Second Best, #1

by Noelle Adams

  There were tears in my eyes when I hurried into a stall, and I hugged my arms to my chest and shook for a few minutes, telling myself to get it together.

  I couldn’t let Sean mess up what I might have with John.

  John was who I’d always wanted.

  And then I couldn’t help but think of one more thing.

  John hadn’t even come to look for me even though I’d been gone for ages now.

  My throat felt full and tight still, even after I took deep breaths and then blew my nose. I left the stall and washed my hands and told myself I’d feel better about everything soon.

  I left the restroom for the second time and was heading to the theater when someone stopped me again.

  It was Sean, and this time he stopped me by simply saying, “Ash.”

  I turned around to face him, preparing for another argument.

  He didn’t give me one. Instead, he handed me a business card.

  I noticed he was also holding something else, but my attention was caught by the card he’d handed me. It was his standard business card—the kind he must hand out to anyone he’d made professional contact with. It had his office number and business email listed. But on the top he’d scrawled another phone number.

  It must be his personal number.

  We weren’t supposed to touch base with each other outside of Wednesday nights. That had always been one of the most important rules of our liaisons. We had never even exchanged phone numbers.

  I stared at the card for several seconds until my eyes finally lifted to his face.

  He looked almost sheepish as he murmured, “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  My lips parted slightly. I couldn’t say anything.

  Then Sean handed me what was in his other hand.

  One of those lovely chocolate petit fours on a little napkin.

  “They’re really good,” he murmured.

  I took the tiny cake, washed with feeling so intense it shuddered through me.

  Sean looked for a moment like he would say something else, but then his features twisted and he turned away.

  He strode back to the box seat entrance, and I stood in the middle of the lobby like an idiot.

  I did eat the petit four. It was delicious.

  When I finally got back to my seat, John leaned over and said into my ear, “That must have been a long line.”

  A FEW HOURS LATER, John and I were at his downtown apartment.

  His tongue was in my mouth, and his hand was under my top, cupping my breast over my bra. I was pushed into the corner of his couch, and he was basically on top of me.

  And I didn’t like it.

  At all.

  We’d gone to get something to eat after the ballet, and then we’d headed over to his apartment for a drink since, as he’d said, mine was too far away.

  That was how we’d ended up like this.

  He’d kissed me, and I wanted to be kissed by him, so I’d responded.

  He didn’t make me feel the way Sean did, but I tried to reason out that it wasn’t fair to make the comparison.

  Sean had a lot of practice in making love to me. He knew what I liked.

  John didn’t.

  But the thing was, John didn’t even try. He didn’t seem to make any attempt to find out what worked for me, the ways I liked to be touched. He didn’t appear to be gauging my reactions or even really paying attention to me.

  He was kind of dry humping me now, his weight uncomfortable and claustrophobic.

  And I swear I couldn’t even tell if he knew the woman he was doing this to was me.

  A lot of guys were like that. I knew they were. John wasn’t being rough or mean or even particularly obnoxious.

  He was just focused on what he was feeling and not on me.

  Maybe it wasn’t fair to compare John to Sean, but I simply couldn’t help it. Even that first night we’d spent together, when we’d barely known each other at all, Sean had been better than this. And I understood why. He’d always recognized he was in bed with another human being and not just a life-sized doll who was there to get him off.

  So as I lay against the corner of the couch with John on top of me, squeezing one of my breasts like it was a stress ball, I had to finally admit the truth to myself.

  I hadn’t really been in love with John for the past three years. I’d been in love with the idea of John I’d made up in my head. My feelings had been real, but the object of those feelings hadn’t been.

  Sean had been right from the very beginning. John wasn’t who I thought he was.

  He was nice enough and smart and handsome and a decent conversationalist, but there had been all these little details along the way that should have clued me in earlier.

  There might always be little things that bug in a relationship—nobody is perfect, and expecting perfection means never finding anyone—but enough little things eventually add up to a full picture.

  John wasn’t who I wanted him to be.

  Some men are like John—decent but selfish at heart. A lot of men are like him.

  But not all men.

  Some men would stand in line with their wives when they’re waiting to use the restroom, they’d bring her wine and a petit four so she wouldn’t miss out. Some men would wait on a bench, even after the ballet starts up again, until his wife finally comes out of the bathroom.

  Some men wouldn’t stay in their seats because they didn’t want to fight the crowds.

  And some men would know that I wasn’t into this make-out session without my having to say something.

  I did say something.

  I put a hand on John’s shoulder and pushed him away from me, murmuring, “John, wait.”

  He pulled away, panting. “What?”

  “This isn’t... this isn’t working for me.”

  “What isn’t?”

  I gave a vague gesture. “This.”

  He frowned and straightened up. “Why not?”

  Why not?

  He was actually asking me why not.

  “I don’t know. It just isn’t working.”

  “So what then? You want to stop?” He didn’t look a bit happy about this possibility.

  I hesitated. We could try it again. I could give him some direction on the kind of kissing and touching that worked for me.

  But the truth was I didn’t want to bother.

  I knew—I knew—this wasn’t going anywhere. So why should both of us waste any more time.

  I’d already wasted three years on the man.

  So I said, “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

  A few minutes later, I was leaving John’s apartment, and I knew he wasn’t going to ask me out again.

  THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE bad. I spent Sunday cocooned at home, crying and watching movies and trying to reconcile myself to the fact that all my dreams had been based in thin air.

  It was a real loss for me, no matter how foolish I’d been to believe in those dreams. I had to come to grips with the loss before I started to move on.

  I went into work on Monday, and I didn’t see John at all. I didn’t know if he was avoiding me or if I was avoiding him—but it didn’t really matter which it was.

  On Tuesday, I was feeling more like myself, tired and sad but not about to fall apart.

  And on Wednesday morning, I kept looking at Sean’s business card.

  I didn’t have John anymore. I didn’t even have the dream of John.

  But I’d loved those evenings with Sean.

  Even though I still wanted a real relationship, which Sean could never offer me, surely I was allowed to have some fun before I found it.

  It had seemed like Sean still wanted our Wednesday nights to continue.

  I brooded about it all morning as I worked.

  And by lunchtime I’d finally made up my mind.

  He would get to tease me and say he told me so, but I could live with that.

  I was too nervous to call him, so I punched his number into my phone to sen
d a text message.

  It was only a few words.

  I’ve changed my mind.

  It knew it wouldn’t last forever, but for right now second best was what I wanted.

  Seven

  I REALLY HAD NO IDEA what to expect from Sean as a response to my text message.

  He’d given me his phone number, but there was no reason to assume he’d just been waiting around for me to change my mind and would want to return to our Wednesday evening agreement without hesitation. I knew very well he could find another woman—for sex or for anything he wanted—without even trying. Women must have made moves on him every single day. All he would have to do is crook his finger, and they’d come running.

  He could have gotten bored or annoyed or disinterested in me—even in the few days since I saw him at the ballet.

  Or he might want to make me suffer a little for dropping him the way I did.

  I told myself not to expect a response very quickly—if at all—but I was so on edge after sending the text that I nearly jumped out of my chair when my phone buzzed seven minutes after I sent him the message.

  It was Sean.

  Tonight? Usual place and time?

  That was it.

  Evidently, he was ready to fall right back into our old schedule as if the interruption had never happened. That was what I wanted too.

  Wasn’t it?

  I texted back, See you then, and tried to focus on work, but my mind kept straying to Sean and what would happen when I saw him tonight.

  I didn’t get much done all day.

  SEVEN HOURS LATER, I was riding up the hotel elevator, my heart pounding painfully in my chest.

  I hadn’t been this nervous since the first time Sean and I had gotten together—four and a half months ago now.

  Honestly, I had no idea what to expect from Sean when I entered that room, and that uncertainty was what scared me the most.

  After putting on a brave face, I knocked on the door and waited until he swung the door open. Sean wore one of his regular business suits—this one a slate gray—and he wasn’t smiling.

  This didn’t bode well for a comfortable encounter. I shifted from foot to foot and took a shaky breath.

  Shit. What if he was annoyed by the whole thing? What if he didn’t want to waste his time with a stupid person who’d made up a man to be the love of her life?

  His face relaxed into a little smile, and I immediately felt better.

  “You can say I told you so if you want,” I said.

  He stepped out of the way to let me in with a huff of amusement. “Do you really think I’m that kind of person?”

  “Well, yeah. Isn’t everyone?”

  The hotel room was perfectly neat and utterly familiar, with nothing marring the smooth surfaces except a white box on a side table and Sean’s phone lying on the table near the wine bottle and glasses. Even the smell of the room hit me with a deep sense of acquaintance. Homecoming.

  It had been a full month since I’d been here, but the room hadn’t changed at all.

  When I glanced over, I saw that Sean was studying my face. So I added, “If the tables were turned, I’m sure I would be rubbing in the fact that you were so stupid.”

  “Do you want me to rub it in?” He wasn’t teasing. He was asking for real.

  And I grew still as I thought through the question.

  Maybe I did.

  Maybe I did want him to mock me for how foolish I’d been.

  Maybe I thought I deserved it.

  “I’m pretty embarrassed about the whole thing,” I admitted.

  He came closer and raised a hand to brush my hair back behind one ear. “You don’t have to be. Not with me anyway.”

  Our gazes held for a long stretch of time until finally his face drifted toward mine. He brushed my lips lightly at first and then more firmly, his tongue darting out to trace the entrance to my mouth.

  The kiss sent tingles of pleasure down my spine, but I was still too nervous to concentrate.

  Sean drew back, his eyebrows lowering slightly. “Do you want to eat first tonight?”

  My shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

  We both ordered steaks, and I got mine with a sweet potato (with butter, brown sugar, and pecans). Then Sean poured out the wine, and we sat down at the table to wait for our food.

  “So do you want to tell me what happened?” Sean asked after we’d sipped our wine in silence for a minute.

  I cleared my throat as I thought through the question. “He wasn’t a total jackass.”

  One corner of Sean’s mouth tilted up.

  “He wasn’t,” I said. “He was decent enough.”

  “So why are you here with me and not with him tonight?”

  “You were right about one thing. He wasn’t... who I thought he was.”

  As soon as I’d voiced the words, my nerves seemed to dissipate. This was fine. This was comfortable. I could be honest with Sean. He wasn’t judging me or laughing at me or just waiting for proof that I was an idiot.

  He wasn’t like that.

  He was actually listening.

  “So who was he then?” Sean asked, leaning back in his chair, his eyes never leaving my face.

  “He was... a normal guy, I guess. Except he didn’t seem to care all that much about what I wanted or even... even who I was. He asked about me but then didn’t actually listen to my answers. And he’d act like he wanted to please me, but then he was mostly interested in what pleased him. He really wasn’t terrible. He was never bad to me. He just wasn’t... really good.”

  Sean didn’t reply even though I paused for a break. He didn’t have to. I didn’t need one of those verbal affirmations to know that he was hearing me.

  “I guess I’d invested him with all this thoughtfulness and sensitivity in my mind when it wasn’t part of him at all.” I stared down at the top of the table. “It only took me three years to find this out.”

  “That’s not true. You didn’t know him for three years. You’ve only really known him for a few weeks. It didn’t take you that long to figure it out.”

  “I guess.”

  “I was afraid it would take you a lot longer.”

  My eyes lifted. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he said with an ironic quirk of his mobile mouth. “I knew you’d see it eventually, but I was afraid it would take you a few months. I was imagining you dating him, living with him, engaged to him, and still not really seeing who he was.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. “You thought I’d be engaged to him?”

  “Why not? You were in love with your picture of him, and sometimes those pictures blind us to everything else. Why shouldn’t I assume you’d follow that picture wherever it took you?”

  “I’m not that stupid.”

  “I’m not saying you’re stupid. That’s my point. You don’t have to be stupid to do that. Do you have any idea how many smart, generous women I’ve seen end up with men who don’t deserve them? Because they’re seeing in the man what they want to see instead of what’s really there. It’s not about being stupid. It’s about being... hopeful.”

  “Hopeful.” I repeated the word, thinking it through as I did.

  “Yes. Hopeful.”

  “So why did you see what John was like from the very first minute when it took me so long to figure it out?”

  Sean put down his wineglass but kept his fingers wrapped around it. “Because there’s nothing hopeful about me. Not anymore.”

  For a moment I couldn’t look away. He was telling me the unvarnished truth about himself, and it felt intimate.

  Too intimate.

  It made my heart clench in a dangerous way.

  His phone rang then, breaking the tension between us. He glanced at it and then silenced it without hesitation.

  “So what did you see in him that I didn’t?” I asked, really wanting to know.

  I didn’t want to be foolish over a man again—not like I had been with John.

 
Sean gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Guys like him have had it too easy all their lives.”

  “Guys like him?”

  “Guys who look like him.”

  I understood now what Sean was saying. John was incredibly handsome—and handsome in that traditional, classic way that was impossible not to notice. “So anyone who is good-looking is suspect? What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You’re really good-looking.” I said the words without thinking, just to make a point in the argument. After all, it was just a foundational truth about the universe—that Sean was as attractive as a man could get.

  But Sean’s little smile in response made me blush.

  Trying to ignore the hot flush on my cheeks, I pressed on. “Don’t give me that look. I’m making a point here. You’re good-looking, so should I immediately suspect you?”

  “I’m not good-looking the way the jackass is.” I started to object, but he continued, “I’m not. I wasn’t good-looking at all when I was a growing up. I was skinny and gangly and geeky, and my mouth was weird. Girls weren’t into me at all until I made money.”

  “I... I don’t believe that.”

  “Well, believe it. I’ve never had the kind of looks that open doors for you. The jackass has, and he’s had them all his life. He’s used to getting what he wants without even trying, and so he’s never had to try to win a woman’s heart.”

  My mind was racing as I tried to keep up with all this and piece it together into a conclusion. “So you judged him just by his looks? You’re saying every handsome man is a jackass?”

  “Not every one. But I’ve found a disproportionate number of them are.”

  I shook my head suddenly. “But you’re good-looking. You are, Sean. You’re sitting there, judging yourself.”

  He chuckled. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but be honest. If you didn’t know who I was, if you’d never heard me talk or interacted with me personally, if I was wearing cheap jeans and a T-shirt and you passed by me at a restaurant, you wouldn’t look at me twice.”

  He was serious. He genuinely believed it. And I could actually understand what he was saying since so much of his attractiveness and sex appeal came from his intelligence, his sense of humor, his verbal and physical skill.