TEN
SHE DIDN’T REMEMBER getting to the bed, though she guessed it involved being lugged around like a sack of flour. She didn’t mind his high-handedness—at least not in this particular way. She was snuggled up against a warm chest, her leg wedged between two furred ones, her arm looped around a trim waist—or as trim a waist as a refrigerator could have. He was asleep still, his chin resting atop her head, his chest rising and falling with deep, heavy breaths. It was close and intimate and wonderful.
I haven’t had this since Scott. I’ve missed it more than I like to admit.
Scott was a writer—or a “novelist” as he preferred to call it—fifteen years her senior, whom she’d met at a friend of a friend’s party right after she’d graduated from college. Their affair went from zero to sixty in about six seconds, Scott overwhelming her until she had no choice but to succumb to his charms. He was successful, not making ridiculous money penning his mystery novels, but he did well enough that he could comfortably support himself from his trade without needing a second income. Some of it was his way with words. Theresa preferred nonfiction to fiction, but even she found a smile reading his work that was some parts comedy, some parts detective crime adventures. The rest of his success, though, was his good looks and personality. At every book appearance, Scott was swarmed by eager-beaver reading ladies who worshipped him as a poster-child handsome academic while waving copies of his latest trade paperback under his nose for signing.
Their relationship had started strong, Scott putting her mind at ease about the age gap between them and supporting her despite her mad-dash approach to starting her photojournalism career. He wrote her sonnets and love letters and sang to her on Skype on the nights she was on location photo shoots. Six months of dating and she’d moved in with him. Nine months of dating, they got a dog and named it Sawyer. And when Scott bought her an engagement ring and presented it to her on her birthday that year, televising his proposal on the big screen at a baseball game so the world could see, she was smitten and felt infallible.
But then year two happened, and things . . . changed. Her star rose ridiculously fast on the photojournalism front, her inaugural work taking awards for a series she did on Afghanistan. Scott was excited for her at first, accompanying her to cocktail parties and ceremonies, but a few months in, when the fervor didn’t die down but seemed to escalate as she got handed opportunity after opportunity, he lost enthusiasm. For all of it. For her, for her photography, even for his own books. He went to counseling for depression for a while, and they put him on the requisite pills and treatment schedule, but it didn’t do much to treat the listlessness.
When he’d made a quasi-miraculous recovery after Christmas, she’d wanted to believe something had clicked for him, that he’d found the magical concoction to ward off the depression. She wanted to believe he’d go back to sonnets and Skype singing, and she could have her career and he could have his, but it never happened.
No, what happened was that he began not one, but three different affairs in three different cities after his publisher sent him on a twelve-city book tour, which she only found out about because she happened to search his name on Twitter and saw one of the fangirls talking about him “that way.” He apologized for the misstep, vehemently even, and she’d accepted the apology and even considered getting into couples therapy with him to see if they could repair the damage. But then a second mistress was unearthed, and then a third a week after that. Scott kept saying how contrite he was, but he never really showed it.
He’d lied to her about so much, how could she presume the apologies were genuine, too?
Despite Scott’s passionate pleas and protests, Theresa had moved out and moved on in short order. And while a year after their breakup she missed Sawyer far more than she missed the philandering ex-fiancé, she wasn’t such a shrew she’d deny that there’d been some benefits to cohabitation, up to and including the comfort of waking up next to a big warm body.
And now I have another body to cuddle up to. For now, at least.
She nestled into Alex’s chest, feeling good. Sticky, but good. She should have showered after their fuck, but sleep sounded its siren song and last night’s lazy decision meant she woke feeling like she’d doused herself with Elmer’s Glue.
Yuck.
She turned her head to eye the clock: 8:30. If they hurried, they’d still make the continental breakfast. She groaned and stretched, gently trying to disengage herself from Alex’s grasp. She thought she’d take the first shower, let him get in after, but the possessive tug at her waist and Alex’s half sprawl on top of her kept her trapped.
“We’ll miss breakfast,” she said quietly.
“Mmmm” was all she got back, so she settled in for more sleep, figuring that as neither of their phones had blown up, the wedding was surely safe from anarchy for a few hours yet. She’d just dozed off when Alex shot up in bed beside her like someone had lit a firecracker inside his backside.
“Oh. Oh hell,” he murmured, his fists balled up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
“Kinda doubt the continental breakfast is that good,” she quipped. He jerked his head to look at her, mouth agape, eyes wide in . . . shock? Horror? Whatever it was she was witnessing, it wasn’t good.
She frowned. “I don’t look that bad in the morning.”
“No, of course not. It’s just . . . this. Whole thing. I . . . mmmm.” He hauled himself from the bed, revealing a taut ass that was far too pale against the rest of his tanned body.
She propped herself on her elbow, the sheet clasped to her chest to cover her breasts. Modesty in the wake of what they’d done was silly, but he seemed skittish—ready to bolt. If he was fragile—and by all appearances he was definitely fragile—she didn’t want to make it worse. “Are you having regrets? I’m on the pill. I’m safe. You’re safe. It’ll be okay?”
His silence was thick. It probably should have angered her or made her feel used or something, but she understood it even if she didn’t like it. He was devout, had said as much, had indicated as much with his practices. Fucking was bad enough, but mentioning birth control on top of that? Well, that was a two-for-one in the sin department. She was a believer, too—never missed Mass, said her prayers, did her penance—but she allowed herself some deviation from the path. Not often, but occasionally. Premarital sex wasn’t something she’d had since Scott, but now that she’d indulged, she forgave herself. She was an adult woman in her prime, and she had needs.
She recognized that it was a very personal decision. Alex might not come around to that way of thinking, and maybe he never would. It wasn’t up to her to change his mind, and if he struggled with it, that was his business. All she could do was have some understanding that this was a matter of faith for him, it was complicated, and give him the space to figure it out.
“I had a good time, if that helps at all,” she said. “There aren’t any hard feelings.”
“No! No hard feelings, it was amazing. Truly.” He grabbed his clothes from the back of the desk chair and paused, eyeing the bathroom. “I should shower. We can’t do this again.”
He blurted out the last bit, cringing like he expected her to shout at him, like she wouldn’t understand that being a Catholic could be hard.
I’ve walked the walk, buddy. I get it.
She smiled, not because she was pleased with the situation, but because she was fairly certain he needed the encouragement more than she needed to be placated because they couldn’t fuck again. “I’m fine, Alex. Go shower. We’ll head down to breakfast and get back to The Seaside. I can drive if you want.”
He nodded, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Thank you for understanding. Again. It was phenomenal, but I . . . well. Thank you.” And with that he disappeared into the bathroom to scrub what he undoubtedly considered “taint” from his skin. That was his burden to carry, though, not hers, and she set about gathering her things so she could take her turn in the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she stood beneath the hot blasting water, trying hard not to think about how good she’d felt the night before, with his hands on her, his mouth on her, with him inside her.
It was fantastic.
Be grateful for the one night and move on.
She got dressed and did what she could for her teeth and hair. It wasn’t much, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Alex was dropping money on the pillows for housekeeping when she returned to the bedroom. She started for the door but then her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number on the display, though she did recognize the area code as New Orleans, and she picked it up, expecting it to be Sol or Rain or someone from the wedding contingent reporting in on one screwed-up thing or another.
Instead it was the wedding troll, Tara.
“Heya. S’Tara from Weddin’ Kisses. Heard from th’swan folk. Gots ’nother box here. Hunnert swans ready ta go.”
“Pardon me?”
“Yer ears broke? Gots a hunnert swans, number’t an’ everythin’. Got ’em delivered this mornin.”
No, my ears aren’t broken. I don’t speak . . . whatever it is you’re speaking.
“Oh.”
“Darlene musta ordered ’em afore she kicked off, Lord rest her soul. Can y’get ’em by three? Gots a hair appointment.”
Stunned, Theresa covered the receiver of her smartphone and turned to look at Alex. Seeing her expression, he started toward her like he wanted to help, but she put up a hand to cut him off at the pass. “It’s Tara from the wedding planner’s office. A hundred numbered swans just showed up. Can we pick them up by three?”
He ran his hand down his face and hung his head. She almost cry-laughed.
The Great Swarovski Hunt was utterly pointless.
“Oh, an’ don’t ferget ta call m’coz Dale ’bout yer ice statue. Said he had some fresh deer that needed ta git gutted fer jerky but Darlene won’t never let him butcher when the weddin’ blocks were in th’freezer. He’s antsy.”
No, I suppose she wouldn’t have wanted that. Because dead deer in your swan ice statue on your wedding day is unappealing.
What was Darlene thinking?
“Will we get back to her before three?” Theresa asked Alex again. He nodded and sighed, turning his head toward the boxes of Swarovski and scowling.
The returns will suck to do . . .
Another thing that’s not my problem.
“We’ll be there, Tara. Thank you again.”
“Course. See ya soon,” she said before the line went dead.
Theresa slid the phone into her purse, grabbed the luggage cart, and pulled it toward the door without another word.
The ride was tense and quiet and it had nothing to do with anger. They were both tired, frustrated about the swans, and wrestling with their feelings. At least, she assumed they were—she certainly was. It’d been a year since she’d trusted anyone enough to take them to her bed, and he’d flat-out said it’d been a decade for him. So why had they picked each other, beyond the obvious physical attraction? There were oodles of attractive people in the world.
Parsing it was complicated, especially considering Alex was cranky and at times abrupt. He reacted first and apologized later, when the damage was done. He didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. He was regimented in a way that would have done an army general proud. And yet when he smiled, it was an earned smile—she felt good seeing it, knowing it was a rare treasure. He was smart. He was humble enough to admit when he’d been wrong, and when he wasn’t under tremendous strain, he was incredibly considerate.
And he’s bloody gorgeous.
We were talking about “beyond the physical,” Theresa.
She dared to steal a peek at him. He was looking out the passenger window of the Porsche, his brow crinkled, eyes narrowed because the noon sun was punishing. Beyond complaining that their breakfast pancakes had come from a conveyer belt machine in the Holiday Inn Express and that robot pancakes were sent by Satan himself to plague humankind, he hadn’t spoken in a long while. Every few minutes, he’d sigh or rub his temple, and she knew without him saying so that he was struggling with what they’d done the night before.
He needs something.
Help. He needs help.
She scanned the road ahead of them. It was a long, flat stretch containing nothing of interest other than a bridge over still blue water and McDonald’s golden arches in the distance. No restaurants. No malls for retail therapy. No parks for a little R and R.
There’s a bridge.
She got an idea. She drove into the breakdown lane. Alex peered at her, confused, as she slowed the car to a stop, a steady stream of traffic whizzing by them at far too many miles per hour.
“Something wrong? Do you need me to take over driving?” he asked.
“Nope. Come on out.” She didn’t explain herself as she watched her rearview for a break in the traffic. As soon as she was reasonably sure no one would turn her into road pizza, she ducked out and circled around the back of the car to Alex’s side, pulling open his car door and waiting for him to follow her.
“Theresa, is everything all right?”
“It will be.”
He unfurled from the car, casting a few furtive glances at the speeding cars and trucks blowing by. Theresa wedged herself between him and the Porsche, bending over and fussing with one of the plastic bags full of Swarovski swans in the back.
“What are you doing?”
She pulled out two boxes, one for him, one for her, and proceeded to unpack the swans from their nest of protective material.
“Therapy,” she said.
“Therapy?”
She ripped away the extra cardboard, peanuts, and bubble wrap until a perfect glass swan rested in her palm, its beak gold and black, the tips of its wings dusted with gray. She handed it to him before promptly dismantling the second box to produce a second, equally beautiful swan.
“I still don’t understand,” he said.
She grinned at him and walked to the edge of the bridge. She looked from him to the swan and then out at the water, and then, as hard as she could, she threw the stupid thing into the lake.
“Fuck you, swan!” she yelled before waving two big middle fingers at the rippling plop in the middle of the water.
“I . . . but . . .” He walked up beside her, incredulous, his swan still in hand. “Why?”
“Because fuck swans, that’s why.”
He stared at her like she’d lost her mind. His big fingers curled around the swan and he pulled it to his chest, cradling it. He was frowning, his shoulders were tense. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly started shaking his head.
Don’t you dare scold me, big man. Don’t you dare.
But, instead of castigating her, he lifted the crystal bird until it was nose level, blinked at it, and then pulled his arm back and flung. The bird flew long and far, way beyond her own swan, and made a much bigger splash. She let out a whoop and wildly applauded such an athletic, artful display. He still looked bewildered, but when he sunk his hands into his pockets, watching the disturbance he’d made in the pond surface dissipate, he found a faint smile.
“You know,” he said, his tongue sliding over his upper lip. “At a hundred and seventy dollars, that is some bargain therapy.”