. Are you satisfied?" One of the sharp jade shards lay glinting near my slippers. A slow tear escaped my eye, tracing a warm line down my temple. "Simon," I whispered, my voice barely holding together. "Do you have any idea that last night... I almost died?" "Died?" A sneer curled his lip, raw with disgust. "You had a chronic stomach ache. Stop making everything about your manufactured drama." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and slammed the door shut. The physical pain in my stomach was a dull throb compared to the slow, freezing numbness spreading through my chest. For the remainder of my hospital stay, Simon never came back. I only heard about him through the idle chatter of the floor nurses during their morning rounds: "That executive down in the private suite—did you hear he bought out the entire luxury wing just for her?" "I know. Flew in the head of neurosurgery from Johns Hopkins for a second opinion on a mild concussion." "He literally brought his laptop and files to her room. Works from her bedside twelve hours a day. God, find me a man who loves like that." Five years. It took five years of keeping my distance to realize that love was never a matter of physical geography. On the day I was cleared for discharge, I dialed my attorney's office from the payphone in the lobby. "Draft the divorce papers," I said quietly. "Make it clean, and get it done today." I hung up, walked through the sliding glass doors into the midday glare, and ran straight into Simon and Mallory. They were walking side by side, their shoulders brushing. The space between them couldn't have been more than two inches. A distance I hadn't been allowed to cross in half a decade. A soft, bitter laugh caught in my throat. I lowered my chin and kept walking, intending to pass them like strangers, but Simon's hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. "You're being discharged? Why didn't you call me?" I pulled my arm back, taking two deliberate steps backward, planting a wide, unmistakable gulf between us. "Simon. Did your illness miraculously cure itself?" He blinked, caught off guard. "What illness?" "Right," I murmured. "So it is cured." A flash of awkwardness flickered across his features, followed quickly by a rehearsed explanation. "It's the strangest thing... after spending that night trapped in the cab with Mallory, fighting to survive the elements, that tactile revulsion just seemed to break. My nervous system reset." Mallory beamed, clasping her hands together. "Isn't it incredible, Naomi? A silver lining to a terrible accident. His spatial overload is completely gone!" They stood before me, finishing each other's sentences, presenting their miracle like proud parents. "Congratulations," I said evenly. "Come on, let's head home together. I drove," Simon said, gesturing toward the curb where a midnight-blue Bentley Continental was idling. The car was over sixteen feet long. Sleek, spotless, gleaming under the autumn sun. In five years, I had never once sat in it. Now, I didn't want to. "No, thank you," I said. "I'm used to taking cabs." Before we were married, Simon used to promise we'd drive the Pacific Coast Highway together, top down, wind in our hair. In five years of marriage, we had never shared a passenger cabin. I wouldn't start now. Simon's expression tightened, the blood draining from his lips. Mallory stepped forward, looping her arm through mine with practiced familiarity. "Oh, come on, Naomi, don't be like that! Simon's car is incredible, and besides, since his sensory issues just resolved, having all three of us in the car is basically exposure therapy! It'll solidify his recovery." Before I could pull away, she was steering me toward the rear door. She guided me into the leather backseat, then gracefully slipped into the front passenger seat with the ease of someone who had occupied that space a hundred times before. The car smelled of rich leather, expensive cedarwood—and Mallory's vanilla perfume. Dangling from the rearview mirror was a pastel beaded keychain, swinging lazily with the idle of the engine. It matched the charm clipped to Mallory's handbag. Years ago, when Simon's first startup gained its first round of funding, he bought a beat-up Jetta. I had stayed up all night embroidering a small lavender sachet to hang on his mirror. He had proudly bought a decal that read "Reserved for My Girl" and stuck it on the passenger dash, pulling me into a hug and swearing, "No one sits here but you." Later, he traded up through Mercedes, Porsches, and Bentleys. And I was never allowed near any of them. Mallory flipped down the sun visor, pulled a tube of Dior lipstick from the center console, and reapplied it in the illuminated mirror with careless precision. I stared out the tinted glass, suddenly fighting the urge to laugh out loud. The seat I had spent years dreaming of sitting in was simply where another woman kept her lip gloss. I had known, of course. Deep down, I had known his phobia had faded months ago. I knew it when he started letting her bring coffee directly to his desk. I knew it when he came home smelling of feminine florals. I knew it when his late nights at the office stretched from eight to ten, then to midnight. I had stayed, pathetic in my hope, waiting for the day he would finally turn around and tell me I was allowed back into his life. The rainstorm had killed that hope, once and for all. The city buildings blurred past. An overwhelming, suffocating exhaustion settled into my marrow. "Let's grab lunch first," Simon said, checking his mirrors. Mallory clapped her hands. "Yes! Simon, you're an angel. The broth at the hospital made me lose five pounds. I'm dying for real food." Simon's profile relaxed, a fond, indulgent smirk touching his mouth. "You never stop thinking about food. Pick wherever you want. My treat." Mallory turned around, looking at me with feigned deference. "Naomi, you pick. Whatever you want." I opened my mouth, but Simon spoke over me. "Her stomach is delicate. She can't eat rich food anyway. If she picks, we'll end up at some depressing soup place. You choose, Mal. We'll just order her a side of white rice when we get there." "Well, if you insist!" Mallory giggled, immediately tapping into Yelp on her phone. I looked down at my hands, resting quietly in my lap. When Simon was first diagnosed, he had sat on the floor of our dark living room, sobbing, telling me: "Naomi, I'm broken. I'm a monster. I can't touch you, I can't hold you, and I can't ruin your youth. Leave me. Find someone whole." I had refused. I couldn't bear the thought of him rotting away in an empty house. I stayed. I researched holistic therapies, sat in on psychiatric symposiums, endured sleepless nights that made my hair fall out in clumps. The chronic anxiety ate away at my stomach lining until the ulcers formed. Looking back, my devotion was nothing more than an elaborate performance for an audience of one. The car pulled up to a secluded French-bistro courtyard downtown. Mallory bounced out, waiting by my door. "Naomi, you have to try their braised duck. Reservations take three months here, but Simon has a permanent VIP table." I stopped on the stone walkway, looking up at the wrought-iron sign. It was the bistro I had bookmarked five years ago, sending him the link every anniversary, begging him to go with me just once. He had never taken me. Simon caught my eye, a flash of guilt tightening his throat. "It's cold out. Let's get inside." Mallory ordered half the menu. When the plates arrived, she kept heaping duck confit, glazed carrots, and truffle pomme frites onto my plate. "Eat up, Naomi, the duck is so tender!" "Try the haricots verts, they're organic!" My bowl was piled high, but the smell of butter and grease made the bile rise in my throat. I felt hollowed out, sick to my stomach. Seeing that I hadn't touched a bite, Mallory hurriedly flagged down the server and ordered a bowl of plain chicken broth. When it arrived steaming hot, she pushed it directly toward me. "I'm so sorry, Naomi, I completely forgot about your stomach. Here, drink this." I nudged the heavy porcelain bowl back toward the center of the table. "I'm not hungry. Please, enjoy your lunch." Mallory's smile faltered, her eyes welling with instant, fragile tears. "Naomi... are you still holding the accident against me?" "I said I'm fine. I just don't want the broth." Her bottom lip trembled. "I really just wanted to make amends. I swear, that night on the highway, I was terrified... I didn't mean to steal him away from you..." "Naomi, that's enough," Simon snapped, slamming his fork onto the linen napkin. "She went out of her way to order you something you could digest. Just drink the damn broth. Why do you always have to bully a younger girl?" "I told you, I don't want it!" The five years of forced distance, the cold floorboards, the staples ripped from my stomach—it all crested in my chest like a wave of acid. I shoved my chair back and stood up. Mallory reached across the table to catch my sleeve. "Naomi, please—" Her elbow clipped the rim of the bowl. The boiling liquid overturned, splashing over the edge of the table and drenching Mallory's bare forearm. A piercing shriek echoed through the dining room. "Mallory!" Simon was out of his chair in a heartbeat. He seized her arm, his eyes wide as angry red welts immediately blossomed across her skin. Then, he turned on me. He crossed the space between us and, with the full momentum of his body, struck me across the face. "Smack." The sound cracked like dry wood snapping. The impact whipped my head to the side, my hair scattering across my eyes. "Have I indulged you so much that you think you can act like an unhinged animal, Naomi?" he roared. A searing, throbbing heat radiated across my left cheekbone. I slowly raised my hand, my fingertips touching the burning, swelling skin. Four years ago, a drunk client at a charity gala had cornered me and shoved me into a wall. Simon had charged in, breaking the man's wrist in three places, before wrapping me in his cashmere overcoat, weeping with fury: "I will never let anyone hurt you again, Naomi. Never." And now, his was the hand that had struck me. Simon stood frozen, his hand still suspended in the air between us, his chest heaving, his own pupils dilated with shock at what he had just done. Mallory sniffled, clutching her scalded arm. "Simon... stop, please... it was my fault, I bumped the bowl... I'll just go..." She turned and ran toward the exit. "Mallory, wait!" Simon didn't hesitate. He took off after her, his footsteps fading out the front door, leaving me alone among the upturned plates, the spilled broth, and the staring patrons. The dinner I had waited five years for had finally come to an end. I took a cab back to the house. The courier had already dropped off the finalized packet from my attorney. I sat at the island counter, read every line of the dissolution agreement, and signed my name on the final page in steady, dark ink. Then, I walked through the rooms. Every piece of art, every wool rug, every neutral throw pillow had been chosen by me to make this place feel less like a padded cell and more like a home. But the more I filled the space, the emptier it felt. It wasn't a home; it was a museum dedicated to his comfort, and my confinement. I pulled down my suitcase from the top shelf of the guest room. I threw out half of my wardrobe, packing only what I truly needed. One rolling bag. That was all five years of marriage amounted to. I was rolling it into the foyer when the front door clicked open. Simon walked in. He looked tired, the adrenaline faded, leaving him gray and hollow. His eyes immediately caught the dark red bruise blooming across my cheek, and his posture slumped. "Your face..." he murmured, his voice strained, awkward. "How is it?" I looked down, adjusting the strap of my bag. "Fine." He opened his mouth, searching for something to say, but nothing came. Then his eyes drifted down to the hard-shell suitcase standing beside me. He froze. "Where are you going?" "On a trip." A bitter, mocking scoff left his lips. The guilt vanished, replaced by familiar contempt. "You scalded Mallory with boiling soup, and your first instinct is to run away on vacation? God, Naomi, I never realized how cold-blooded you actually are." A faint, tired smile touched my lips. I wanted to ask him who the cold-blooded one truly was. But the words felt pointless. "What do you want me to do, Simon?" "Go to the hospital and apologize to her." "Fine," I said softly. "I'll apologize. On one condition." "What?" "Sign this." I pulled the legal packet from my purse and handed it to him. "What is this?" "Consulate clearance for an international visa. They require a spouse's signature." He didn't even flip to the front page. He took the pen from his jacket, flipped directly to the yellow signature tab, scrawled his name across the line, and shoved the papers back into my chest. "Done," he snapped. "Now go apologize." "Okay." At the hospital, Mallory's forearm was wrapped in fresh white bandages. When she saw me enter the room, she shrank back against the pillows, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence. "Naomi... why are you here? You really didn't have to come." "I came to apologize, Mallory. I'm sorry for earlier." Simon stood by the window, clearly surprised by how easily I had bent. I turned to look at him. "Are you satisfied now?" He stared at me, his jaw working silently, before giving a stiff nod. I turned and walked out. I was down the corridor, near the elevators, when light footsteps hurried behind me. "Naomi, wait!" Mallory caught up, slightly out of breath. "What do you want?" I asked. The timid, trembling victim was gone. A triumphant, sharp little smirk curled her lips. "You aren't blind," she said, crossing her uninjured arm over her chest. "You've known for a while, haven't you? Simon's disorder has been gone for months. He promised me I was the only person he would ever let close to him. All it takes is a tiny nudge from me, and he chooses me every single time. If you have any self-respect left, you'd pack your things." I looked at her, feeling neither anger nor jealousy—only an overwhelming sense of pity. I opened my bag, took out the manila envelope containing the fully executed divorce papers, and pressed it into her hands. "Be a good assistant," I said smoothly. "Make sure Simon reads this." Before she could speak, the elevator chimed. I stepped inside and let the metal doors slide shut between us. Outside, the late afternoon air was crisp, free of antiseptic and old promises. My phone buzzed in my pocket: "Boarding alert: Flight 1184 to Key West will begin boarding at Gate B12 in 45 minutes." I raised my hand, flagged a yellow taxi, and slid into the backseat. "O'Hare," I told the driver. The skyline dissolved in the rearview mirror, five years of silence slipping into the distance behind me.