by Alex Kidwell
For the first time since losing Aaron, I felt. Like everywhere Brady was touching me was suddenly, gloriously alive, like my mouth and my lips and tongue were everything, because that was how I was connected to him.
Vaguely, so absorbed in him, in touching and tasting him, I barely noticed anything else, I realized Brady was moving. He had reached down to grasp my hip, my leg, manhandling me until I was sprawled out beside him, until he could turn on his side and me on mine. His mouth closed on me again and I had to pull back to gasp, loudly, lips wet and blushed and already hungry for more of him. Even that brief separation seemed too painful.
The taste of him, salty sour sweet in my mouth was heady and addicting. He smelled masculine, like sweat and heat and need, like citrus and sex. I buried my face between his legs, begging him for something concrete—more than words, because Aaron and I had had words, beautiful words, pretty words exchanged, but in the end the words had faded away. I wanted to touch him and know he was there, because Aaron had always been there when I could touch him. Until he wasn’t anymore. But if I touched Brady, if he touched me, if we tasted and took and gave until we were undone, then he was there. Then so was I.
My name tumbled from Brady’s lips as he jerked around me, as I felt him tighten and thrust in my mouth. I followed, exhausted and exhilarated and coming for him. For the way he moved and sounded and smelled, for how he tasted on my tongue. For the way he said my name.
Chests heaving, bodies slick with sweat, we lay there in a tangle of limbs. Brady moved first, rolling over to collapse again half on top of me, face buried in my neck. “That was incredible,” he murmured, kissing my collarbone, lips sweet against my throat. “You are fucking incredible, sweetheart.”
“It was good,” I said softly, sounding more than a little stunned. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering at the tingling in my toes, my fingers, at the way my body had melted into him.
“Did you think it wouldn’t be?” Brady teased me, propping his head up on one hand. My eyes tracked to him, to that lovely face, and my fingertips lightly touched his lips, his cheeks, the crinkle in his forehead. Pieces of the whole I was beginning to learn.
His hand swept idly along my side and I took a slow breath, feeling it with every part of me. “I didn’t know if it could be anymore,” I admitted.
Brady’s expression softened and he leaned down to kiss me slowly. We lay there for a long time, Brady curled up against me, head on my shoulder.
It really had been wonderful.
And Aaron hadn’t been there at all.
BRADY was asleep. I was watching his ceiling fan move in lazy, wobbly circles above us, my hand half-tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. He was passed out on me, arm slung around my waist, breath rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. We’d kissed and touched and held each other until Brady’s eyes had grown heavy, until, in the warm afternoon sun, he’d stretched out and dropped off to sleep. I, however, was left staring blankly, counting fan rotations and lost in the maze of my own mind.
I’d just slept with a man who wasn’t Aaron.
Never in a hundred years would I have thought about cheating. It wasn’t in my makeup; it wasn’t something I thought I could live with. So I wasn’t sure if this was what everyone felt like, after, if this was a normal thing, to have your stomach in sick knots, to have that oily roll under your skin, undulating in aching guilt.
Yes, I knew Aaron was dead. Yes, I knew it was impossible to cheat on someone who wasn’t there any longer. But I’d had sex with someone who wasn’t him, and even though I knew all of that, it didn’t seem to matter.
I’d had sex with Brady.
And it had been good.
God, I thought I was going to be sick.
Carefully, I eased myself out from under Brady. He rolled over, arm reaching out to lightly touch me. An adorable little smile slipped across his lips as he breathed out a sigh, soothing back into sleep. I watched him for a few moments before getting out of bed and finding my pants. I buttoned my shirt with shaking fingers, and I didn’t bother to tie my shoes. Grabbing my hanging bag with the tux inside, I closed his door as silently as I could and made my way out into the street.
The taxi ride passed in a total blur. Before I knew it, I was home, again, going room to room in the stillness. Winston padded behind me, tail swishing as we chased shadows, as I looked everywhere for something that didn’t exist.
The apartment was empty. Of course it was. Aaron had never been here; this was the life I’d forged without him. Why, then, could I feel his ghost everywhere? Why did he linger, silent and steady, just out of the corner of my eye? It was like all that emptiness, all that stillness, coalesced into the memory of him. Aaron was there, except it wasn’t him at all. No booming laugh jolted my heart back to beating; no strong arms soothed away the chill. It was me and a cat and nothing else at all.
I wound up in the bedroom, one of Aaron’s old cardigans wrapped around me. The sleeves were too long, the buttons hanging by threads, but I buried myself in it. Only the slightest hint of Aaron’s scent remained and I struggled to capture it, to remember what it felt like to be surrounded by him, vivid, alive, brilliant.
Winston at my feet, the faded sweater engulfing me, I sat in my empty room without him.
I’d slept with Brady. Maybe that was forgivable. Maybe that was what I was supposed to be doing. Moving on, Tracy kept calling it.
I just hadn’t expected to like it so much. To feel so much.
So I sat, missing the scent of Aaron, catching traces of Brady’s cologne on my shirt.
Tears running down my face, I sat.
Someone other than Aaron had touched me. Had made me shudder and sigh and moan. I’d felt all those things with someone else, and even though I kept telling myself it was all right, it was normal, it was healthy, even, I still felt like I’d betrayed him.
I’d wanted Brady.
How could I want anyone but Aaron? I loved him. He was the man I was supposed to spend my life with; he was the beginning and the end; he was every moment in between. We’d promised each other faithfulness and caring, and now he was gone and I wanted someone else.
Even then, choking on my sobs, head buried in the soft fabric of Aaron’s cardigan, I wanted Brady. And that scared me to death.
I fumbled for my phone, jabbing at the screen until I heard the sound of Tracy’s phone ringing. She answered me with a smile in her voice, the soft noise of voices in the background clueing me in that I might have caught her at work.
Normally, I’d apologize, offer to try back at a better time. All I could do then, though, was shudder in a breath and tell her, voice breaking around every word, “He’s really dead.”
There was a beat, the sound of a door closing, and the background noises hushed. “Quinn? Honey, what’s wrong?”
“He’s really gone, Trace. Aaron isn’t here.”
There was so much worry in her voice, every word deliberate, feeling her way over ice that was already cracking under her feet. “I know, Quinn. He’s been gone for two years. What happened? Talk to me, sweetie.”
Heaving in short, stuttered breaths, I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs. “Brady and I… I cheated on Aaron. I slept with Brady and I wanted to and it was really good, and I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t be able to, not with anyone else. But I could, and he’s not here, he’s not anywhere, and oh, God, Trace, he’s really gone, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, Quinn,” she told me, so softly I almost didn’t hear her. “Yeah, he is.” A pause and she sighed. “Where are you? I’m coming over.”
“No.” Snuffling in a horrible-sounding snorted sigh, I tried to get myself together. I must have sounded like a loon. “No, it’s okay. I just want to be here alone for a while.”
She didn’t like that, but she finally agreed. “Okay. But call me if you change your mind.” Another long moment of silence and she added, “Brady’s a really good guy, Quinn. I’m glad you two are together. And I th
ink this could be something great, if you let it. I know it’s hard, but this was an important thing. You’re going to be okay. And Aaron wouldn’t be mad.”
Of course he would be. I’d cheated on him. But I just nodded and sniffed quietly. “I’m okay. Talk to you later, Trace.”
The phone went silent and I let it fall away.
Chapter 5
ONE of the major benefits of owning your own store was not having to think of a reason when you called in sick. I just texted my staff—well, the three people who helped me with the register and stocking, but staff made me sound like a successful businessman rather than a guy who sold comic books—and curled back up into bed. I’d fallen asleep on the floor sometime the night before, still wrapped in Aaron’s old sweater. The sun and the sharp ache in my back woke me up just long enough for me to crawl under the covers and sink into my mattress.
Dreams had haunted me all night, making sleep all but impossible. The idea of getting up, though, of showering and shaving and facing the world, was like a lodestone around my neck. I couldn’t even fathom the thought of it. So I crawled under the covers and hid, like I was seven years old again and afraid of the dark.
He wasn’t here. Aaron. He’d never been here. Some days, though, I reached for him. Some days I let my hand slide along the coolness of his pillow, the empty side of the bed. Some days it seemed like he was only just out of reach. Like any moment I’d feel his hands on my shoulders, a soft kiss at the nape of my neck, his arms around my waist, and I’d be home. I knew Aaron wasn’t in these walls and in these rooms, but some days, I would feel him.
Today, though, there was nothing. Ghosts of ghosts, a shivery ache that seemed to clench at every breath. He was further away now than he’d ever been, buried under six feet of dirt. I stayed in bed and missed him with guilty, heaving breaths.
Winston shoved me out of bed. An overweight ball of fluff and squished-face disappointment headbutted me until I gave in, rolling out from under the covers many hours past my usual morning. It was afternoon by the time I made my way to the kitchen, numb and hurting, exhausted down to my bones. Every inch of me felt battered and bruised, but Winston had decided I’d moped long enough, so I was pushed from bed out into the world.
He curled around my feet as I walked, purring that odd rusty sound as he pranced over to his food dish. I fed him and declined to do the same for myself. Instead I sat at the kitchen table and stared. There, in a silly little vase, was a single leaf. It’d gone brown by now, the vibrant red faded, but I hadn’t thrown it away.
Aaron had never been here. Had never touched these floors, had never filled this space. But Brady had. The borrowed scarf hung by the door, the leaf he’d given me with careless, windblown smiles was here on the table. Sleeping with him had only been one part of the betrayal. It wasn’t just that I’d had sex with Brady; it was the scarf and the movies and the crusts of my pie. That I’d given him parts of a place Aaron had never been.
A knock sounded loudly and I jumped, banging my knee on the table and cursing at the jolt of pain. Winston gave me a withering stare, prancing over to the door and rubbing against the frame, rear end wiggling in excitement. Sure enough, Tracy’s voice soon sounded from the other side. “Let me in, Quinn. I brought coffee and bagels with that ridiculous raspberry cream cheese you love.”
I didn’t want raspberry cream cheese. I didn’t want Tracy and her kindness—with those concerned looks and the way she had of making me talk about shit. I just wanted to go hide in bed some more and pretend burrowing under covers was a perfectly adult way of dealing with things. But sadly, Tracy kept knocking, and I figured she’d probably call some kind of intervention if I turned down free coffee.
So, reluctantly, I stumbled my way to the door in boxers and a worn gray T-shirt, wrapped in Aaron’s old blue cardigan. Winston practically darted outside when I let Tracy in, vibrating his happiness. He loved Tracy. Tracy fed him people food, let him nap on her bare feet, and rubbed that spot under his chin. Winston was a traitor and a turncoat, perfectly willing to abandon me for the promise of a nice piece of cheese and someone to feed his foot fetish.
“You look like shit,” Tracy greeted me, up on her tiptoes to brush a kiss across my cheek, wrinkling her nose at the stubble.
“You know, you really should get a job in motivational speaking,” I told her dryly, shoving my fat cat back inside and firmly shutting the door on the real world. “Or grief therapy. You have that touch.”
She put the coffee and a brown paper bag on the table before scooping up Winston and collapsing down into a chair. “Yes, because you’re such a fragile flower,” she snorted, grinning as the cat happily butted against her face. “Come on, Quinn. Sit down, have some breakfast. Tell me what’s going on.”
“You didn’t have to come over,” I told her, stubbornly wrapping my arms around myself, that ache starting again in my throat at the soft pull of the sweater against my skin.
Hitching up an eyebrow, Tracy began unpacking the bagels. “Actually, I did. I left you three messages, and you never returned any of them.” Her expression softened. “I was worried, Quinn.”
Crap. My phone. Which was probably still in my jeans pocket. Sighing, I rubbed a hand through my hair and wandered into the bedroom to check. Sure enough, my phone was blinking urgently at me, discarded in the puddle of jeans and shirt I’d left behind last night.
Scrolling through the missed calls and messages, I frowned. Three from Tracy, two from Annabeth, and six from Brady. He’d called twice and sent four text messages, the tone going from gently teasing to worried to flat-out concerned.
Yeah. I supposed disappearing from a guy’s bed after sleeping with him the first time warranted a few messages.
Sitting down at the table next to Tracy, I studied the texts.
Hey, sry I missed you. You were fantastic. Mind blowing. Pls tell me I can cook for you again? ;)
It was good, you were good, everything was rly rly good. p. much best ever. call me?
Ok, now Im worried. Just txt to let me kno you’re alive?
Quinn, bb, please.
I deleted them one by one before letting the phone fall to the table. Resting my head in my hands, I ignored Tracy’s patient look. Yeah, right. She was like a schnauzer with a chew toy. There wasn’t a force on earth that would shake her away from whatever she’d come here to say.
“Brady call you?” she asked, all innocent, like she didn’t already know.
“Where’s the coffee?” I grunted, ignoring the topic. Tracy frowned at me, but she handed me my cup and I took a grateful sip, getting up to rummage around for the sugar. Tracy never put enough in. Then again, I tended to add enough to give the average person a diabetic coma.
“He called me this morning. He’s worried, Quinn. According to him, you just took off.” She was quiet as I fixed my coffee, as I puttered around the kitchen, delaying the conversation. “I told him that didn’t sound like you,” she eventually continued, voice raising slightly, forcing me to hear her even though I had decided right then was the best possible time to reorganize my canned goods.
“Quinn.” It was how she said my name. Not harshly, not with frustration or anger. Just so concerned. Softly, she said my name, my best friend, my oldest friend, one half of the tattered remains of my very small family. Sighing, shoulders slumping, I stopped fussing and stalling.
“I slept with him,” I said in a mumble.
“I know,” Tracy told me gently. “You called me sounding worse than I’ve heard you in a long time. You left without saying anything to Brady, and now you’re not returning his calls. What’s going on?”
“I slept with Brady.” Like if I could say it the right way she’d get it. “We had sex and it was really good, Trace. I liked it. I wanted it.”
Sighing, she moved to stand behind me and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. “Okay,” she murmured. “None of that sounds like a bad thing.”
But then she got it. Her fingers tightened on the fab
ric of Aaron’s sweater and she understood. “But he wasn’t Aaron,” she said softly, and I hung my head, ashamed and guilty and so confused I felt sick. It was what I’d told her last night, choking on tears and distraught. Maybe she’d thought a good night’s sleep would make things seem better. “God, Quinn, do you actually believe you cheated?”
“I slept with someone who wasn’t Aaron.” The words just kept getting repeated, over and over, in my head. Saying them out loud slammed the sound of them into me, a hard and heavy ache that clawed at my throat.
“Aaron’s gone, hon,” Tracy reminded me. “Wearing his sweaters and living like he’s not won’t change that. I know it sucks, I know it’s not fair, but—”
“What?” I cut her off harshly. “It’s what he’d want?” God, I was so sick of hearing that, sick of people giving me that goddamn pitying stare and telling me, all righteous and sure, what Aaron would want. As if they knew. As if anyone could fucking know.
“Even if it isn’t, it’s what you do, Quinn. It’s been two years.”
“Is there supposed to be some kind of time limit?” Anger was easier than grief; being mad was so much easier than looking her in the eyes. “Seven hundred thirty days, that’s all right, but seven hundred thirty-one and you get your ass back in the game. Never mind that it was supposed to be forever. That I shouldn’t be able to feel this at all.”
Silent for a moment, Tracy just folded her arms, fixing me with her lawyer stare. The one that let me know she’d just stand there and wait for me to be done ranting. Sagging a bit, I leaned against the counter, exhausted.
“You’re right,” she said, very quietly. “I don’t know what Aaron would want. No one does. Because he can’t want anything, Quinn. He’s gone. You’re the one that’s still here, that’s still living, and every second takes you further away from him. You can’t stop that. Not by hiding in your room, not by wearing his sweaters, and you sure as hell can’t by treating people like shit.”
