The Ground Rules

by Roya Carmen

  “Right now and right here,” I whisper, surprised at my own boldness.

  He chokes a little on his water. But he smiles. He likes it. His eyes seem to get even darker.

  He wants me too.

  Now, this is more like it, I think. I’m sitting with this delicious man, and we’re both into each other. We should be flirting, not making small talk.

  “I don’t think I ever answered your question,” I say, looking off into the distance. “Yes. I like the restaurant.” My gaze sweeps over the cozy space and its brick covered walls and framed black and white photos of Italy.

  “I’m glad,” he says, his eyes still intense.

  I tilt my head, trying to be seductive. “You know what I like about it? It’s small and intimate.”

  “It is,” he agrees. “That’s why I chose it.”

  “You know,” I whisper. “These small places usually have private washrooms.”

  He swallows hard. His gaze is glued to mine. He’s not stupid. He knows where I’m going with this.

  I pause, take a sip of wine, and grab my clutch. “I’m going to powder my nose.”

  My eyes linger on him as I walk away.

  The poor man looks absolutely flabbergasted.

  My heart starts to hammer in my chest as I make my way to the back of the restaurant. Suddenly, I start to panic.

  What am I doing? I can’t do this. This isn’t me. I’m not even sure there is a private washroom—what if it’s just a bunch of dirty disgusting public stalls.

  This was a very bad idea.

  I follow the washroom sign and round the corner, wanting to die. I literally want my life to be over at this exact second.

  That’s it…The End.

  But as I reach the washroom, I breathe a little easier.

  It is a private washroom, and there seems to be no one around. I enter slowly and study my surroundings. It’s not dirty, but not particularly clean either. It’s simple—a lone pedestal sink and white toilet, waste basket, towel, and soap dispensers. A large gilded mirror catches my reflection…I look absolutely terrified.

  What was I thinking? I wonder, my back pressed against the door.

  He’s hasn’t followed me.

  Weston Hanson hates germs. The man applies hand disinfectant religiously. He also appears to have OCD and a strong aversion to public displays of any kind.

  Weston Hanson does not have raunchy sex in public washrooms.

  I bury my face in my hands. I can feel the familiar lump in my throat, and I know the tears are coming.

  Chapter Eleven

  Better than good.

  I HEAR A LIGHT KNOCK on the door.

  I turn around and open it slowly.

  I see him.

  He comes in and locks the door behind us, his gaze glued to mine.

  His lips are on mine before I can say a word. His tongue is in my mouth. His kiss is hungry. He presses me hard against the door, holds my face tightly in his hands…he owns me.

  I have never been kissed quite like this before—with such raw emotion, such hunger. I feel my entire core melting and a deep ache in my stomach, a wonderful ache.

  I drop my clutch and reach for his skin. I want to touch him. I pull his shirt and slide my hand along the warm smooth skin of his stomach. He moans in my mouth and slides his hand up the inside of my thigh. I’m so aroused, I fear I might climax before he even touches me.

  His mouth travels down to my neck. “I want you.”

  “Have me,” I whisper in his ear.

  He reaches for my panties. I feel him hard against me.

  This is really happening.

  He pulls them down. His hands are soft and gentle against my skin. I close my eyes, enjoying his touch. I am so ready for this.

  But then…

  Knock. Knock.

  We stop. We don’t make a peep. We don’t move. Weston’s face is buried in my neck, his hand still wrapped up in my panties.

  We hear another knock. Louder, this time.

  The handle jiggles.

  We stay completely motionless, buried in each other.

  The handle jiggles more loudly.

  “Uh…one…moment,” I say, my voice shaky. “I…I’ll be right out.”

  Fuck.

  I pull my panties back up. Weston looks absolutely mortified.

  What have I got us into?

  “There’s no way out,” I whisper. “This woman outside will see us. She’ll know what we were up to.”

  My hearts pounds in my chest. And suddenly, I can’t breathe.

  I really can’t breathe.

  I’m familiar with this sensation—I’m having a full-blown panic attack.

  “Are you all right?” Weston asks, genuine concern on his face. He rests his hands on my shoulders. “Breathe.”

  “I…I can…can’t.” I can barely get the words out. I kneel and bend my head down. I close my eyes and I hug myself tightly. I focus on my breathing. This will pass. It always does. It’s been ages since I’ve had an attack, and I can’t believe it’s happening now. I’m sure I’m real attractive—Weston must wonder what the hell he’s got himself into.

  He grabs my clutch off the floor. “Will you be all right?” he asks. His voice is so soft, it calms me. And his eyes are so kind, full of concern.

  He kneels down next to me and stays by my side until I can breathe again.

  How did I ever think this man was cold?

  Finally, I stand slowly, my breathing not quite normal, but good enough to undertake my “walk of shame.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  I turn the door handle slowly and open the door to a very annoyed, tiny, middle-aged woman. I’m not saying a word, I decide. I don’t owe this stranger any explanations. Weston walks out behind me, and I spot the look of shock on the woman’s face.

  “We’re very sorry,” he offers. “My girlfriend was having a panic attack.”

  Well, it’s true. He didn’t lie.

  Except for the “girlfriend” part.

  The tiny woman scowls. “Oh…is that what we’re calling it these days.” She’s clearly annoyed, but she doesn’t seem too scandalized.

  It’s not the end of the world, after all.

  No, the end of the world comes shortly after, when Weston and I take our seats again. It is so uncomfortable—I will remember this moment for the rest of my life, the most excruciating minutes of my existence.

  Such a situation would be uneasy for any normal couple on a first date, but this is Weston and I—we’re already socially awkward in the best of circumstances.

  He pulls out the familiar bottle of hand disinfectant.

  “Can I have some,” I ask. We both disinfect our hands. I smile at the sight of us—we make quite the odd couple.

  “That bathroom wasn’t super clean.” I point out.

  “It wasn’t the worst I’ve seen.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “for making you do that.”

  He smiles at me—a sly smile. “You didn’t make me do anything. I admit it…I’m generally quite preoccupied with the billion or so microscopic creatures lurking on the surface of everything we see, but trust me…they didn’t enter my mind for a second when I followed you into that washroom.”

  His words arouse me.

  I’m curious. “What was on your mind?”

  He pauses for a beat, his eyes thoughtful. “Touching you,” he says, his words soft. “Kissing you.”

  And suddenly, I want to be in that washroom again—touching him, kissing him.

  I spot the tiny woman returning from the washroom. She shoots me the evil eye. I’m mortified—I want to bury my face in my pasta.

  And to add insult to injury, this one’s a gossip. As soon as she sits down, I hear her whisper to her girlfriends. And they all turn to look at us.

  “Don’t look,” she snaps.

  But it’s too late.

  “I’m sorry, Weston,” I say, head down. “But…can we leave?”

  He lo
oks at me, fork over his half-finished veal. “Sure, Mirella. If that’s what you want.”

  I’m surprised by his reaction. If I pulled this kind of thing with Gabe, he’d tell me to shape up and finish my meal.

  As we leave the restaurant, I’m still a little uneasy.

  “I’m so sorry, Weston. You didn’t even get to finish your meal.”

  “I understand. It was a painfully embarrassing situation. I wanted to leave as well. And besides, my veal was kind of cold.”

  “I’ve completely messed up our entire date.”

  He takes my hand. “No you didn’t,” he argues, pulling me to him. “You’ve made it wonderful.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this with me?” I ask, not quite able to look at him.

  “Positive.”

  I look up at him. His gaze is fixed to mine. He still holds my hand in his, his thumb traces soft circles on the flesh of my palm.

  “Can I take you to my place?” he asks. I can tell he wants to finish what we’ve started. And I want to.

  But I’m just too frazzled. My breathing’s not quite right. My nerves are shot. And I desperately want to retreat to a quiet place.

  I realize I need a little more time.

  “I want to, Weston. Believe me. But tonight doesn’t feel right.”

  “You’re not ready,” he says. And I see unmistakable disappointment in his eyes. “I can wait for you.” His expression is gentle.

  He’s so sweet…I feel something for him. Something I know I’m not supposed to feel. I try not to think about it…to not even go there.

  I reach up and wrap my arms around him. He stiffens a bit and hesitates.

  But I don’t let go.

  His arms wrap slowly around me and tighten. A wonderful heat spreads through my core…this is one amazing hug.

  We hold each other for the longest time, standing on the street, and he doesn’t let go. I’m shocked he doesn’t let go. And it feels so intimate, even more intimate than our washroom tryst…and I tear myself away at the realization.

  “I’m sorry Weston,” I say, dashing to the sidewalk. “I know I’m not supposed to—”

  He runs after me. “It’s fine, Mirella.”

  He stills me with his hand. “Hugs are,” he pauses for a beat, “acceptable.”

  I laugh a little.

  “Really?” I tease. “Are hugs acceptable? You don’t seem too sure.”

  He cocks his head with a playful expression. “Well, let me check the manual when I get home.”

  My jaw drops. “There’s a manual?”

  He laughs. “I’m jesting, Mirella,” he tells me, with a gentle poke on the tip of my nose. “You’re very gullible.”

  He’s being playful, and I like this version of him. Very much.

  Well, what do you know…perhaps there is a man under the suit of armor after all.

  Weston sends me home in his car. Edward is courteous and discreet as always.

  In the refuge of Weston’s car, I can finally breathe. I close my eyes and relive the events of the night—the good parts—Weston’s face, his smile, his hand on the inside of my thigh, his lips on mine, the taste of red wine, his arms tight around me.

  I chide myself.

  I’m already doing it…I’m already falling for him.

  Why can’t I do this? It’s not that complicated…just have sex with the man and go on with my life, no strings attached. Just enjoy a good fuck. Why can’t I just do that?

  This was a colossal mistake, I can’t help but think, tears running down my cheeks. I reach for a tissue.

  I am so glad to be alone.

  My thoughts drift to Gabe and Bridget. I shouldn’t think about them, but I can’t help myself. They are probably going to town on each other at this exact moment. My husband is balls deep in another woman right now. And then, I officially start to blubber like a small child. I don’t think Edward sees me—he’s trained to be discreet.

  I don’t even care if he sees me—I’m just that far gone.

  Just a few weeks ago, I was a normal happy suburban wife and mother.

  “And now, look at me,” I mutter as I grab another tissue and blow my nose. “I’m a complete disaster.”

  When I get home, Caroline is playing a princess board game with the girls. She seems surprised to see me back home so early.

  “I wasn’t expecting you till much later. You’re early.”

  “Yes,” I say, knowing full well I probably look like something the cat dragged in. “I’m sorry. I’ll pay you for the full night.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” she says, a concerned look on her face. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I assure her. “Here. I insist.” I give her the full amount.

  “You sure?”

  I just want her to leave. “Yes.”

  Claire is attached to my leg. She seems glad to have me back home. “But, Mommy, we weren’t finished with our game.”

  “I’ll take Caroline’s place.” I think this might just be the distraction I need.

  But it doesn’t work. At all. Visions of Gabe and Bridget twirl around in my head. I’m so messed up. Why did I ever agree to this? I’ve never regretted anything more in my life.

  I kiss the girls good night and tuck them in. I even kiss Bitzy, Claire’s stuffed monkey, and Cookie, Chloe’s favorite stuffed dog. As I tuck the girls in, a big part of me is happy I didn’t go through with it. I can’t do this to them—jeopardize my marriage, our lives. My panic attack was truly a blessing in disguise. I don’t want to do this.

  I take a long bath, and try not to think.

  Gabe finally comes home at around eleven. I bound down the stairs in my plush pink bathrobe to see him.

  And as soon as I see his face, I know.

  He’s slept with her.

  My heart sinks.

  I don’t know what to say to him. I know we can’t discuss it, but I want to know everything. I need to know everything.

  “How was your night?” I ask, my voice soft.

  He hesitates, taking off his jacket. “It was fine.”

  I stare down at the floor, not wanting to see his face, to see the truth. “Just fine?”

  He turns away from me. “Mirella,” he says. “You know we’re not supposed to talk about it. It’s a bad idea.”

  “Did you…”

  He swallows, avoiding my gaze.

  “Did you?” I snap. “Look at me.”

  He rakes a hand through his hair and turns to look at me. “Why are you doing this, Ella?”

  My throat closes up. The tears rush out. “Because…”

  He nods, his eyes downcast.

  I sit down on the stairs and hug my knees. The tears flow. Part of me was hoping he’d had a change of heart too, that he’d also realized this was one big, giant mistake.

  He wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. “Ella,” he whispers, “you agreed to this. I thought we both wanted this.”

  I bury my swollen face in his chest. “I thought I wanted it too,” I cry.

  “You’ve changed your mind?” he asks. “You still can, if you don’t want to do this.”

  “Oh great,” I hiss, pushing him away. “You would just love that. You’ve already got your jollies. You’re good to go.”

  “Ella,” he pleads, reaching for my hand. “I know I can’t say anything, but I can tell you one thing,” he says, his gorgeous hazel eyes fixed on mine. “It was just sex. Just sex.”

  Just sex. Plain and simple.

  “How did you fuck her?” I hiss. I want to know all the sordid details.

  “Mirella,” he snaps, grasping my hand tighter. “The girls are upstairs…don’t be like this.”

  “How?” I ask. “More than one way, I bet.”

  He grabs my face in his hands. Hard. “Don’t do this,” he pleads with me. “Let’s end this right now. Call everything off.”

  I tear myself away and stand, wiping my face with the sleeve of my bathrobe.
<
br />   He reaches from behind and wraps his arms tightly around me, holding me captive. “What happened with Weston?” he asks, his words sharp and edgy. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “No. He was good.”

  Better than good.

  “Did you two…” Suddenly, Gabe is the one who’s curious.

  “No,” I say simply, not really wanting to talk about the details.

  “Wow,” he says. “What was he waiting for? You’re gorgeous…I would have nailed you within the hour.”

  He almost did, I want to say.

  “What’s wrong with the guy? I told you he was strange.”

  I turn around to look at him. “It was me, Gabe,” I cry. “I wasn’t ready.”

  “Oh…” he mutters, and I see joy in his eyes. He’s happy I didn’t go through with it.

  I bury my face in my hands. “I actually had one of my panic attacks,” I confess.

  “You didn’t!”

  “Full-blown, baby. It was mortifying.”

  “I’m sorry, babe,” he says, hugging me tightly. “This was a bad idea.”

  I know.

  “I love you so much,” he adds in a whisper, squeezing me tighter.

  I hold him tight, thinking maybe there’s still a chance to end all this.

  Maybe there’s still a chance for us.

  I’m sure Weston will understand.

  Life is strange now.

  I know Gabe hasn’t technically cheated on me, but it still feels like he has. I can’t be with him. There’s too much anger in me. I need time.

  He’s been very patient and kind. He says he understands how I feel. But I don’t think he really does.

  We talk and officially decide to not go through with the exchange. We both agree it was a terrible idea in the first place. But I want to tell Weston in person. I don’t think it’s the kind of thing I should tell his assistant—and that would be way too awkward.

  I pace around the house for days, dreading the confrontation. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. Weston is a wonderful man, and the last thing I want to do is hurt him.

  But I really can’t do this.

  I dab a touch of lip gloss, looking at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair is up in a hard bun—no tendrils framing my face, not the least amount of softness. I’ve worn one of my outfits usually reserved for school—a simple black A-line skirt, a white buttoned blouse with a red Peter Pan collar. My makeup is minimal, and I haven’t bothered with accessories.