by Anthology
There was a sense of relief, she couldn't deny that. She couldn't compare it to ripping off a bandage. It was more like the cessation of a long-term pain that had grown so deep, become so much a part of her, that she only noticed when it was gone.
It hadn't left her unscathed, of course. Like a bruise she couldn't leave alone, the memories of Ian still ached...so long as she pressed them. That was the hardest part. Getting herself to stop.
Daniel helped.
"Want to talk about it?" Now his quiet tone twitched her back from the edge of sleep.
For a moment, Maura lay quiet with his arms still around her. "It was about Ian."
"I figured." His mouth brushed the back of her neck, sending a chill through her that had nothing to do with the cold air pressing down on them outside of the sweet cave made of her comforter.
"I'm sorry."
He laughed a little. "Don't be sorry. You can't help what you dream about."
Except that she thought about Ian, too. Almost all the time. Before she went to sleep. When she woke up. Random moments during the day reared up like snakes and bit her, poisoning her with memories.
"It must've been a good one."
Maura cringed a little. "Was I...?"
"Moaning? Yes. A little. That's why I couldn't tell if you were having a nightmare or not." Daniel paused. His fingers made a slow, small circle on her belly, and she realized he was touching the sliver of bare skin between the bottom of her pajama shirt and her pants. "I guess it could be a nightmare, even if it was good. If you were dreaming about him and you woke up to remember you weren't with him any more."
Maura tensed a little, not sure what to say, but Daniel continued.
"I dream about my wife a lot. Not...um, not dreams like the one you were having. Stupid things, mostly. Sometimes she's in the background. Sometimes she's part of what's going on, sometimes not. I don't always even realize it's her or think about it, sometimes I wake up and only remember it later. But that's the worse, I guess. When I wake up and remember she was in the dream, but I didn't talk to her. I missed my chance. Because dreams are the only place I'll ever see her, you know?"
Maura put her hand over his and wriggled her bum closer into the curve of his body. "I can't compare missing Ian to that. I mean..."
"I know what you mean," Daniel said against the curve of her shoulder. His fingers drifted across her skin. "She's dead. He's not, you just broke up. Does it feel any better?"
"Well, knowing he's out there in the world somewhere, that I might see him again. That I could see him again," she amended. "That it's at least possible. How can I compare that to you losing your wife forever?"
"You didn't answer my question." He kissed the back of her neck.
"No," she said finally, sort of hating herself. "It doesn't feel any better. God, Daniel. I'm so sorry."
He laughed against her. "I told you. Don't be sorry. I'd rather have you tell me, anyway. It's not like I couldn't guess. You get lost, sometimes. I see it in your face. You go a little blank."
Horrified, mortified, Maura shook her head. "Oh. Wow. I'm sorry!"
"I figure you're missing him. I just wait until it passes. I know how it feels," Daniel said. "It's not a problem, Maura. Really."
"It's so rude. So insufferably rude. And useless. And horrible." She drew a hitching breath.
He nuzzled her again. "Shh. I'm sorry I brought it up."
They were quite again for a while, until she started to drift again. Something seemed important to tell him though, something she wanted to say before she went back into dreams. "I'm glad I have you in my life, Daniel."
"Ditto, kiddo."
It made her laugh. A second later though, she gasped when his hand slid under the waistband of her PJ bottoms. "Daniel --"
"Shhh," he said again. "You need this."
Oh, yes. She did. Dreams aside, she hadn't had an orgasm in weeks. Sexual pleasure was as much a necessity as brushing her teeth or drinking coffee in the mornings. Normally, she didn't let more than a couple days pass without a climax, even if she had to go solo. But she hadn't felt up to it.
Still, she murmured his name like a protest, stopping when he nipped at her shoulder, bared a little by her neckline. The pain flipped her switch. When he slid his fingers lower, across her clit, she lost all words. Her thighs parted as she arched, one hand going behind her to cup the back of his neck. Daniel dipped his fingers inside her, bringing them up again to circle her clit. That little bit of pressure inside, so fleeting yet delicious, eased a moan out of her.
"Oh, you like that?"
"Yes."
"This?" Again, his fingers pressed inside her. Then deeper. In. Out. Up to circle her clit, then inside again.
In a minute, her hips were rocking. Cunt clenching. Her clit throbbed and when he rubbed it, and sparks of ecstasy made her shudder.
There was no fighting it. No resisting. Pleasure filled her, and Maura let it take her. She cried out at the end of it and put her hand over his to stop him from moving. When the tremors had eased, she rolled to face him.
She kissed him, and he kissed her back, but when she nudged a knee between his legs, it was clear he wasn't hard. She put her hand there, touched him. He didn't tell her to stop, but he did put his hand over hers.
"It's not you," he whispered into her mouth a moment later when she broke the kiss but hadn't yet pulled away. A few seconds later, he rolled onto his other side, away from her. The soft sounds of his breathing told her he'd fallen asleep a half-minute after that.
It wasn't her, and yet...of course it was. Maura stared into the dark for a little while before she slipped out of bed, grabbing her phone from its dock. Without turning on any lights, she padded through the cold night air to the living room, where she curled up on her couch under an afghan someone else, at least, had managed to finish.
Many late nights like this she'd spent with her phone in her fist, messaging with Ian. Sometimes talking to him, but most often, at least in the beginning, she'd had to type everything she wanted to say. It had made it easier, sometimes, to reveal herself to him. Something about the anonymity of that distance between them, the comfort offered by reading and writing instead of having to say it out loud. It had been harder, too, because when you were writing and not talking, there was never any excuse for sentiment to simply slip out.
If you said something, you had to mean it.
She had deleted, unfriended and removed him. But that didn't mean she couldn't find him. With cold fingers, Maura downloaded the instant message app she'd deleted.
"Idiot," she murmured.
It took a few seconds for the app to finish downloading, and only a few more after that to log in with her account information. She held her breath. Hoping. No, more than that. Praying to any god or goddess who would listen that even though he hadn't texted or called her, that he'd sent her a message. She watched the small spinning gear with her heart in her throat.
Connecting. Connecting. Connecting.
Her profile picture appeared. Her list of contact names. Her hands shook. She couldn't look. Maura closed her eyes, forcing herself to count to ten. Then another ten, giving the app plenty of time to populate itself with messages, should there be any to list. At last, she opened her eyes.
"Please, Ian. Oh, please, please, please."
But even in the "blocked messages" list, there was nothing.
Chapter Thirteen
"Someone had a good lunch." Madge beamed from her cubicle as Maura passed.
Maura paused. "Hey, you."
"I was going to stop by with these, but here." Madge handed over a manila file folder bulging with the office's collection of kids' fundraising and home party catalogs. "Get it out of here before I buy more garlic bread and cookie dough I don't need!"
Maura tucked the folder under her arm. "No kidding. How've you been? I haven't seen much of you lately."
"That's because you've been going out to lunch every day." Madge leaned an ample hip against h
er cubby wall and gave Maura a significant look. "Anything you want to tell your dear friend Madge?"
"He's just a friend."
Madge raised both brows. "Uh huh. Just a friend who comes to pick you up every day for lunch and brings you back looking like you just spent the hour winning the lottery."
"It's not every day," Maura demurred.
"Every day this week," Madge said with a grin. "And a few last week, too."
Had it been that often? Maura would have had to do a quick count to be sure, but if Madge said so, she was willing to believe it. "He's going to be leaving soon for work overseas."
"Make hay while the sun shines. That's what George says." Made leaned a little closer, conspiratorial. "Me, I like to say eat steak while you still have teeth."
"Good advice." Maura shifted the folder to her other hand and leaned on the cubby wall across from Madge. "I like him. That's all. It's not permanent, so..."
"So why not have lunch with him every day? Dinner, too." Madge chuckled. "It's good to see you smiling, that's all."
"It feels good to smile." That was the truth. Maura held up the folder. "I'll pass this along, if you're finished with it."
Madge waved a hand. "Definitely. Stop me before I buy again."
Laughing, Maura headed toward her cubicle. There wasn't anything in any of the brochures that she wanted to buy, though she would probably order a few things anyway. Daniel liked garlic bread, and she could pick up one or two of those pizza kits....
She stopped herself. By the time the stuff was delivered, Daniel would probably be gone, and what would she do with all that food for herself? Her easy mood vanished as quickly as cotton candy in a rainstorm. Dissolved. Washed away. Destroyed.
Sitting at her desk, slick catalogs spread out in front of her, Maura choked back her sudden sorrow. Not because Daniel would be going away -- that she'd known since their first date. This renewed relationship, this twist of friendship that was a little more but not quite enough, had not been meant to last. No, her grief was not for that.
It was for how easily she'd let him make her happy.
How quickly she'd begun to move away from Ian. It had been a month since the last time she'd talked to him. A month without a call, text, instant message. This hadn't been what she wanted, but it was what she'd asked for, and now she had to live with it.
She had done this, she reminded herself as she piled the brochures and catalogs back into the folder and took them to the next cubicle over. Cindy wasn't at her desk, but Maura left it there for her. Back at her desk, she forced herself to put her phone in her purse so she wouldn't be tempted to download the messaging app again, or to stalk him on Connex. No good could come of that. What would she see, anyway? What would she do if she found he'd been tagged in pictures with another woman the way she'd been tagged in Daniel's recent photos? Just because she'd unfriended him didn't mean she couldn't find him if she tried.
She had to give up trying.
***
It's not always about sex. Sure, that's a big part of it. All I have to do is look at him, and I start to shake inside. When he touches me, I swear it's like everything I ever read about in those books Shelly and I used to sneak from her mom's bookcase. All those old romance novels full of heaving bosoms and ripped bodices.
But there's more to it than that. Ian listens to me. I mean, really listens. You know how I can tell? Because he pays attention, he remembers. If I tell him I like mint chocolate chip ice cream, that's what he has waiting for me when we find time to meet up some random summer afternoon in a park far away from any place either of us normally ever goes. He knows my favorite color and how my hands get cold so easily, and he brings me a pair of funky gloves knitted from purple yarn. He pays attention, that's all.
Ian knows me.
Do you know how delightful it is to be...known? To be understood? It's what we all search for in relationships, that person who discovers every part of you and not only finds each filthy, embarrassing secret acceptable, but wants you because of your flaws and not just despite them.
It's Ian with whom I share my fears. My struggles. Those long nights when our conversations roam from topic to topic without hesitation, I tell him everything there is to know about me. I open to him like a flower...
I am Ian's flower.
"Water me," I whisper into the phone. "I need you to water me, Ian, or I'll die."
He knows what I mean. I need to talk to him. To see him. I need to touch him. Ian is my water; without him, my roots will wither. My petals fall away. Without Ian, all I'll have left is my thorns.
"What do you want?" He asks. "Tell me."
"I want you to kiss me."
"I'll kiss you."
I close my eyes. The weight of my phone in my hand, the pressure of it against my ear, is no substitute for him. But it's all I have tonight, all I'll have for the next week or so until the next time we can be together.
"Will you touch me?"
Ian laughs softly. "Yes. I'll touch you."
"Where?"
"Anywhere you want."
"I miss you, Ian."
"I miss you, too." His voice scratches the inside of my ear, low and hoarse, yet buttery. Delicious.
I shiver. "Tell me about your day."
"Why do you want to hear about that? Boring."
I want to hear him talk, that's all. If I can't fall asleep with his arms around me, I want to enter dreams on the sound of Ian's voice. "What did you have for lunch?"
I love it when I make him laugh. He describes his lunch to me.Turkey sandwich. It's always a turkey sandwich. I don't care. It doesn't matter what he's saying, so long as he's talking to me.
"I wish you were with me right now," he says abruptly.
"Me too."
Someday, I think. Already I've set the plans in motion, though that's my secret and I haven't told him. I'm afraid if Ian knows I've started the process of leaving my husband, he will freak out. He's already told me, more than once, he doesn't want me to do anything rash. He doesn't understand this has been a long time coming, it's something I have to do for myself. Ian is just the bonus.
"I want to sleep with you," he says. "I mean sleep. Not...well, the other stuff too. But I'd like to sleep with you."
So far, we've only ever made love. I don't remember sleeping much. But yes, I've thought about what it would be like to snuggle into the covers with Ian next to me, to fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. To wake up next to him.
I wonder what it would be like to share my life with him.
"That would be nice." It's not everything I feel, but it's all I can really say.
"Hey, how's that project coming along at work? The one you told me about?"
I'm touched he remembers my complaint of a week or so ago about a tough project. More moved he bothered to ask me about it. The man who's supposed to love and cherish me hasn't bothered. In fact, when I tried to talk to him about it, I had to replay the entire conversation we'd already had about it, and even then he didn't remember anything about I'd already said.
Ian and I talk until the sun starts to come up. Only then does he ask me, "doesn't he notice when you're on the phone all night?"
"I sleep on the couch most nights. He snores."
"Oh," Ian says quietly. "How long have you been doing that?"
I chew the inside of my cheek, exhausted and still not ready to disconnect from him even though I'll be a zombie at work in a few hours. It won't help me with that pain in the ass project. I don't care.
"About six months."
"Oh," Ian says again.
I wait for him to ask me something, anything, about the state of my marriage. Most of the time this relationship is a boat floating on a deep black lake, and our fingertips only occasionally trail the surface, making ripples as we row. We don't pretend I'm not married, but we hardly ever talk about it. I don't complain to him about my husband. It would feel like a worse betrayal than anything else we've done.
"That can
't be good for your back," Ian says when I'm silent.
I laugh, low, pulling the cover to my chin and letting my eyes sink closed. "No. Not really."
But it's good for my state of mind. Things have been getting worse, and yes, I'm sure it's my fault. I've stopped wanting to try. I stopped before I met Ian, though I know he doesn't believe it, and anything I say to convince him will only sound contrived.
"I need to see you," I say. "I thought I could wait, but I can't."
"Hold on." The wonder of smart phones -- Ian can take a picture and text it to me without ending the call.
The photo is of his face, a little blurry. He looks sleep rumpled, though we haven't slept, and I want to eat him alive. My fingertip traces the curve of his jaw. His mouth. I put the phone back to my ear.
"It's not enough."
He laughs, and I imagine his expression. Self conscious, but pleased. Sometimes I think Ian has no idea what to do with me. The other women he's dated have been sedate, coy. They've played the game of push and pull that I don't see the point of.
"Okay. Hold on."
Another minute passes. I hear shuffling. The sound of his breathing. My anticipation heightens, growing as I wait to see what he will send me. I know better than to expect something explicit -- he can talk dirty but is still sometimes surprisingly shy.
The next photo pings through. It's a shadowy and off-center photo of his hip, part of his thigh, a hint of his belly. I laugh as my heart seizes, because I know he wasn't trying to be artistic, even though this picture is.
"I love it," I whisper. "It makes me want you."
"Well," Ian says, "I have to keep my flower watered. And put up a screen, to keep away the drafts and wild animals."
I curl my fingers into claws. "I have my four thorns to protect me."
We've both read The Little Prince. Ian even read it in the original French. It was one of the first things we discovered about each other. He claims not to like the story, but he humors me.