by Jane Igharo
There’s a scene in The Sound of Music where Captain Von Trapp and Fräulein Maria share their first kiss in a stunning glass gazebo. A lot leads up to that moment—wanting glances, intimate dances, heated arguments that underline mutual attraction. When the kiss finally happens, it’s slow and sweet and tender.
My kiss with Rafael is nothing like that.
With an arm around my waist, he yanks me to his chest. He kisses me deeply just like he did the night we met, but with so much more intensity, as if his technique has been enhanced by recently developed emotions.
I’m panting and quivering, and as my legs lose their function, he lifts my body and takes me across the kitchen. Objects clatter to the floor, and he sets me on a flat surface and starts undoing the buttons on my blouse, gradually revealing what’s beneath.
When he touches me, heat explodes in the pit of my stomach. Sweat and goose bumps dot my suddenly sensitive skin. My breaths match the speed of my racing heart. Just like the night we met, his touch thrills me, weakens me, makes my heart manic, makes me pine for more of him, makes me reconsider the promise I made to my father. How can one touch do that to a person? How can his touch do that to me?
It does.
His lips leave mine, and I moan, pleading for their return. When they trail down my neck, kissing and licking, I moan again—satisfied. I know where they’re heading and anticipate their arrival. But when they land on my stomach, anticipation instantly becomes anxiety. The haze that impaired my judgment clears, and everything hits me at once—my pregnancy, which Rafael is clueless about; my date with Elijah; my overbearing mother. The pressure, the expectations, the secret I’m keeping, the promise I’ve broken. I’m suddenly aware of everything, and it’s all too much.
“No, no. Stop!” I shove Rafael back and take in the scenery. Spoons and forks are on the floor and so are my belongings. I don’t remember my blouse coming off, but it’s there—rumpled on the tiles. I look at the bra that barely conceals my breasts and then at him.
“Azere. I . . . I’m sorry.”
“For what? We both did this.” I dangle my feet, waving them in the space that separates me from the floor.
“I’ll help you down.”
“No! Don’t come any closer. Don’t touch me.” I’m not commanding him. I’m begging, begging him to keep his distance because whenever he touches me, I lose sight of all my obligations and get carried away in his tide. It happened the night we met. It can’t happen tonight. Without his help, my feet find the floor. I skim off the countertop he placed me on and bend to grab my things.
“Good night, Rafael.” I turn to walk away, my clothes huddled to my chest, and he holds my arm gently.
“Azere, I . . . I . . .” He can’t find the words, and I can’t find the patience to wait until he does.
“This never happened.” I tug my arm from his grip and rush out of the kitchen.
I’m six weeks pregnant, and I’m wondering: When exactly can I start blaming hormones for my bizarre and irrational behavior?
chapter
16
It never happened. Yet the memory pulses in my head, forcing me to acknowledge it, to relive it, to relish it. That night, sleep evades me. I toss, turn, and moan in recollection of his lips against mine. I allow myself to imagine what could have happened if I stayed. What if? I shake my head, refusing to entertain possibilities.
The next day, I’m back at the scene of the crime. Christina is heating her lunch in the kitchen. While she watches the microwave countdown, I roam idly. I inspect the various spots where he touched me and kissed me. He lowered my body onto the counter where people now gather to chat and eat. My blouse fell on the floor, and so did the spoons that now stir coffees and the forks that now pierce salads.
Hours later, in the same location, it’s like nothing happened. I suppose that’s the point—to leave behind no trace of us. The only evidence remains in my mind, and I wish I could expunge the memory. Perhaps even pull it out singularly like you would a loose string from a knitted scarf. Though, pulling out that one string could cause the entire scarf to unravel. Knowing this, maybe it’s best I hold on to the memory. Not for my pleasure, of course. But for the sake of my sanity. I can’t go messing with all the intricate strings that hold my mind in one piece. I’ll keep the memory—tuck it away in a small, dusty drawer in the farthest part of my mind where it will exist quietly without disturbance.
“Azere.” Christina touches my shoulder, and I turn to her. “What’s with you? You seem off.” Her hazel eyes shrink as she studies me. “Go on. Spill it. Tell me what’s up.”
“There’s nothing to spill.”
She isn’t convinced. Her deadpan expression makes that clear. Keeping secrets from Christina is an impossible task. Why even try.
“Fine.” I scan the room, ensuring our colleagues are paying no attention to us. Satisfied with my assessment, I turn to Christina and bring my lips to her ear. Within seconds of whispering, she knows everything. When I pull back, I behold her wide grin. “Christina?”
“Oh. My. Gosh.” She claps and squeals, and I’m confused. “This is amazing.”
“No, it’s horrible.”
“Zere, don’t you see? Everything is working out. Think about it.” She clears her throat. “You tell him you’re pregnant, he’s ecstatic because he’s obviously into you, and you two raise the baby as a family.”
“Yeah . . . I don’t see it going down like that at all. What if I tell him and he wants nothing to do with me or the baby? What if he moves back to New York just to get away from me?”
“Azere, stop speculating. You won’t know what his reaction will be until you tell him the truth.”
“But what if—”
Arianna’s abrupt appearance interrupts my speech.
“Guess what?” she says, smirking. “He’s back. The hottie is back.”
“The hottie?” Christina steps forward to conduct an interrogation. “What hottie? What does he look like? Where is he? What does he want?”
“He’s tall, dark, and incredibly handsome. He’s at the front desk, and he wants Azere. Apparently, they have a lunch date.”
Christina turns to me. “What’s she talking about? Who do you have a date with?”
I sigh. “Elijah.”
“What? Elijah? The Elijah?” Her lips curl in disgust. She’s likely recalling everything I ever told her about him. “Seriously, Azere?”
“He’s back in town, and my mom’s been trying to set us up.”
“And you’re actually going through with it? You’re going on a date with him? Even after last night?”
“Oh. Last night?” Arianna’s eyes expand. “What happened last night?”
Christina and I look at her, unsmiling.
“Right. I’ll just tell him you’re on your way.” She struts off without another word.
“Zere, have you lost it?” Christina says, snatching my arm. “You can’t go out with him. He took your virginity, then took off. That shit is unforgivable.”
“It’s been six years, Chris. I’m tired of being pissed about something I can’t change. It happened. He apologized and that’s that. Plus, my mom has been pestering me about going on a date with him. She’s making me do this, Christina. I can’t back out.” I want to, but I can’t. “Do you understand?”
“But what about Rafael? What about last night?”
“Last night meant nothing.” I speak sternly, not only trying to convince her but also myself. “It was nothing.”
“Bullshit. Zere, last night meant something to you. It’s so obvious in your eyes. You’re just scared to admit it because you don’t want to deal with the consequences. Azere, you—”
“I should go.” I tug my arm from her grip, no longer willing to hear what she has to say. “Elijah is waiting.”
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “If
it was up to me, I would tell him to get a GPS and find the quickest route to hell.”
And I wouldn’t expect any less from her.
“But it’s your call, Zere. If you wanna go, go. But after this date wraps up, what’s next? You continue to hide your pregnancy from your family and Rafael and date Elijah? What exactly is your plan?”
My eyes roll skyward. I contemplate an answer but come up with nothing. “Well, I don’t really have one.”
“Mm-hmm. Azere, my psychic senses are tingling, and they’re telling me this is all gonna blow up in your face. So figure it out before it’s too late.”
Her words send a chill through me, but I shake it off as I approach Elijah. He’s waiting by the elevator and beams when he sees me.
“Azere. Hi.”
“Hey. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”
“No. It’s fine. You’re here now. Shall we?” He holds out his hand, waiting for mine to slip into it. “Azere?”
“Um . . .” I hesitate before finally submitting. “Sure.”
The elevator arrives quickly, and we step inside. As the doors close, a hand comes between them and automatically, they slide apart to reveal Rafael.
Shit.
Our eyes connect, and then he glances at the man standing beside me, holding my hand. Offering no words, he enters the small, confined space.
It’s quiet and extremely awkward. Maybe I should say something, talk about the weather. That always gets things moving. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. We’re on the fifteenth floor—five floors down from where we started—and Rafael and I stand as strangers. We’ve been like this all day, avoiding stares during the staff meeting, staying rooted in our offices to dodge encounters, and sending short emails instead of speaking in person. However, being close again, I can’t ignore the connection that propelled me to kiss him last night. It’s like a magnetic force, pulling my body to his.
“Azere,” Elijah says, squeezing my hand. “Are you okay?”
“Mm-hmm. Fine.” Except I can’t stop thinking about my one-night stand turned colleague turned father of my unborn child. What’s wrong with me? Last night with Rafael meant nothing. It never happened. I recite the phrase, but my brain doesn’t accept the lie I’m attempting to pass off as truth. In the farthest part of my mind, memories rattle in that small, dusty drawer. I struggle to contain them, but their persistence outweighs my resistance. The drawer flies open, and the memories of us—Rafael and me—combust in my head like confetti.
Damn it. Who the hell am I fooling? It happened. We happened. And it was freakin’ amazing. And I want it to happen again. I admit it, accept it, make peace with it, and in that moment, the steel doors slide open.
Rafael doesn’t dawdle for a second. He hastens across the grand lobby and through the revolving door, leaving me behind— memories unbound and emotions amplified.
chapter
17
Rafael
For three days, I thought of what I could have done to prolong our encounter in the kitchen. I closed my eyes and envisioned several possibilities. On the fourth day—on Friday—I’m parked outside Azere’s apartment building, phone in my hand, considering whether to call her. My hands shudder, nerves gradually seizing my body. After seeing her in the elevator with another man just days ago, I shouldn’t be here. Is he her boyfriend? Is that why she pushed me away after our kiss in the kitchen? I shouldn’t have come here, but I can’t seem to stay away from her.
At the office today, after tracking her movements rather than working, I made this decision. The decision to come to her place and . . . and what? What the hell am I doing?
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel and search my mind for a reasonable explanation for my irrational behavior. Seconds pass, and I continue to ponder and doubt the extent of my sanity, but I don’t drive away from where she is—where I want to be. It seems like there are invisible strings tethering me to her, constantly pulling me near her, working my body like I’m a flimsy puppet, making me do things I normally wouldn’t. Before I can resist, I press the call button and hold the phone to my ear.
It rings, and my heart thumps.
“Hello,” she answers. “Rafael?”
“Azere. Hey. How are you?”
“I . . . I’m great.” I expected her to sound annoyed. But I hear it—the smile in her voice. “What’s up?”
Could she really be serious about acting like nothing happened between us? It’s the second time she’s insisted we pretend, that we forget. The problem is, I can’t pretend anymore. Nor do I want to.
“Azere, I was wondering if we could talk. About the other night.” And of course, the man whose hand you were holding. I’m quiet, anxiously awaiting her response.
“Yeah. I think we should. Would you like to come over?”
“Actually, I’m sort of already here. I’m in the parking lot.”
“Oh,” she says, that smile still in her tone. “Then come up.”
“I was hoping we could go out instead.” Because I don’t have the willpower to stay in her apartment without touching her. “If you don’t have any plans tonight, I would really love to take you out.”
“And where will you be taking me to, Rafael?”
“Um . . . it’s a surprise.”
She laughs. “Okay. Well, at least give me a dress code, so I know what to wear.”
“Cocktail.”
“Okay. Cool. I’ll be down in twenty minutes.” She ends the call, and I sigh, both relieved and thrilled.
Approximately twenty-five minutes later, she walks across the lobby and toward the glass doors in a spaghetti-strap knee-length dress. I step out of the car and march to the passenger side, watching her approach. The cherry-red fabric clings to her skin, accentuating the parts of her body that are slender and curvaceous. She isn’t wearing a bra. There’s a gentle outline of her nipples. Shit. My heart races. Does she have any idea what she’s doing to me right now? Does she have any idea what I want to do to her?
“Hi.” I force the word out of my suddenly dry mouth.
“Hi.” She leans forward and wraps her arms around me, squeezing her body to mine.
The hug was unexpected. After recovering from the shock, I hold her and inhale her perfume. It’s a soft powdery fragrance with undertones of sweet vanilla. When she pulls away, something tempts me to initiate more than a hug. It takes every ounce of resolve to let her go. We separate, and our eyes connect.
“So?” She blinks rapidly; long lashes flutter against smooth, brown skin. “What do you think? Is the dress too much?”
“No. It’s perfect.” With a drawn-out glance, I note where the zipper is. “You’re perfect, Azere. Stunning.”
“Thank you.” She smiles, stroking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I love compliments.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind. Shall we?”
“Sure. But where exactly are you taking me, Rafael?”
“To a place where you and that dress will be appreciated.” I open the passenger door. “Trust me, Azere.”
“I’m not sure about that.” She gives me a once-over, her red lips angled in a smirk. “But we’ll see.”
I fasten my seat belt and glance at her in the passenger seat, her hands resting over her knees, that slanted grin still on her face. I start the car, and as I press my foot on the accelerator, I can’t help but wonder how tonight will end.
chapter
18
In awe, I watch the band play. The distinct melody of multiple instruments—the saxophone, trumpet, piano, bass guitar, and drums—intertwine and separate to create harmonies and melodies that are smooth and edgy, soulful and sensual, dark and light. Latin jazz. It’s my first time listening to the genre, and I’m captivated.
Rafael has brought me to an upscale jazz club downtown. It’s a stunning space.
Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line the walls. Damask wallpaper interrupts the continuation of mirrors, creating an alternating pattern of reflection and gold, metallic motif. A tiered chandelier with intricate designs hovers in the center of the room— right above the dance floor. Dimmed pot lights shine over the people seated in red velvet booths. The light on the stage is sharper and allows me to observe the rapturous expressions on the musicians’ faces as they play.
Slowly, the music fades, and each instrument loses its emphasis until they all die. There’s a moment of silence followed by an abrupt eruption of claps and whistles from the crowd. I join the applause, and Rafael does the same. Though, he isn’t looking at the band but at me. Unable to hold his intense stare, I turn back to the stage. The musicians are leaving, but the pianist stays. Behind a grand piano, he plays a mellow tune that isn’t meant to overpower rising conversations.
“What do you think?” Rafael asks.
“I . . . um . . .” I search my mind for the right words. “Amazing. That was amazing.”
Not the most original phrase, but it’s impossible to form expressive sentences when he’s looking at me like he wants to kiss me. I wish he would. We’re sitting close enough. All he has to do is lean into me slightly and his lips would be on mine. I’m ready and willing, but he doesn’t make the move.
“So . . .” I attempt a conversation, hoping it will act as a distraction from his lustful stare and my lustful thoughts. “How has it been, living in Toronto again?”
“Good.” He grabs his glass of scotch and stirs the liquid. The ice cubes in the cup clink against each other. “Really, really good.” He brings the glass to his lips, keeping his eyes on me as he drinks.
“Oh. Okay . . . that’s um . . . great.” I shuffle ineptly in the velvet seat, repositioning myself while dealing with the discomfort of being the subject of his attention.
“Zere.” He abbreviates my name. He’s never done that before, but it sounds natural—as if his lips are accustomed to the simple pronunciation. “Relax.” From across the table, he reaches out and touches my clammy hand. His fingers wrap around mine.
