Not with Spencer. Never with Spencer.
I feel the pads of his fingers digging into my thighs. I feel his rough stubble against the soft flesh between my legs. I feel the slight variations in every movement of his tongue.
I'm vaguely aware of these sensations and that is all. I am in deep, or rather, he is after he shifts upward, caging me with his arms, going inside while simultaneously pleasuring me with his fingers.
He has my full and undivided attention. He warms me. He fills me. He wrecks me.
When we're done, he rolls onto his side and whispers, "You were asking about cabin fever?"
Chapter 8
Passion and Perception
The night is long and luxurious in front of the fire. You don't really need me recounting all the details. Usually I save it for Navy and anyone else who'll listen, but this time, something is different. The time I spend with Spencer I want to keep tucked away for myself; only to take it out like a rare and precious gem to examine during private moments. To relive the thrill, the warmth, and the giddiness all on my own. I'm afraid to share it with anyone in case it diminishes. My yoga training instructs believing in abundance and that there's more than enough to go around, but as things get more intense between us, there's the creeping fear it will all disappear.
However, I will tell you this: after we diffused the tension from the ride north, from the lounge, and then the shuttle trip to our cabin, we ended up ordering room service. We never did make it to bed, instead snuggling—spooning!—under a blanket in front of the fire, drifting and dozing, chatting and kissing. I don't know what's happening to me—to us—, but it can't be good. I'm sure it'll keep me up for a week to come as I analyze every moment, every word, every possible meaning...
Ordinarily, before I teach a big class at a resort or event I primp and prepare, meditate and do a brief practice to get myself warmed up. This morning, I sprint across the snowy grounds, my mat slung across my back and knocking into my head as I race to the building. I would have summoned the shuttle, but we both let our phone batteries die. I'm practically the last person into the conference room where everyone else sits on their mats, lined up in colorful stripes waiting for the teacher. That's me. I've never made anyone wait, well, not yoga students.
I take a minute to center myself—Spencer's chest, a golden shield in the firelight bounces into my mind. I inhale. I exhale. I gauge my breathing, okay, heaving, as I huffed and puffed to get here.
I lead the class through an opening reflection, touching on how we're going to emphasize the contrast of maintaining energy and ease in our practice. Then I picture Spencer's head between my legs and the long moan that probably echoed off the slopes rings in my ears instead of the long sustained Om to open the practice.
I exhale, close my eyes, and when I open them, the room shifts out of focus. I shake my head and say, "No."
Heads jerk up from their bowed positions. Eyes dart with confusion. There's a low murmur as everyone waits to hear why I said a bold no. I'm not exactly why, but I open my mouth, hoping if by letting the words flow, I'll find out.
I get to my feet and pace on my mat. "Of all days, I could probably most use a class on how to cultivate both energy and ease on and off the mat. I often teach what I'm thinking about or what's especially relevant in my life with the hope it will resonate with students. When I was asked to teach a couple's retreat on Valentine's Day weekend, my inspiration came from bringing those two elements into our partnerships: energy and ease, vitality and comfort. But the truth is, I don't know what the heck I'm talking about. Confession: I've never been in love. I've never been in a relationship so what can I tell any of you about yoga and partnerships?"
There are sharp inhalations, murmurings of assent, and brief chatter from the back left hand corner before someone shushes the pair.
"So, yes, I came here to instruct you, but I see a roomful of couples: some married, some dating, some engaged, some perhaps trying to reignite the passion in their relationship. That's what you came here for right? To connect to each other. Well, I can't really help you do that because I don't know how to do it myself. But I also came to this resort with someone. He's my neighbor actually. For the first time I feel—" I search my mind for the right word. "Stirrings. So could you all help a lady out and bear with me while I lead you through a class about perception and passion: how two people see each other—how our partner sees us, how we see them, and the passion that sparks between the two."
The room is silent. Dead silent until a diminutive woman with gray hair streaked white and eyes that dance like diamonds in the light grips the arthritic hand of her husband and says, "Yes."
Everyone else soon falls into agreement and we run through a series of heart openers. I stop every few minutes to bring a couple to the front and have them demonstrate a partner pose to bring them most deeply into themselves as individuals while expanding out and sharing that attention with their sweetheart.
The wall of windows in the back of the room frames two snowy slopes and the mechanics of a giant black chair lift. I find myself distracted, wondering which figure, fully clad in winter gear, is Spencer.
When we take a fifteen-minute break, I go to the washroom and hide in a stall. I'm sure I've upset a few of the students who were hoping for the class based on the description provided by the resort and on my website, but my mind is a storm of conflict: I want to run away and I want to run into his arms. What has come over me? Why him? Why now? The effervescence that students associate with me is a dull reflection of confusion. I can't help but replay scenes one through three from last night in my mind, but I also want to retreat to my bed, stroke Mew, and move onto the next guy.
Someone knocks on the bathroom stall door. "Katya," a frail voice says.
I unlatch the lock and peek out.
It's the older woman from my class with the silver streaked hair.
"I'm hiding."
"I know. I also know a lot of things about relationships." She leans against the sink and says, "Frank is my third husband. The first one ran off with some young thing. She waves her hand dismissively. "Meanwhile I was only twenty-seven. Oh, to be in my twenties again." She smiles in reminiscence and her eyes sparkle. "The second one passed almost twenty years ago. I still miss him. Frank and I got together when we were already old and what you were saying about passion was exactly what we need. However, passion isn't only about sex; you realize that right? You weren't wrong to talk about perception and passion. They make a fine pairing, but if you want to know the truth, the other side of passion is intimacy—letting someone close to you. They're a duality, like what you talk about in yoga. You must have one to support the other in order to have a unified whole. Frank and I have seen each other through loss, surgery, grandbabies, marriage, divorces—we're best friends. We know each other intimately, inside and out, in the bedroom and out of it. But the passion piece has been lacking lately. That's why we're here."
I step out of the stall, wash my hands, and we sit on a pair of chairs in front of a mirror by the exit.
"My dear, I can tell you have enough passion inside of you to light up an entire city."
I snort a laugh.
"Perhaps you've done so—moving from one young man to the next, leaving smoldering fires in your wake. It's easier not to get attached, right?" She shakes her head and sets bent fingers on my forearm. "Not in the long run. Not when you get old. You can have the passion now and the intimacy later, if you're lucky. If you really want to live a fulfilled life and have a meaningful relationship, it's worth the risk to try for both—intimacy and passion now, while you're young, believe me. But, intimacy, letting someone in and allowing them to see all parts of you makes the passion that much sweeter."
I smile politely not seeing the need to let someone see all parts of me. "Thank you for sharing that with me."
She tilts her head, sensing my lack of sincerity. "But you don't really think it applies to you."
The brat in me, insistent o
n maintaining the status quo—single and on the scene—, shrugs. "I don't know. What I'm doing is working out just fine." A little voice suggests I want to do better than fine. I ignore it.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
"We always teach what we most need to learn, right?" she asks.
I force my voice to be warm and friendly instead of dismissive. I don't want to talk about this stuff. It feels, well, intimate. "Thanks. See you in class." I wring my hands with discomfort. I want to get away from her well-meaning, lavender scented wisdom as fast as possible. I push through the bathroom door, straight into the hard plane of Spencer's chest. He smells like cold snow and the fabric of his jacket chills my burning cheeks.
"Where are you going in such a rush?" he asks, pleased to see I've literally run into his arms.
I glance over my shoulder, expecting the woman to exit behind me, but the bathroom door remains closed. I drag Spencer away and to an alcove, going all handsy and gummy like an octopus. Like two teenagers making out between class. Like a drunk couple at a club. We kiss until his lips are warm and mine are cold. We kiss until I forget about my trepidation and what the woman said in the bathroom. We kiss until I'm no longer thinking about how I kind of screwed up this morning, changing the class plan at the last minute and bumbling my way through. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it's getting all too real and the refuge of Spencer's lips provides a great distraction from the bubbles in my stomach.
"Do you have to head back in?" he asks when a clutch of students pass, discussing the class. "Meet you for lunch?"
I nod, not wanting to face any reality other than his mouth on mine.
Class resumes and the second half is less clunky than the first as I incorporate a bit about intimacy, despite my resistance to what the woman told me; it's what the students need I tell myself. I've read enough magazine articles, seen shows about couples, and helped deal with my friends' romantic entanglements to fake it. I can pull it off and leave them none the wiser. Right?
I have the fleeting thought that this retreat is as much about these couples igniting the passion and intimacy in their relationships as it is about me recognizing that mine significantly lacks one of those qualities. I backpedal. That would suggest I have a relationship. No, this thing between Spencer and me is an extended fling. That's all.
I have them do a lot of partner poses, even mixing up the couples to provide contrast; but the disappointment on their faces is palpable when they have to move from the comfort and familiarity of doing awkward poses with someone they trust to someone they only just met.
"We grow through discomfort," I say wisely.
The old woman gives me a long look as if to say My dear, be sure to listen to your own advice and mine while you're at it.
I resist the truth. I fight the storm inside. These couples can take their intimacy and passion and whatever else they need to keep themselves happy and jump off a mountain. The voice inside me whines. It snarls. It gnashes its teeth. I'm doing just fine with my hookups, thank you very much. But I guess that's just it. It isn't about only making myself happy, but the other person too. It's mutual.
A resort employee wearing a polyester jacket and hat rushes down the long row of yoga mats while the students are in their final resting pose before lunch. He whispers a message in my ear. My heart stutters, sinks, and I swallow what feels like cold, cold ice.
I keep my voice even as I bring them to sitting, say a brief closing, and then race back through the maze of mats to the nearest exit.
Chapter 9
Mrs. Davis
I take a brief shuttle ride to the first aid station, my mind racing ahead of us in panic. I do something that isn't yogic breathing, huffing and holding, huffing and holding.
"You okay, miss?" the driver asks.
I don't know what I am, but it's not okay.
An ambulance idles outside when we pull up, but the lights aren't on. Oh dear God. I rush through the door, bringing in snow on my boots and concern in my voice when I say, "What happened? Will he be okay?"
Two EMTs dressed in snow gear hover over Spencer; his right leg is lifted and splinted. "He's stabilized, but needs to get to the hospital. Are you his wife?"
Usually flinty and sexy, Spencer's eyes are rimmed red with pain when they meet mine. It's from the cold. It can't be that bad I tell myself.
The EMT says, "He needs emergency care. It could be broken. We need to have him checked for spinal damage and so forth."
Diagnoses and fear blizzard through my mind.
They load him into the ambulance. I never answered the question about whether I'm his wife, but the assumption was there, and his eyes begged me not to disagree. I wouldn't want to be alone right now either.
I want to ask what happened. I want to ask if he's okay. I want to ask what this all means, but I keep my mouth shut and my hand in his. It's what I would want.
When they lower the gurney onto the ground when we arrive at the ER, his grunt is different than the one I heard last night, but just as primal. I scurry alongside the EMTs as they rush him in. The emergency room personnel disappear with him behind a curtain. I stand there starkly, my hands clasped together, listening as he moans in agony, as voices call commands, as my easeful life back in Manhattan slips away.
One of the EMTs, a woman in her forties with deep rings beneath her eyes, approaches. "Unfortunately we see accidents like this all the time. I'm sorry. I mean that. It's never easy to see someone you care about in pain." She smiles and claps me on the shoulder and glances at my fingers.
Of course, we're not married; we're not wearing rings.
"I'll keep that to myself," she says with astute nod at my hand. "But I will share this: he was asking for you. Well, at first he was using combinations of cuss words that would make even the most hardened northerners blush, myself included, but once we had him stabilized, he calmed and moaned for you, Katya, right?"
"Yeah."
"Between you and me, his leg will be fine. I'm not a doctor, so don't sue me if I'm wrong, but chances are he'll be up and walking again in a month." She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. "In my expert opinion he doesn't have any broken bones and his spine isn't injured, but I'll leave that to the professionals to determine." She winks.
A wave of relief washes over me.
"But that does not mean he won't be without pain. And that does not mean you can walk away from him in his time of need. You may not be married, but I recommend you stick by him. Understand?"
My eyebrow creeps into an arch as I try to make sense of what she's telling me. "Okay...?"
"That's a girl. Now, my lips are sealed. If the problem is what I think it is, they'll be calling you in to discuss things in a little while.
A little while turns into three hours as I acclimate to the humming and beeping unique to hospitals. I wonder if there's a way to reach his family. His phone is back at the cabin and he probably didn't plug it in to charge. How will we get home? What should I do? Questions circulate in my mind as I sit there, helpless.
Another hour passes. I get a vending machine hot chocolate. It's bitter and watery.
Another hour and I read every tattered magazine in the room.
Yet another hour goes by until finally a nurse calls, "Mrs. Davis?"
I glance around the room. Oh, me. The pieces of the Styrofoam cup I shredded fall to the floor. I hastily pick them up and follow the nurse down a narrow, but brightly lit corridor. Behind the first curtain there's coughing and hacking. Then there's whining and crying. A baby howls and then, at last, there's Spencer, propped up in an adjustable bed with his leg in a plastic air cast.
"The good?" he asks. "You're here."
I take his hand and ask, "The bad?"
"Mild fracture. Stupid black diamond slope. Ice patch. Ego out of control." His eyes drift and droop with relief, humility, pain meds, and the awareness that the nurse called Mrs. Davis and I answered, hurrying to his side.
I
sit on the edge of the bed and rub the furrows of his palm just like my mom did when I was in the hospital bed after the accident. "No, Spencer, that's good."
He's too bleary on pain medication to ask what I mean or argue. The nurse brings over a chart and gives me a lengthily rundown of his needs and care.
"Every four hours or as needed for pain. Insurance. Primary care. Follow ups…"
Some of it goes in one ear and out the other as I look at the guy lying helplessly in bed. The one who so easily flung me on my back last night, demonstrating athletic poses that I'd never experienced before. However, I'm knowledgeable enough, having endured a more extensive injury that kept me off my feet and on my back just as he did last night.
"Don't worry, it's all here on his discharge papers," the nurse assures me.
I must look struck dumb.
I snap away from the image of our naked bodies twined in front of the fire and back to her.
"Thank you," I reply.
"A shuttle from the resort where you're staying will be here any moment to transport you back. The EMT arranged it. Be safe," she says, before exiting.
"Now what?" I ask vaguely.
Spencer's eyes are closed.
What did my mother do for me? Wheel chair, bed, fluids, comfort, encouragement, companionship. I can do that for a few days.
Spencer's out of it during the ride back to the resort. A pair of porters helps him into our sex den, which thankfully housekeeping cleaned up earlier today. The fire blazes in the hearth and a pair of metal warming dishes sit on the table. The first aid center must have communicated with the resort, informing them of our dilemma.
He rests in the bed we never made it to last night. I press my palm to his forehead. His eyelids flutter and he moans contentedly. "You're here," he whispers.
"I am."
"Don't go." There's a plea in his voice.
Okay, tonight I'll stay. Still in my yoga clothes, I shimmy next to him, rest my head on his shoulder, and doze off, but not for long enough to turn a nightmare into a dream as I recount the accident that left me wounded so long ago.
How Not to Fall in Love (Love, Hate, and Other Lies We Told #2) Page 5
