by Alix Nichols
I sigh. “If you want to know the truth, I’m breaking up with him tomorrow.”
His shoulders sag with relief.
“And if you want to know the whole truth,” I say. “I’m dumping him because he’s served his purpose.”
Julien smirks. “So, I was right about you using him.”
“As far as that part is concerned, yes. But not about my goal.”
He arches an eyebrow. “You weren’t trying to make me jealous?”
I huff. “I was, but not to win you back.”
“Why then?”
“As a retaliation. So that I could send you to hell when you came groveling.”
Before the last word tumbles out of my mouth, I realize that admitting to how premeditated the whole scheme was sort of defeats the purpose. But it’s too late. I can’t take those words back anymore.
“Did it feel good?” Julien asks. “Sending me to hell?”
I nod.
Did it, really?
“You’re luckier than me.” He gives me a half smile. “I felt like shit when I wrote that breakup letter. And I felt even worse later that day when I regretted it.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying, Noemi. I regretted that stupid letter just a few hours after I wrote it. But I was on a plane, and there was nothing I could do to make it disappear.”
“If that is true,”—I narrow my eyes at him—“why didn’t you call me as soon as you got back to Paris? It’s been a month now.”
“I know…” He gives my hand the tiniest stroke, shifting the pad of his thumb against my knuckles.
Can I still qualify his touch as non-erotic?
Yes, I can.
And I will.
“In the beginning,” he says. “I thought like you, that we couldn’t be together. Because we couldn’t forgive and trust each other. So, I tried to forget you. I really fought it.”
“What did you do?”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “You want all the sordid details?
“No… But maybe we can swap some tips.”
“I don’t have any tips to give you,” he says. “I failed miserably.”
“Me, too,” I murmur with a heavy sigh.
He presses my hand to his lips. “You’re mine, Noemi. And I’m yours. Twisted or not, we belong together.”
I stare at him, refusing to nod.
“Admit it,” he rasps.
Shockingly and utterly incomprehensibly, I want to. My lips ache to form those words. My heart craves the sound of them.
I’m yours. That would be my verdict.
Only yours. My final ruling.
Always yours. My life sentence.
I shake my head. “Can’t.”
“I get it.” Julien’s stare scalds me. “Then say you’re mine tonight.”
As he presses his lips to my hand once again, I close my eyes and savor the bittersweet joy of his touch.
“I’m yours tonight,” I murmur, opening my eyes and turning to Julien. “Just tonight.”
13
Julien
Tonight will do.
For now.
I pull her to me and bracket her face between my hands.
“Are you going to kiss me?” she asks, laughing. “With that face?”
“Do you mind awfully?”
“As long as we don’t rub noses…” She grins. “Wouldn’t want you to yelp in pain in the middle of a kiss.”
“No nose rubbing,” I promise before my mouth descends on hers.
I kiss her, drinking her in, slipping my hands under her tee and stroking her tummy, her hips, and sides. She yanks her top off, revealing a lacy bra and creamy, smooth skin. My heart picks up as I cup her breasts and fondle them.
When I unclasp and remove her bra, I draw back and spend a few long moments just staring at her stiff nipples. They beg for my touch. I pinch them gently while trailing my tongue up and down the elegant curve of her throat, tasting her skin. Then I lick her lovely collarbones. When my mouth closes over one of her scrumptious buds, a deep, low growl escapes my lips.
Noemi whimpers.
“Mine,” I say again, my voice hoarse.
Unzipping her pants, I shove my hand between her legs. She’s wet. Eager. Aching for me to fill her.
I’d wanted to give her long, tender preliminaries, but that would have to wait until the morning. Right now, my need is too raw, too urgent to allow anything that would delay my cock from plunging into her tight, hungry heat.
As if to eliminate my last doubts, Noemi opens my bathrobe and stares at me. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. Jesus. I take her hand and guide it to touch me. She does more than touch. She wraps her fingers around my erection and strokes it with a firm, possessive grip. When she trails her thumb from the base to the center of the crown, my head tips back with the pleasure of her touch.
It must be now.
“Give me a sec.” I dash to my duffel bag and return with a condom in my hand.
She snatches it from me and works it onto my cock. I shrug out of my bathrobe, pull the rest of her clothing off, and a moment later, I’m inside her.
The bliss.
This is where I’d like to spend the rest of my life.
Propping myself up on my forearms, I push my tongue into her mouth in time with my thrusts. Deeper, harder. She moans, gripping my neck, digging her fingernails into my back, squeezing me with her inner muscles. To tease her, I withdraw completely and hover over her, the tip of my erection barely touching her folds.
“Please,” she begs.
“Please what?”
“Get back in there.”
I position myself at her entrance and slam in. She gasps, clinging to me. I pound into her, my thrusts sharp enough to give her what she craves, but measured, so I can keep my own pleasure in check.
Her whimpering picks up in intensity, and she spurs me with her heels against my ass.
Breaking the kiss, I grab her ankles and push her legs even higher, so that I can penetrate her deeper, touch her more fully, take more from her, and give her more.
Noemi lifts her head and kisses my chest, my throat, my chin. “Baby, I’m so close.”
Me too, sweetie, me too.
I release her left ankle and grab her ass, pinning her to me, just as I pump into her with all I have. Again, and again, and again. She bucks, her eyes rolling in her head and her mouth gaping in ecstasy as she comes. I thrust again. Her inner muscles contract. Her entire body trembles. And then she arches her back and cries out her release.
That’s my girl.
A few more jerky thrusts and I erupt, shuddering and spurting hot fluid. When my tremors calm down, I slump on top of her. She runs her hands over my back, strokes everywhere she can reach—my neck, shoulders, spine, ass—and whispers tender words against my disfigured face. Carefully avoiding my nose, she rains soft kisses on my cheeks, mouth, and chin. When her lips touch mine, I open and delve my tongue into the welcoming sweetness of her mouth.
We stay like that for a while, stroking and kissing each other. When I pull out and roll to my side, she looks bereft. She won’t be able to see it on my messy face right now, but bereft is exactly how I feel, too, moving away from her.
While she’s in the bathroom, I dispose of the condom and apply the cool pack again.
After she returns to my side, we fall asleep, our fingers interlaced and our limbs entwined.
In the morning when I wake up next to her, I know I’ll never have this kind of sex—this kind of connection—with another woman.
Noemi jumps out of the bed and fetches my cool pack. “You look better than last night, so I guess this thing works.”
Dutifully, I sit up and hold it to my nose.
She settles next to me and strokes my shoulder. “Did it hurt when you had the tattoo removed?”
She’s never asked me about the tattoo before. We’ve never even mentioned it. It’s as if it hadn’t existed.
I nod.
“Laser?”
I nod again. “Several endless sessions. Felt like having my back roasted on a defective grill.”
She squirms. “That unpleasant?”
“Still, it had nothing on having the tat inked in.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Jeez, I was so stupid back then!”
“Isn’t everyone at that age?”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “When I asked you to go under the needle—and not just for a small tat, but a huge tacky thing across your back—it didn’t occur to me how painful and… permanent it would be. I’m really sorry, Julien.”
“You were very young.” I shrug. “And so was I.”
She gives me a weak smile.
I glance at my watch. “I need to be downstairs in fifteen, or else Lucas will kill me.”
“Of course!” She points to the bathroom. “Hit the shower. I’ll see myself out once your teammates join you for breakfast.”
I touch her cheek. “I want you to know I’m not giving up on us.”
She sighs. “How can we ever trust each other after the things we’ve done? A relationship without trust is doomed.”
“I trust you,” I say. “I would trust you with my life.”
She keeps silent.
I guess that means she doesn’t trust me.
Can’t blame her. What I did to her only a month ago was too harsh. Way too harsh.
“There’s been too much…”—she hesitates as if looking for the right word—“nastiness, too much bad blood between us. We’ll be deluding ourselves to think we can just turn the page and start over.”
I shake my head in silent disagreement.
She draws away. “Go. Your coach is waiting.”
14
Noemi
When I emerge from the métro station, it’s already dark. And cold. But unlike a couple of weeks ago, evenings are a lot less depressing now. It’s late November, which means only a month to go until my favorite time of year.
A few days ago, the Mayor of Paris switched on the illuminations on the Champs-Elysées, and the city donned its festive attire. Bright garlands zigzag between buildings, shop windows compete to offer the most beautiful displays, and tree branches sparkle with tiny leaves of light.
As I marvel at the fairy-tale-like feel of my neighborhood, the cynic in me rolls her eyes and argues that Christmas is the most commercialized holiday of the year. The bright lights? They are there to make us spend more on gifts and entertainment.
But my inner Disney princess pouts and begins to sing, There’s magic in the air!
The cynic pulls a face and crawls back into her joyless den.
After stopping at the sushi place near the station to order my usual takeout, I hurry home. The final match of the Pro A league begins in ten minutes.
I don’t want to miss a minute of it.
A week after I got back from Montpellier, Julien sent me a ticket to today’s game which the Nageurs are playing in Paris. I texted that I wouldn’t go. He texted back asking if I would at least watch the game streamed live on the Internet.
I wrote back that I would. And I intend to keep my promise.
This match is the Nageurs’ chance to win the gold they’ve been vying for two years now.
I cross my fingers on both hands.
Please, let them win!
By the time I fire up my laptop, the game has already begun. Placing my food in front of me on the table, I peer at the screen. As I scan the pool for Julien, I wonder if his nose has healed by now.
When I spot him, my jaw drops.
He has a white mask on his face that makes him look like a hockey goalie or an unsung comic book hero.
I guess his nose had been broken, after all, and the doc forced him to wear that contraption to protect it from further injury. On the bright side, the doc wouldn’t have allowed Julien to play again so soon if he’d had a concussion.
So, no concussion.
“The man in the mask,” the commentator says, “is Paris’s hole-D Julien Boitel. His nose got broken two weeks ago, during the match with Montpellier. Boitel claims he can’t remember how or when exactly it happened.”
The camera shifts to the action near the goalie’s cage, and for a few minutes, I can’t see Julien. The game seems to be less brutal than the one in Montpellier, but there’s still too much wrestling, shoving, and jostling for my liking.
Julien should’ve sat this match out, like he did for the first playoff game last week.
But of course he couldn’t, not with the gold medal in the balance.
Finally, the players in the pool sprint to the other side and the camera zooms in on Julien, defending the hole. When the two grappling men turn so that Julien’s back is toward me, I clap my hand to my mouth and stare.
Between his shoulder blades is a huge double rose with a line of text in the middle.
Can it be…?
Has he lost his mind?
“Oh, wow,” the commentator says. “Nageurs’ hole-D has made sure his back stands out as much as his face today. That tattoo is spectacular.”
When the camera zooms in tighter, I can just make out the writing.
I love you, Noemi Dray.
It’s the exact same tattoo he’d had inked in eight years ago.
The mistake he later went through pain and tears to erase.
One of the reasons he wanted revenge.
The rest of the game—an hour or so, including time-outs and overtimes—is a blur. I just sit in my chair, oblivious to my empty stomach, the progress of the game, the score, and the whole world.
At some point, I taste salt in my mouth and realize I’m crying.
My heart is so full I’m afraid it will burst. Part of the overflowing emotion is defeat. An admission that my rational mind and sense of self-preservation have lost the battle to things that are more primal. Illogical. Hardly defensible in court.
Desire is one of those things.
An unfounded optimism that everything will be all right is another.
But the biggest winner is the inexplicable certainty that this pigheaded, crazy man is my future, my other half.
Despite what I’ve done to him.
Despite what he’s done to me.
How can a defeat feel so sweet, so liberating? One minute I’m taking care of myself, all grown up and sensible—and the next I’m jumping for joy at the prospect of inviting the man who humiliated and dumped me a month ago back into my bed, and back into my life.
So, this is what love is like.
I tune back in when the horn sounds the end of the game.
“Nageurs de Paris win the Pro A League Championship. They are officially the best water polo club in France,” the commentator says.
Julien must be pumped now.
I grab my phone and send him a message that consists of four little words:
I love you too.
15
Julien
When I knock on Noemi’s door, she opens it immediately.
I step in.
She takes my coat and shuts the door behind me.
I gather her to me, and for a long moment, we stand in the entryway, adjusting to the novelty of being together like this. Shields down. Hearts exposed. No hidden agendas. No duplicity of any kind.
Just love.
Hers, confessed in a text message. Mine, declared somewhat more ostentatiously via the flashy ink art on my back.
“Is that tattoo real or one of those temporary things that come off after a week?” Noemi asks, looking up. “Please tell me it’s the latter! I can’t bear the thought of you going through all that pain again just to get me to pay attention.”
“First,” I say, my lips curling up. “What kind of man would declare real feelings with a fake tattoo? Second, I did get you to pay attention, didn’t I?”
She smiles. “I would’ve come around on my own in a week or two.”
“Would you?”
She sighs and nods. “I’m sorry you had t
o go through that.”
“I’m not.” My expression grows more serious. “There was another reason I did it.”
She gives me a quizzical look.
“Atonement,” I say. “Or maybe catharsis. Or both. I needed to cleanse myself for our fresh start.”
“Perhaps I should do the same…”
“God, no!” I widen my eyes in exaggerated horror.
“Why not?”
“My back is loud enough for both of us.” I stare into her hazel eyes as I slide my hand from her back to her belly. “And even for three or four or five of us later.”
“I love you, Julien Boitel,” she says. “If you don’t want me to write it on my body, then you’re going to hear me say those words every day.”
“Promise?”
She nods.
I kiss her brow.
She strokes the side of my face. “I half expected you to show up here still wearing that white mask you had on during the game.”
“The doc fitted it to my face to protect my nose from getting punched again,” I say, smiling. “He wasn’t going to let me play otherwise.”
“So it’s broken?”
“Yes. But fortunately, not in a way that requires surgery. It’ll heal on its own.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She motions me in.
I take a few steps toward the sofa in her TV room, then stop. For some reason I prefer to stand while I recount the part of our “origin story” she doesn’t know.
The part where I hung myself. Was saved by my mom. Almost died again a week later.
She listens without interrupting as I tell her all of this.
When I’m done, she clasps her hands over her head. “And here I was, calling it a ‘prank’ and a ‘joke’… You must’ve been so bitter! Why didn’t you say anything to me earlier?”
I shrug. “I guess I was ashamed. I guess I felt that telling you about the full effect your prank had on me would make me look like an even bigger loser.”
