Truly (New York Trilogy #1)

by Ruthie Knox

  “May,” he interrupted. While she talked, he’d led her around the back side of a platform piling.

  “What?”

  “Shut up for a minute.”

  He put both hands on her shoulders, holding her still so he could kiss her. She smiled as his face lowered toward hers. When their mouths met, her lips parted immediately, and the kiss bypassed slow and gentle and dropped into darker, hungrier territory.

  He’d been staring at her mouth on the train, waiting for this moment. She tasted like smoky tequila, her tongue languid and relaxed. Her hands found their way to the hem of his jacket and inside to his back, her light fingertips exploring the bare skin just above his belt.

  He didn’t allow himself to move his hands or grind his body against hers, but he kissed her for as long as he wanted to, which was an indecently long time, until her hands began to stroke higher up and then to clutch and pull him in.

  He kissed her cheek, her neck. “We can’t here.”

  “I guess not,” she said, her voice husky with arousal and disappointment. “But, man, do I ever want to.”

  He dropped his forehead onto her shoulder and laughed. It was either that or cry. “You should’ve mentioned that before I brought you all the way to Queens.”

  “I didn’t know we were coming here again! You didn’t say.”

  “I thought you needed to go to a museum. It’s part of the tourist experience.”

  She made a disgusted face. “I’ve already been to the Met, the Frick, MoMA, the sex museum, the Tenement—”

  “This one’s different,” he promised.

  Twenty minutes later, she was agreeing with him. “There is a hole,” she said. “There is a hole in the wall.” She squatted down next to it. “It goes all the way through to outside.”

  “Yep.”

  “Why is there a hole in the wall?”

  “It’s an installation. PS1 is all about experimental art.”

  “This is art? It’s a hole.”

  “I know, but …”

  “What’s it called?”

  He found the placard. “It’s called The Hole at PS1.”

  “That’s unhelpful.”

  “I know. But the way the light comes through is kind of cool.”

  “Like a laser beam.” She held her finger up in front of it, breaking the beam, and then spun around and smiled at him. “Show me something else.”

  They strolled through the whole museum, taking in staircase murals, lighted globes with the word EXIT painted on them, an eerie stairwell covered in forest plants and black and white tree branches, and a video that was somehow projected into a mouse-size hole in the floor.

  “What did she say?” May hunkered down by the hole and peered at the image of a nude woman swimming in what appeared to be lava.

  “ ‘I am a worm and you are a flower.’ ”

  “This is the weirdest place I have ever been.”

  “Good weird or bad weird?”

  “The very best weird. My mother would die.”

  After they finished at the museum, he took her to the beer garden in Astoria. It was almost four, and he was hungry and thirsty, tired of walking. They split a pitcher of beer and ate sauerkraut and bratwurst. She didn’t blink when he ordered headcheese.

  He thought she might actually be the perfect woman.

  Had it been like this with Sandy? He tried to remember dates they’d been on. Whole days they’d spent together this way, sharing food, entertaining each other with jokes and wry observations. But all his mental images of Sandy were kitchen images—the restaurant where they’d met, then Sardo. He didn’t have a single memory of Sandy like this. She had never been this easy.

  May sat next to him with her back to the picnic table, leaning on her elbows and gazing at the late afternoon crowd of revelers. She’d crossed her boots at the ankle, and her top toe bounced gently to the music being piped through the restaurant’s speakers. The sun hit the crown of her head, turning her hair gold-red and making her glow.

  He felt the same glow inside his body. A fullness in his chest. A gratitude—that he was alive, that he was with May. He took a bite of his brat, savoring the pop of his teeth through the casing, the rich, fatty taste of seasoned meat. The world tasted good. Smelled good.

  She’d done this to him, somehow.

  He hoped that when she left, he could keep this feeling. Maybe he’d figure out what to do with it.

  Maybe he’d even figure out what to do with himself.

  She must have felt his scrutiny, because she looked sideways and smiled at him over her shoulder.

  “This was a good day,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She held a beer stein in one hand, and now she lifted it to her lips and drank deeply. He watched her throat move. She’d taken off her sweater, and beneath it she wore a black T-shirt that hugged her breasts and highlighted the curve of her waist. He thought that if he touched her, her skin would be deliciously warm, the heat amplified by the sun soaking into dark cotton. “I think you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “I was doing it wrong,” she said. Her voice was low and beer-mellow. “I like New York.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  The question shouldn’t have felt so fraught. He shouldn’t have been so jittery all of a sudden.

  May tipped her head back to look at the sky. “I think I wanted it to be … a destination. The endpoint I’d been trying to force myself to reach with Dan, where we could finally choose to live together, and that would fix everything that was wrong with our relationship. I wanted to move here—or, not here, but to New Jersey—and feel totally triumphant and complete.” She turned to look at him. “Does that make any sense?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s not like that. I mean, the whole Dan thing aside, you could never live here and feel done with it, like you know everything there is to know. It’s so stuffed full of people and stories and life, I could never see more than a small part of it. I think … I think it’s like an attic. My attic back home isn’t very big, and I’ve only been in my house a few years, so all I’ve got up there is, like, eight plastic totes full of Christmas decorations and pants that don’t fit me. But New York is like an attic from the movies, huge and badly lit. You go in, and your clothes get streaked with dust, looking around. Your nose starts to tickle from all the accumulated smells and mess. But there’s so much to see. So many stories in that attic, just waiting for you to find them. And they don’t all make sense right away. You open a trunk, and it’s full of … I don’t know, dolls’ heads, or lightbulbs, or dishes you’ve never seen before. But that’s part of the fun. Figuring it out.”

  “Discovering the stories.”

  “Yeah. And discovering which boxes are meaningless junk to you, and which ones are full of treasures in disguise.”

  He thought about that. Whether he’d shown her any treasures. Whether he’d discovered any.

  “I haven’t fed you any honey yet,” he said. “Speaking of treasures in disguise.”

  “For thirty-five bucks, it better be a treasure.”

  “It is.”

  The saucy lift of her lips echoed the cocky smile he could feel on his own. “I’ll bet.”

  He lifted the pitcher, topped off his glass, and leaned sideways to fill hers. Then he lifted his stein. “To New York,” he said. His smile felt lopsided, but that fit. She’d knocked him off-kilter, and when she smiled back, it only got worse.

  “To New York.” She clinked her stein against his. “And to the future. Let’s not fuck it up as badly as we’ve fucked up the past.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  So they did. The afternoon slid away along with the beam of light she sat in, traveling down the bench and then falling to the ground, working its way across the yard. They ate pickles and potato pancakes, finished their pitcher, and swapped stories from back home. The best games they’d seen at Lambeau. Terrible dates. Disastrous
proms. He turned around eventually and put his arm over her shoulder, and she leaned into his chest, tipping her head back now and then to meet his eyes.

  He kissed her upside down.

  “Can I take you home now?”

  “Please,” she said. And she smiled.

  Tomorrow, she would leave. But tonight, she belonged to him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  His phone rang as they mounted the interminable steps to his apartment. Ben didn’t recognize the number, so he handed it to May. “For you?”

  She looked. “Probably.” She answered the call. “Hello?” Then a pause, and she shrieked, “Allie!”

  Her sister. Ben nudged past her and hustled up the last flight of stairs so he could have the door open before she reached the top. She was tired. On the subway, she’d looked like she might fall asleep.

  She came in behind him as he was dropping his jacket over the arm of the couch. He cracked the window, waved her into a seat, and fixed a couple glasses of ice water, sitting one on the coffee table in front of her as she reassured her sister that she was fine, and she’d sort out her ID quandary tomorrow morning.

  It was difficult to avoid listening in. The apartment was small, and she was talking about him.

  “His last name is Hausman,” she said. “No.” Pause. “No.” Long pause. “No! Jeez, Allie, how dumb do you think I am?” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Well, yes, but it’s not—”

  And then she stopped for a second, broke into a huge grin, and threw her head back and laughed.

  He had to look at something else. The sight of May laughing gave him wood, and it didn’t help that he had a strong suspicion she was talking to her sister about having sex with him.

  He’d heard her Please all the way home. The throaty, sexy sound of her voice when she was turned on. How soft her skin was. Her breasts, holy fuck.

  Stop, he told himself, but it was useless.

  “No,” she said, “it is like that, but I’m fine.” Pause. “No, I haven’t.” Pause. “Not yet.”

  She wriggled out of her sweater. She crossed her foot over her knee and leaned down to tug off her boot—a position that pulled down the scooped neckline of her T-shirt and gave him an eyeful of the breasts he’d been trying not to think about. His empty hands curled into fists, and he stood staring until she looked up, raised her eyebrows, and laughed again. “Yep. That’s exactly what I meant.” Pause. “Duly noted.” Pause. “Nope. I’ve got this under control.”

  She was definitely talking about having sex with him. She peeled off her socks and flexed her bare toes.

  Ben walked into the bedroom, where he threw some dirty clothes in the hamper. Were the sheets clean? He tried to remember, but he couldn’t think, because she kept bending over in his head, and he wanted to peel her shirt off more than he wanted to draw breath.

  He turned down the covers instead and remembered that May had slept in the bed last night, and these were the sheets he’d put on for her. They were fine.

  Leave the covers folded over, or smooth them flat? What would look least presumptuous?

  Why was he being such a tool?

  Her voice carried down the hall. “How am I supposed to know? Don’t you think if I had any idea what to say to Mom, I would have called her myself?”

  Pause.

  “Well, I guess if you have to tell her something, tell her whatever seems easiest, and I’ll sort it out after I get home.”

  Longer pause.

  “Right. So are you guys having fun? How’s Matty?” Pause. “What do you mean, Dan’s there?”

  He was halfway to the living room when he realized what he was doing and stopped short.

  Leave it alone, Ben. None of your business.

  May glanced at him. He grimaced and then, for lack of any better ideas, opened the fridge.

  He needed to cook something.

  He didn’t have any groceries.

  Run. He’d go for a run. Five miles would beat some of this restlessness from him, give him his discipline back, and May could finish her phone call and deal with whatever implications arose as a result of fucking Thor having flown to fucking Michigan in pursuit of her.

  And that fucking pisses you off.

  But she wasn’t his to get pissed off about. He’d give her space. Run for an hour or so. Then he’d end up sweaty, and he’d have to take a shower, and what if May got sick of waiting around?

  Skip the run. Just shower. Sunny day, lots of walking, he probably smelled ripe. Though if he got in the shower and started thinking about her again …

  How bad would it be to beat off in the shower?

  It would take the edge off. That would be good, because the edge was sharp. This conversation with her sister might shift where May was mentally. She could change her mind about the whole thing. And if she didn’t—if she was still up for it—then he could last longer if he took care of this first. Make it better for her.

  Decision made, Ben ducked into the bathroom. May laughed from the other side of the closed door. He turned on the water. When he unzipped his jeans, his hand rubbed against his dick, and he groaned.

  Definitely better to get the situation under control.

  Ben stepped under the spray, closed his hand into a fist, and started to stroke.

  * * *

  The shower was still running when she got off the phone with Allie.

  May gulped half a glass of water and lay down on the couch, propping two pillows behind her head.

  Her stomach was too full from the endless German gorge-fest, her feet hurt like crazy, and she’d never been so tired in her life. But her skin was all abuzz, her mind racing fast fast fast. She’d just told her sister she was going to sleep with Ben, so now she had to do it.

  Not that she wouldn’t have if Allie hadn’t called. Or like Allie knowing really tied her hands. Tied was the opposite of what she felt.

  She felt as though she’d cut a tether and drifted loose from the ground, and now she was high and scared, but giddy with it.

  Are you sure this is a good idea? Allie had asked, and May had admitted the truth.

  No.

  No, she wasn’t sure. For a hundred different reasons, she wasn’t sure.

  For one reason in particular.

  Dan was at the cabin. That was why he hadn’t called. She’d said she would be there, and he’d gone straight after her.

  She’d allowed herself to think that what Dan did wasn’t her affair anymore. When he hadn’t called, she’d thought maybe her note had come as a relief to him. That she hadn’t broken his heart when she walked out.

  But if he was in Michigan, he had to be risking the displeasure of his coaches, not to mention the general manager. He wouldn’t do that lightly. He’d only do it because he wanted her back badly enough to risk the thing that mattered most to him.

  Allie said he was planning to head home in the morning. He had a game on Thursday—the season kickoff game in New Jersey, where the Jets, as last year’s Super Bowl champions, had the pleasure of hosting the Packers. But he’d promised Matt he would be back in Wisconsin on Saturday for the wedding.

  Allie said to expect him to call, because she’d caved and given him Ben’s cell number.

  May knew she should probably call him first. But she couldn’t do it now. He didn’t have cell service. And tomorrow she’d be traveling, and so would he.

  When she got home, then. She’d call him as soon as she got home. Tomorrow night, if it wasn’t too late. Or Wednesday morning.

  No, not Wednesday. He had a game Thursday. She didn’t want him to be upset before the game.

  Tomorrow night, or else after the game on Thursday. Friday morning at the latest. She’d explain and apologize, but make it clear that her mind was made up.

  And then she made a disgusted face at the plasterwork ceiling, because she’d just rationalized her way into deciding not to call Dan for four more days.

  You suck, May-o.

  The truth was, Dan felt like somethi
ng that had happened to her a thousand years ago, in another life, and no amount of guilt would keep her from having sex with Ben when this was her chance. Their night. The whole day had been a form of foreplay. Sex was a foregone conclusion.

  What really troubled her was that she liked him too much. She felt too much, and that couldn’t be a good idea, going into this.

  But she had made up her mind: more messy reality, less unattainable perfection. That was how she planned to approach the future. Fantasizing and daydreaming hadn’t made her happy. She’d take beauty now where she found it. She wanted Ben, even if she feared that whatever pleasure he gave her would be brittle.

  Even if it cut her.

  The shower stopped.

  He would be naked in there. He would come out with a towel draped over his hips, and she would see him.

  She wanted that. She wanted him poised above her on the bed she’d slept in. Wanted him naked and worked up, panting and rough. Crazy with it.

  And if that meant she had to be naked, too—okay. It was, she’d admit, a considerably less appealing thought, especially since it wasn’t fully dark yet. It had been a long time since she undressed for a man in the light.

  She looked at the ceiling and waited for that thought to get less awkward.

  It didn’t.

  Ah, well. She could be brave or she could be a coward. In twenty years, she’d probably kill for the body she had now.

  Use it or lose it.

  She rose. Her fingers pinched her shirtsleeve. With a deep breath, she withdrew her shoulder, pulling her arm through the hole.

  Then the other arm, and she took the shirt off. Folded it. Laid it on the couch.

  Jeans next. As she lowered the zipper, her pulse sped up. Something banged in the bathroom—Ben opening a cupboard or closing it.

  She pictured his wet hair and wet skin, which helped considerably in the easing of her jeans from her legs. Balancing against the couch, she pulled them off. She folded them and stacked them on top of her shirt. Then she changed her mind, picked up the jeans, and put them down so she could stack the shirt on top.

  Oh, she was a dope. A nervous dope with her stomach all unsettled, her heart going too fast, her eyes probably as big as a doe’s in the woods.