“Thank you for that,” I say, focusing on dicing the chicken.
When that’s done and the pasta has been boiled and the broccoli steamed, I mix it all together in a casserole dish, mix in a few cans of cream of chicken, cover it, and put it in the preheated oven to bake.
I wash my hands, and then lean against the counter. “I’m going to go up and rinse off before we eat. I’m all greasy from sunblock.”
“Can I help?” he says, grinning, “I’m great at rinsing.”
I’m sorely tempted to say yes, but I don’t. “I think I can manage on my own.”
He snaps his fingers. “Damn. Way to ruin all my hopes and dreams.”
“Ruined? Or delayed?” I tease, sashaying toward the hallway.
He twirls his chalk marker between his fingers. “The way I’m feeling right now, they’re the same thing.”
I have no answer for that—at least not one that doesn’t involve jumping his beautiful bones right there in the kitchen. So I just shoot him a smile over my shoulder as I head for the stairs. In my room, I strip out of my clothes and rinse off quickly, taking a few extra minutes to make sure everything down south is trimmed and that my legs are smooth. What to wear is a conundrum, though. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard, so it can’t be fancy, but I want to look nice, so it can’t be grubby, either.
I end up wearing a blue and white silk romper, barefoot, no jewelry, minimal makeup, and just a spritz of perfume. I twist my hair up in a simple chignon with a few loose wisps draped casually down my cheeks. Underneath the romper, I’m wearing the same red lace set of lingerie that had almost caused the wreck, because while I’m not positive anything is going to happen tonight, I want to be ready if it does.
Feeling pretty and presentable, I head downstairs. Jesse is just then setting the new faucet into the sink, then leaning in underneath it to tighten it into place. My timer beeps, letting me know it’s time to add the cheese. I take off the foil, add a thick layer of cheddar, reset the timer for another three minutes, and then turn to find Jesse leaning back against the finished sink, his eyes on me in that blatant, admiring way he has.
“You look incredible.”
I duck my head at his compliment. “Thanks.”
“If I’d known you’d dress up like that, I’d have brought a button-down and nicer jeans.” He flips his wrench in his hand, and then holsters it in his tool belt, which he unbuckles and removes.
I laugh. “I’m not dressed up, I’m just not in pajamas anymore.”
“Hey, those pajamas are—”
“The cat’s pajamas?” I suggest, grinning.
“Okay, grandma. No, I was going to say they’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, but then, that wouldn’t be fair to what you’re wearing now.”
“You like the romper, huh?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “I like beer and pretzels and ESPN sports highlights—I love that romper.”
I smile happily. “Well…I’m glad you like it.”
Why does this feel awkward, all of a sudden?
Jesse is just staring at me, looking me up and down, a tiny, private grin on his face.
“What?” I ask, self-conscious under his scrutiny.
“Nothing. I just can’t help staring at you.” He sets his tool belt on the counter, and turns back to me. “Is it making you uncomfortable?”
I nod. “A little.”
“Sorry, you’re just gorgeous, and I’m not great with self-restraint.”
“You’re really laying it on thick tonight, Mr. O’Neill.”
He shrugs. “I just calls ’em like I sees ’em.” He gestures at the sink. “So, what do you think?”
I move over next to him, standing in front of the sink. “It’s…it’s perfect, Jesse.”
He traces the side of the sink with a fingertip. “It’s an actual antique, you know. Over a hundred years old, original to the farmhouse. The owners were happy to see it go to someone who would appreciate it. If I hadn’t taken it they were going to see about selling it to an antiques dealer, but while it’s beautiful and in perfect condition, it’s not like they’d have gotten a lot for it. Better this way.” He taps the countertops, which are laminate made to look like marble, a cheap, chintzy effect. “All you need in here now is to replace these countertops, paint the cabinets white, and put in glass-front doors.”
“And rip out the floor and put in new tile,” I point out.
He shrugs, laughing. “Yeah, that too. Other than that, not much!”
“One step at a time,” I say. “Thank you for the sink, Jesse. You have to let me at least pay you for your time.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Dinner with you is payment enough.” He taps the countertop again. “I think some nice, rich, dark-stained butcher blocks would work well in here. I can pick some up fairly reasonably. You don’t have, like, acres of counter to do so you’re not looking at a huge expense. And honestly, stripping and painting the cabinets is something you could do yourself easily on a weekend afternoon.”
“I wouldn’t know how to strip them, but painting I can do.”
“Well, maybe I can come over some Saturday and we can do it together.”
I gaze up at him. “Why are you so willing to do all this work for me?”
He lifts one big shoulder. “It’s work I enjoy doing, for one thing. I get a great sense of accomplishment and pride from seeing something improved through my efforts. For another thing, I like you, and I like being around you, so doing something I enjoy around a woman I like? It doesn’t feel like work.”
The oven timer dings, and I pull out the casserole. I point at a cabinet. “The plates are in there and the forks are in the drawer behind you.”
He retrieves the silverware and plates, and while I’m dishing up the food he takes a bottle of red wine from the little rack on the counter next to my fridge, opens it, and pours us each a glass, and then helps me carry everything outside to my table.
Our meal together is slow, easy, and leisurely. Comfortable. We talk about our families—his father passed away from a stroke when he was in high school, and his mom is a retired teacher living in an all-inclusive assisted living retirement community in Arizona. He has one younger brother, a career Marine Corps officer stationed in Okinawa. I tell him about growing up an only child of older parents—I was born when my father was fifty and my mom forty-five. I was an unexpected accident, something they were very clear about my whole life. We trade high school embarrassment stories, first crushes, college party stories, bad trips, bad dates, and everything in between. The wine flowed—perhaps a little too freely, but I’m enjoying myself more than any date in recent memory. At some point there’s a second bottle opened, and we’re sitting side by side in my lounge chairs, watching for the few stars visible in the Chicago suburbs.
The lounge chairs are close, and we’re sitting facing each other, our knees brushing. Every once in awhile, one of us will gesture as we talk, and our hands will touch, or his fingers will rest, briefly, on my knee. I’m feeling good, happy, light, loose—a little buzzed, maybe. And I can’t seem to keep my eyes off of his lips. I remember vividly the feel of them on mine, and I want that again. I remember the way his hands felt on my hips, and clutching my buttocks. I remember the way the hard ridge of his erection pressed against me through his jeans.
Will he kiss me? What’s he waiting for?
I want what comes after kissing.
I want the rush of adrenaline; I want hands tearing at clothes, lips stuttering across bare skin, breath on breath. I want to let my desperation and hunger go free. I want to surrender to him. I want to feel small and delicate beneath him. I want to feel wanted, desired, needed.
Hours have passed since dinner—are we are on our third bottle? I can’t remember.
I’m getting impatient.
Jesse gets up, excuses himself to use the bathroom, and I follow him inside. I’m a little unsteady, a little dizzy.
I use the bathroom after Jesse
, and take a moment to fix my hair and plump up my cleavage.
When I come out, Jesse is drinking a glass of water, sitting on my couch in my living room, looking through my coffee table book of Ansel Adams photography. He looks up when I come out, and his eyes darken with desire.
That look in his eyes turns me to mush, makes my thighs tremble.
I sit beside him, take the glass of water from him, drink some, and put it down. I’m angled into him, knees against his thighs. He’s so close, so big, so strong and handsome, and my lips tingle in anticipation.
I wait—a beat, two, three.
Is he not going to kiss me?
Fuck it.
I lean against him, wrap my hand around the back of his head and cup his cheek with the other hand and press my lips to his. He rumbles low in his chest, and his hands slide around my waist. For a moment, he just holds me like that, kissing me back—and then he lifts me onto his lap. I straddle him, feeling his erection through his jeans, his hands scraping up the front of my thighs from knees to hips and then he spans my hips with his hands and pulls me closer. I’m levered over him, bent over to kiss him, gasping against his tongue, tasting him, hands playing in his hair.
I grind against him, writhing my hips, telling him silently what I want and how much I want it.
Except, instead of taking the hint, he breaks the kiss, panting.
I frown down at him, licking the taste of him off my lips. “Wha—why did you stop?”
He rests his head against my chest, his forehead just beneath my chin. “We’ve had a lot of wine, Imogen.”
“Yeah, so?”
“I’m no lightweight, but I’m feeling it,” he says, his voice heavy and slow. “And I know you are, too.”
“Maybe a little,” I admit, my chest tight with foreboding. “So what, though? If we’re both in the same place and we both want this, what’s the problem?”
He captures my wrists in one hand, holds them against his chest, and uses his other hand to brush a tendril of my hair away from my eyes. “If we’d already slept together, I wouldn’t have a problem with it. Half-drunk sex can be awesome, but—I don’t want our first time together to be half-drunk.”
“Why not?” I whisper, rejection stinging hard.
“Because I want you to go into it totally sober, totally in control, absolutely feeling and knowing everything.” He tries to meet my eyes, but I won’t let him.
“I appreciate you trying to do the honorable thing here, Jess, but I know what I want, and I’m not so drunk that I don’t know what I’m doing.” Goddammit, I hate how my voice quavers.
“Imogen—please don’t think this is easy for me. I want you more than I can say—”
“So don’t tell me—show me. Please,” I say, my voice breaking into a whisper on the last word.
“God, I fucking want to. But you’re only just out of a ten-year marriage, Imogen. You’ve been through a lot, and I just cannot and will not let you jump into something half-drunk. I will not be something you regret rushing into.”
“I’m not rushing, I just—”
He cups my face in one hand. “Imogen, please understand. This is honestly the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but I know it’s the right thing.”
My raging hormones don’t agree. I rub my core against him. “Jesse, again—I appreciate what you’re doing, and I really respect you taking the honorable route, here, but…” I choke on my words. “But I need this. You don’t understand.”
He snarls wordlessly when I rub against him, and all but throws me off of him onto the couch, shooting to his feet and pacing away, fists clenching and releasing. “Fuck, Imogen. I can tell exactly how much you need this, and I’m right there with you. But I won’t start it with you when we’re both like this.” He digs in his pocket and tosses his keys on the coffee table. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not even in any condition to drive home. It wouldn’t be the way it’s supposed to be, if we go there now. It won’t be what I want it to be, for you and for myself.”
“Dammit,” I hiss. “Fine. Whatever. Go ahead and do the right thing, then, Sir Galahad.”
“Imogen, I’m just—”
I shake my head, refusing to cry about this in front of him—it’s a losing battle right now, and I’m clamping down hard on the tears, on the lump in my throat. “Don’t. Just…go.”
He scrapes his hand through his hair again, growling. He glances at me, mouth opening as if to say something, but then closes it again and he stomps angrily for the door. I want to stop him, but I don’t.
I want to pin him against the door and kiss him and jump into his arms and beg him to make love to me, but I don’t.
I’ve already embarrassed myself enough, throwing myself at him, begging, pleading, and now crying. So no, I won’t go that last step. I sit on the couch, barely stifling the tears, as he tromps down the steps he built, across the lawn, and vanishes into the midnight shadows of my neighborhood, on foot.
I wait until I’m sure he’s gone, and then I rise to my feet.
A wave of dizziness washes over me, and I have to sit back down and try to stand up again, more slowly and carefully this time. I go up the stairs, holding the rail, pulling myself up. The stairs waver and multiply, and then somehow I’m in my room, falling into my bed.
I feel warm wetness on my cheeks, staining the pillow even as I drift and spin.
I fucked it all up.
Threw myself at him, but got too drunk and he rejected me.
He’ll never want me now.
Just like Nicholas.
I fall asleep in a cold wet spot made by my own tears.
11
I wake up with a pounding head, my mouth dry as a desert, sun blazing into my room, making me sweat like a pig. My sheets are tangled and soaked in sweat. I’m still in my romper; at some point in the night I tried to take off my bra, apparently, but only partially succeeded—the cups are pushed up over my breasts, one arm is pulled out of the strap, but it’s still hooked around my back.
Images from last night blast through me, each moment vivid—right up until the point that Jesse refused to have sex with me.
I remember getting angry, feeling rejected, and—
Now I know why I feel so crappy: I’m hungover. I barely remember coming up the stairs last night. Which means I was a lot more drunk than I’d thought.
And Jesse had been right. He’d done the most honorable, moral, decent, ethical thing possible, and I’d gotten mad at him for it. I know he’d wanted me—I’d felt the evidence of it.
I’d begged him. Thrown myself at him with all the desperation of a woman long-scorned.
And he’d still had the strength and honor to do the right thing.
If I’d had sex with him last night, I don’t think I’d regret it this morning, but I do think it wouldn’t have been what it could be and should be—exactly what he’d said.
I fall back asleep berating myself.
A couple hours later I wake up again. I still have a raging thirst and my head is still pounding, but I feel marginally better.
God, how did I do this almost every night of the week in college, and then still wake up for morning classes? It boggles my mind, now.
Slowly, painfully, I work myself upright, and then pause to let my head stop pounding before I get out of bed and remove my clothes and put on my pajamas.
I trudge listlessly downstairs, make coffee, and drink several glasses of water while the coffee is brewing. My stomach roils, but I know I need to eat, so I scramble some eggs and nuke some frozen sausages. It’s hard to get anything down at first, but after a few bites I become ravenous and devour it, washing it down with several cups of coffee. I take my last mug of coffee out onto my front porch.
As I open the front door it’s then that I remember that I have a new front porch to enjoy my coffee—thanks to Jesse. I see that his truck is gone; I remember him walking out and leaving his keys on my coffee table, so he must have come by earlier this morning when I
was sleeping. Now I feel worse than ever.
My house faces east, so I get the morning sun over the tops of the houses across the street. My neighbor is trimming her shrubs. She waves, and I wave back. The movement hurts my head.
I think about Jesse as I sit down on the top step.
Did I ruin things with him? Probably. That’d be my luck.
I need to talk to him, fix things. Try to make amends, and hope that I didn’t totally mess everything up.
I need to get past the worst of the hangover though.
I go back inside and have to hunt for my phone—I find it wedged between the cushions of the couch. With another glass of water in hand, I call Audra.
“Hey,” she answers, on the second ring. “Don’t tell me—you need my advice again.”
I groan. “Yes. No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
Audra laughs. “Well that covers all the possibilities.” She speaks again, but she’s shouting, and not at me. Her voice is muffled as if she’s half covered the microphone with her hand. “Keep your back straight, Sarah! Good! Now squat lower this time, as far as you can go. Good! Now push up—push the bar up with your whole body, not just your legs. Great! Two more.”
I moan. “Please don’t shout, Audra.”
She laughs again. “Aha—you got drunk last night, didn’t you?”
“Uh huh,” I murmur.
“And you had sloppy sex instead of earth-shaking sex, and now you’re mad at yourself?”
I whimper, a sound that was meant to be a laugh but didn’t quite make it all the way there. “Worse. Or better, I don’t know. He came over, installed a beautiful antique farmhouse sink for me, and then I made him dinner and we ate together. It was the best date I’ve ever had. We talked for hours, about literally everything. And we drank, like, three bottles of wine. And I threw myself at him.”
“Atta girl.”
“No, not atta girl. I was drunk, but much more than I realized.”
“So you feel like he took advantage of you?” she conjectures, anger starting to tinge her voice.