Not Without You

by Clare James

  It made me sad, but got me thinking. I needed to help with the Tabby/Michael/Jenna situation ASAP, and the only way to do that would be to start getting Tab used to Jenna’s presence. A slow desensitization of the girl, if you will.

  “Your dad is right,” I say to Tab. “Maybe we could invite them over for Passover.”

  She glares at me, but I take a little bit of pleasure out of making her uncomfortable after what she’s been up to lately.

  “I think that’s a fantastic idea,” the professor says. “Thanks, Noah. Michael will be thrilled.”

  Tab? Not so much.

  ***

  We have a fucking fantastic night. I never would’ve thought we’d all be in this place. Not when things were such a colossal disaster just a few years ago.

  Mr. Kelly and Amy dance, while Tabby pets the dog and Jules breaks away to grab her camera.

  Since Foster and I cooked—remember the whisk?—the girls clean. So the two of us go smoke our cigars on the patio. The idiot went all out for the doggie announcements. Our stogies have blue wrapping around the middle that says It’s a boy.

  “So, what’s going on with you?” Foster asks, I’m sure figuring that it’s my turn to reciprocate in our act of male bonding, since he broke down before dinner.

  “Not much,” I tell him, not wanting to go into it.

  “Try again,” he says, blowing smoke rings at my face. “I could feel the tension between you and Tab. At least, before the two of you went off to play Poke Her in the guest bathroom.”

  “Sorry about that.” I grimace. “You don’t think the professor knew what was going on, do you?”

  “Nah. I distracted him.”

  I exhale, choking a bit on the smoke.

  Foster slaps me right between the shoulder blades. “I’ve got your back, buddy. Literally and figuratively.”

  Tabby squeals in the other room. We can hear them giggling and playing with the puppy from the patio. Her laughter gets me every time. It’s like my mom’s meringue—light, sweet, and heavenly. I want to freeze the moment.

  “So?” Foster pushes.

  “I’m not comfortable talking about it,” I tell him.

  “Hey, I’ve confided in you. Shit I never thought would matter—I’ve told you about it. I’m not sure anything would surprise me these days. You can talk to me about the serious stuff. I’m not that asshole anymore.”

  “I know you’re not. But this is some messed-up shit, Foster.”

  “Well, you’re lucky.” He pats my shoulder.

  When did he get so touchy?

  “Messed-up shit is my specialty,” he says.

  “Okay,” I tell him. “Just remember that you asked for it.”

  Foster nods.

  “Our sex life is a little out of control.” I just throw it out there.

  “That’s normal.” He nods, blowing more smoke rings. “Jules and I have slowed down too. Or we did before Mission: Make a Baby got underway. We’re not kids. I mean, not like I can’t or anything. We have responsibilities. And hey, you spiced things up tonight. Good for you.”

  “No,” I say. “No, it’s out of control in what we’re doing. Public places. Rough sex. Role-play. Some real fucked-up, degrading shit.”

  “And she lets you do it?” Foster asks, his eyes bulging out of his skull. “Why the hell are you complaining?”

  “It’s not just that she lets me do it. It’s her idea. It’s like it doesn’t even matter that it’s me. At least, that’s how it seems. She wants me to degrade her and use her and …”

  “You can’t use her when you’re fucking whipped over the girl. There are tons of kinky couples out there. I don’t think you have to feel bad about it. Enjoy it.”

  “Trust me, I am. Or I was. At first, it was the hottest damn thing ever, but now, it feels like there’s more behind it.”

  “I don’t want to pry, but you know Jules has told me some of it. What Tab went through in Illinois.”

  “Yeah, I figured.”

  “You feel like it’s related?”

  “I do. But I have to be so careful. It took forever to get her to trust me. And the fact that she trusts me in this way now? I can’t say no to that. I want to be there and help.”

  “Generous.” Foster smirks.

  “Really, I love it. But I feel like such an ass. She’s obviously trying to work something out, and I don’t think this is the right way. I’m afraid that, if we keep it up, we’re really going to fuck it up.”

  “What does her shrink say?”

  “No idea. I’m scared as shit to bring it up.”

  “I think you better change that, stat. You need to know what’s going on. Maybe you can go together—try couple’s therapy.”

  “That’s actually a pretty good idea.”

  “Right,” he says. “I do have them from time to time.”

  I think about what Foster said the rest of the night, and it does make sense. But first, I am going to try my own method. Slow and gentle. See if we can get back what we had without turning into a sex-crazed freaks in the meantime.

  Chapter 6

  “That was fun tonight,” Tab says when she slides into bed. “I can’t believe they went out and got a dog. You know what that means. Only a matter of time before—”

  “One step at a time.” I don’t let her finish. “Let’s just be sure the guy can handle the dog before he’s making any little chefs.”

  “I think they’re more than ready,” she says. “He looks good. Like he was made for family life.”

  “He does,” I have to agree.

  “I predict Jules will be pregnant by summer.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “What about you, Tab? Do you ever think about that?”

  “What?” she laughs, clearly shocked. “No,” she blurts. “I mean, at least, not for a while—a long while. Plus, we’ve been having so much fun just the two of us, right?”

  “Right,” I lie. Her response is relief and pain all at the same time.

  “Speaking of fun …” She pulls the sheet back, and I take in her perfect body. She’s gained weight since we graduated. In all the right places. She looks strong and healthy, not like that thin waif she used to be. Her legs are toned with lean muscle from all the dancing. But she has her curves back, just slightly fuller hips. Her ass is rounder, and her breasts are a damn marvel.

  Leaning up, I run my hand from hip to thigh to calf. Her muscles tighten as my hand glides over her creamy skin. When I reach her foot, my grip tightens, and I bring it to my mouth—kissing and nibbling the arch.

  “What are you going to do to me?” Tabby asks as her eyes grow dark.

  I should be asking her the same question. Instead, my dick stirs to life. No whiskey situation here.

  “I’m going to worship you. Now, lie back and shut up.” I don’t know what part of her I want more. All I know is that my mind is back in control and I’m going to treat her as she deserves. Slow and gentle.

  “I think it’s me who should be doing the worshipping,” Tabby says. “It’s your turn to have some fun.”

  “Oh, I’m having fun. Believe me,” I tell her.

  “I don’t deserve to be worshipped,” she says in the new naughty way of hers.

  “You do deserve it,” I tell her, repeating the same pattern with her other leg.

  She stretches her arm and reaches for my cock, but I shift away. I want this to be slow. I want to do it right. She does deserve to be worshipped. If she won’t believe my words, she’s going to damn well believe my actions.

  “Close your eyes, baby, and keep still.”

  She reaches again. “Not sure I can do that. Maybe you need to confine me.”

  No fucking way.

  “Not tonight, princess. I want your hands on me, but for now, just enjoy what I’m doing. God, do you know how much I love you? How much I love being with you this way?”

  Tab squirms. Actually squirms from hearing my words.

  I don’t care. I don’t care if my feeli
ngs make her uncomfortable. She apparently needs to be reminded what this is all about.

  She closes her eyes and stretches her arms over her head, crossing them at the wrists.

  I ignore it for the time being and kiss my way up the inside of her leg, enjoying her sweet taste.

  When I reach her panties, I run my tongue along the inside of the waistband. Slowly. Deliberately. My fingertips graze her belly.

  “Absolutely gorgeous,” I say, looking up at her.

  Her face is pained, and it fucking guts me.

  “Don’t you like this, Tab?” I ask.

  She takes a long breath and opens her eyes. They’re sad. Confused.

  “Sorry,” she says. “My mind is just racing.” She sits up and rests her forehead on mine. “I don’t want to think anymore,” she says. “I just want to feel you.”

  Where is this coming from?

  She sinks into me, and it’s the best damn feeling because I know she’s surrendering to me—not some fantasy.

  I wrap her in one arm, my hand gripping her hip to hold her close. My other hand gently cradles her head, bringing it to her spot in the crook of my neck. It’ll always be her spot. I stroke her silky hair.

  We sit here for a minute, feeling each other as our breaths settle into the same pattern. When I feel my neck get wet, I pull her back to look at her face. She won’t meet my eyes.

  “Tab,” I whisper as my thumbs swipe her tears away.

  She finally looks up. The sadness is replaced by something I only recognize as desire. Hungry and intense, she moves my hand from her face to her breasts. She then loops her arms around my neck before dragging her nails down my back.

  “Please,” she says. “Just fuck me.”

  How I wish I could do just that. I want to. Badly. But I can’t let this shit go unchecked any further. I fight the urge to hold her down—to reach between her legs and find her wet and ready for me.

  I will be strong enough to say no to this. And that’s when I decide to go down for the count and play the drunk card.

  “Christ.” I lay my head back down. “Sorry, baby. Hang on, I’m not feeling so hot.”

  “What is it? Are you okay?” she asks.

  I give the standard guy moan that says I don’t feel well. Someone please take care of me.

  “The booze is messing with me,” I mumble.

  A few more moans, and then I pretend to pass out.

  “It’s okay, babe,” she whispers, covering me with the blanket.

  It’s all I can do not to pull her under me and give her what she needs. But I can’t take the chance. Not tonight, when my guard is down.

  No, it’s best to just play dead for this one.

  Chapter 7

  Operation: Stay Away From My Horny Girlfriend is getting increasingly difficult.

  So far, I’ve played drunk, sick, and tired.

  On Monday, I was far too smelly to come near her after the gym. My stomach was a little wonky from the Indian food on Wednesday—sick and disgusting, yes, but I was desperate. On Thursday? It was the good ol’ work deadline.

  The days are fine. Actually, they’re incredible. Tabby prances around in her leotards, studying and cooking and drinking tea. I’m either at the office or working at home. Or writing and fiddling with my guitar. In the evenings, we go for walks, watch movies, or grab a beer at the pub.

  The nights, however, are the worst. That’s when our situation turns into a goddamn shit show. But here’s the thing. I know Tab. Man, do I know her. And this “throw caution (and panties) to the wind” charade?

  It ain’t her.

  She needs something. Something I’m no longer providing. Admitting to the fact? Well, that is about as comfortable as a colonoscopy. Not that I would know, but I helped with a medical piece last month and I’d say that the comparison is right on the money.

  And that happens to segue perfectly to the Passover Seder that Tab and I are hosting for the gang, which now also includes Michael and Jenna. My generous offer helped me score points with the professor, but shit, what was I thinking? Just another example to prove that alcohol and I don’t mix.

  Everyone should arrive in about four hours, so I need to get my ass moving. A Seder is quite a production. Usually, I’m on top of it, but this year I’m having a hard time drumming up the excitement when everything is so dicey with Tab.

  There’s a big part of me that wants to give in and give Tabby what she’s asking for. To let go and take what we want from each other. There’s another part of me that wants it for purely selfish reasons, and because I’m so tired of being the nice guy.

  It’s exhausting trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. But that’s just how it’s always been. My brother got to be the reckless one while I became Mr. Responsible, always holding back.

  The problem is, I learned the hard way what happens when I take what I want. Look what happened to Ben.

  So I hold it together.

  My phone rings, interrupting my melodramatic breakdown. Thank god.

  “Adler,” I say in a clipped tone because I don’t recognize the number.

  “So, how’s Willy the Wonder Dick holding up?” says a familiar voice that is about as irritating as a hangnail.

  “Fuck you,” I say to Foster, who is obviously calling from his restaurant.

  “Geez. I call to check in on my best friend and this is the thanks I get?”

  “That’s all I have to give today,” I tell him.

  “Hey, let me tell you something. Things aren’t so peachy on this end, either. I’ve been having a hard time getting it up lately. Well not getting it up, but keeping it in good working order.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I say. This is classic Foster.

  “I’m serious, dude. Every time I get Jules naked, I swear to God I hear babies crying and it’s messing with my magic. I know it’s all in my head—”

  “I’m getting off the phone now.” I shut him down, unable to deal with his brand of crazy at the moment.

  “Wait, wait.” He stops me.

  “What?”

  “I’m really just calling to see if you need me to pick up anything for tonight?” he asks.

  “Maybe just some Valium for Tabby,” I quip. “And, I don’t know, a Taser gun for Jules?”

  “Okay, then. You know, you’re really doing a bang-up job of selling this night of fun.”

  “What can I say? It’s your typical Seder with friends, ex-girlfriends, brothers, and hookups. Just as the Lord intended.”

  “Right.” He blows a long, disgusting breath into the phone. “Well, good talk, man. Good talk. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  I finish getting the place ready. Okay, in full disclosure, I get my mother on the phone to go over all the details. Tab and I have done this a few times with friends, but I have to admit that I’m a little nervous knowing that Jenna is going to be at the table. She’s not the most relaxing sort to be around.

  I’m only half Jewish, so when I was growing up, our house was always a mix of traditions. This is why I never trust my memory about holidays or faith or anything, really. I think my parents made up a lot of shit as they went along. Pretty sure most Jews don’t have the Star of David garland on their Christmas trees.

  Not that I really consider myself Jewish anymore. I’m more of a mash-up of faiths. But for some reason, Passover has always been special, and even more so once I started celebrating with Tab.

  Mom insists that I use a tablecloth for the table. Tab and I never do this, but I manage to find a white cloth next to my bin of books in the hall closet. Still not happy about that.

  I arrange the place settings and wine glasses per Mom’s instructions and find the Haggadah in another box. That’s the text I’ll read from, which basically tells the story of Passover and gives the order and explanation of the food we’ll be eating.

  Foster begged to have “a role,” as he called it. There are fifteen parts to the Seder, so I was happy to gi
ve him one. As well as Tab.

  I set up the saltwater dishes and wine near the table so we can grab them easily, and I place an empty glass on the table for Elijah. Then it’s time to get the Seder plate ready.

  Tab went shopping yesterday and picked up everything we needed for the dinner because she knew she’d be at the studio all day, and she wanted to help.

  I don’t deserve her.

  Once all the dishes are out, I’m basically done. I just have to keep an eye on the meat I have braising in the oven.

  And now I’m sounding just like Foster.

  With a few hours to spare, I’m able to go back to my writing.

  I first started writing fiction after Ben died. It was therapeutic. A way of finding control when I had none. Almost an extension of the music I loved to play. The guitar helped at first, but then I needed something more. So I started writing—coming-of-age stories, like a modern take on The Catcher in the Rye. Themes of belonging and being an outsider; love and loss; and discovering things like the impact of loyalty and lies. I really feel like they’re all topics I’ve come to know a lot about.

  I’ve never shared it, afraid it would lose its appeal if anyone knew. Even Tab. I like having this one thing to myself. It’s a place where I can be completely honest and let my characters do things they shouldn’t; it’s a place where there is no judgement and there are no rules.

  Lately, I’ve need to write more than ever; I let my fingers hit the keyboard and pour my fucking heart out each and every opportunity I get. I’m just not sure it’s helping.

  Completely lost in my story when the jingle of keys ring against the doorknob, I shoot up off the couch. This is not good.

  “What the?” Tab says when she walks in.

  I can’t believe Tabby’s already home. That means our guests will be here soon.

  I’m sure I look like a mess. I haven’t shaved, and I’ve been literally pulling my hair out as I was writing.

  But she doesn’t look disgusted by my appearance. At all.