by Noelle Adams
“I’m not the kind of person who can have sex casually. I just can’t. I never have. If I keep having sex with you, I’ll eventually want it to mean something, and that means I’ll end up getting hurt. I’m not going to do that to myself.”
It was all true, and she didn’t regret saying it, even though it left her feeling naked and strangely young.
Mitchell didn’t say anything immediately. He stared at her, clearly processing the words. Several times, it looked like he would start responding, but he never did.
Finally, he gave a little nod. “Understood.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re okay with that?”
“What am I supposed to say? That you should keep having sex with me, even if it will hurt you?”
She swallowed hard. “That would be pretty heartless.”
“I know. I’m not going to say it. Whatever you think, I’m not entirely heartless.”
She sighed. “I don’t think you’re heartless, Mitchell. I just think you’re different from me. I take certain things seriously—like marriage and sex and…and tradition. I know you don’t. That’s fine. You don’t have to. But I hope you understand that I do.”
“I do understand. If you want to have sex again, you’ll let me know.” His eyes smoldered briefly. “I guarantee that I’ll keep wanting to have sex with you.”
She gulped, feeling a hot flash wash over her.
She would have preferred not to know that. Now she was going to keep wondering if he was thinking about having sex with her, which would make her constantly think about having sex with him.
She felt rattled and a little disappointed as she returned to her bedroom. She was relieved that he’d accepted her decision, but it meant that there was no way—absolutely no way—that he would ever take sex with her seriously.
It clearly hadn’t even been a possibility in his mind.
Seven
A week later, Mitchell woke up feeling a sense of frustration that was becoming familiar.
Before he’d gotten married, he’d had sex fairly regularly. Whenever he got the itch, it was pretty easy to find some way to scratch it—usually a one-night stand, since more serious relationships were too much hassle. But, on a daily basis, the desire to have sex had never particularly troubled him.
It did now.
He woke up thinking about Deanna, and he went to bed thinking about Deanna, and in the middle of the day, just sitting in his office, he would find himself thinking about her too. Imagining having sex with her again—in any number of creative ways and locations.
It was absolutely ridiculous.
He was starting to realize it had been a mistake to have sex last week in Charleston, no matter how good it had been, since it had merely whetted his appetite, and now he wanted her even more than he had before.
He tried to push the thought of her to the back of his mind. It was a normal day, after all. He had to work out. Then go to the Claremont to get some work done. Then he had a few important phone calls in the afternoon. Then he and Deanna were scheduled to go to the ballet this evening as his weekly public function.
He was pretty sure she was going to make him go to church on Sunday for hers.
So he roused himself from bed, scattered the erotic thoughts that kept pestering him, and pulled on his workout clothes.
On his way to the basement, he heard a strange noise from the library, so he stuck his head in to see what was going on.
It was Deanna. She leaning over, evidently trying to move a table across the room. It was made of heavy wood, and she was tiny, so she was obviously having to work hard at it.
She still wore her pajamas—her normal ensemble of soft cotton pants and thin camisole—and he could see the outline of her underwear through the fabric, since it was stretched across her rounded ass.
His body immediately took interest, but his mind was, for the moment, the stronger force. “What the hell are you doing?”
She was so startled she jumped, releasing the table and whirling around. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he said, not particularly apologetic. “What are you doing?”
“I was just moving the table over to the window, where there’s more light. Is that okay?” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and pushed one lacy strap back in place. “You said I could make myself at home.”
It looked like she was worried he’d be mad at her, which was very annoying. Surely she didn’t think he was so demanding and uptight. “It’s fine. You can do whatever you like. By why are you doing it all by yourself?”
“I didn’t want to bother you. I’m used to doing things by myself.”
He sighed and shook his head, walking over to grab the sides of the table.
She ran around to the other side, and together they moved the table where she wanted it.
“It’s getting too cluttered to do my beads in my little sitting room, so I thought I’d do them here, if that’s all right. You never seem to use this room much.”
“I don’t use it at all. Just grab a book occasionally. You can completely change it, if you want to set it up differently. I can get new furniture, if you need—“
“No, no,” she interrupted, giving him a little smile he really liked, as if she were pleased and appreciative. “It’s just fine as it is. I only wanted to move the table by the window. Thank you so much.”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me. This is your home as much as mine—for the next five months and one week.” He added the last phrase to remind himself, since he kept forgetting the end date wasn’t that far away.
“Do you need some help bringing down all your beads?” he asked, troubled by the line of his thoughts.
“No, I can get them.” When she saw his cool glare, she laughed sheepishly. “Okay. If you don’t mind. Thank you.”
She was beaming at him as they went up to collect all her paraphernalia, and her smile made him feel foolishly proud of himself, even though he’d done almost nothing to be proud of except behave like a decent human being.
She was telling him where to put the tins of beads back in the library when he noticed one particular container with a clear lid that had a variety of beads that all seemed distinct and eye catching. “What are these for?” he asked, gesturing toward the container. “I haven’t seen any of these on the stuff you make.”
“No, those are all my favorites. Whenever I see any that I particularly like, I put them in there.”
“But you don’t use them?”
“No. It’s silly, I guess, but I keep saving them up. I have this idea of making them all into some sort of wall hanging or something.”
“Why don’t you?” He could picture them all together and thought it would make a really impressive piece of art.
“It would take forever, and then it would be so expensive no one would buy it.”
“They probably would.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to sell it.”
“Then just do it for yourself.”
She gave a little shrug. “I’d never do something that took so long just to keep it. I love doing my beads, but can only justify it because it has the potential to earn a little money. It would just feel self-indulgent to do it all for myself.”
He gazed at her for a minute, thinking she was so pretty and intelligent and practical and self-sufficient, and he wondered how many chances she’d had in her life to do something just for the sheer pleasure of it, something to please only her.
He’d spent most of his life doing just that.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking at his curiously.
He was feeling strangely close to her, and he wanted to stay to talk some more, dig into her soul. But the thought made him nervous, so he thought it was better to make himself scarce.
“I better work out while I have the time,” he muttered.
“Sure,” she said, with a smile that was just a little wistful. “Thanks so much for your help.”
He
wondered if it was his imagination, or if she was disappointed that he’d left so abruptly.
He almost hoped she was.
***
A couple of days later, they were sitting together in the library after dinner.
Deanna had come into the room to work on her beads, and he’d ended up following her, since it felt strangely lonely to hang about by himself.
He’d never felt lonely in his own house before. He assumed it was just a passing feeling.
He’d acted like he’d come into the room to read, but instead he ended up sitting across the table from her, pretending to help her with the earrings she was making.
Deanna giggled as she watched him try to get the tiny beads on the wire.
“There’s no reason to laugh,” he said, with a playfully disapproving look. “My fingers are a lot bigger than yours.”
“I know. You’re doing just fine.” Her face was smiling and affectionate and so pretty it took his breath away.
“Which one goes next?” he asked, gesturing to the beads she’d pulled out for the piece of jewelry.
“You can choose the order. What do you think would look nice?”
“I have no idea.” He eyed the silver and turquoise beads warily. “I guess we should alternate the colors?”
“That’s what I was thinking.” She was already finished with the matching earring she’d been making, and she showed him how she’d looped up the wire and fastened on the closure. “These are pretty simple.”
“They don’t look simple to me.” Mitchell focused on getting the beads strung without dropping them, and after a few minutes he looked up to see she was still watching him with a fond smile. “I don’t think beads are my thing,” he said.
She chuckled. “I wouldn’t have thought so.”
“That’s a lot of work. Who’d have thought it would take so long to make something so little?”
“But they’re pretty.” She’d finished off his earring and was looking with genuine pleasure down at the matching pair. “It’s worth the work to end up with something so pretty.”
“It’s not worth it to me.”
Her expression changed slightly as she raised her eyes to meet his, but he didn’t know what she was thinking.
“Did you ever help your mom cook when you were a kid?” she asked.
She’d changed the subject so quickly he thought he might have missed something. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
“Cooking is similar. It’s sometimes tedious and a lot of work, but it’s worth it after it’s done. What did you make with your mom besides pancakes?”
He’d already told her about the nights his mom had come home from work late and they’d make pancakes, and it was nice that she’d remembered it. “Cookies and cake. I mostly helped so I could lick the bowls. I never cared much about helping with the bigger meals.” He thought back to himself as a kid. “I guess, even then, I didn’t want to work too hard.”
The last words were soft, spoken almost to himself. It was like he’d suddenly seen himself from a distance and didn’t really like what he saw.
“Is that why you’re not into serious relationships?” She’d cut a new piece of wire and was staring down at it, the question asked almost diffidently.
“Yeah. I guess. I don’t know.”
Her eyes lifted. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”
He wasn’t even sure of the answer to that question.
“When was the last time you really tried to have a serious relationship with a woman?”
He thought back. He’d had nothing but one-night-stands and temporary flings for years. Years. “In grad school, I guess.”
Deanna looked genuinely interested, even though her hands never stopped working. “Who was that?”
“Her name was Heather. She was in one of my classes. I was totally hung up on her.” He hadn’t thought about the woman for ages, and the memory was almost surprising.
“Did you ask her out?”
“Yeah. We went out a few times, since we both believed in just having a good time. But then my cousin was getting married, and I invited her to the wedding.”
“She said no?”
Mitchell’s chest felt unusually tight, more from admitting this to Deanna than the memory itself. “Yeah. She just wanted to have a good time, and she was mad at me for changing terms.”
“Were you heartbroken?” Deanna asked, almost breathlessly.
He was afraid she might be blowing the story out of proportion. It wasn’t some sort of deep secret to his soul. It was just a random thing that happened. “I don’t know. I was disappointed and then I was angry. I was…” He cleared his throat. “I was mean to her.”
Deanna’s brow lowered. “Why were you mean to her?”
He gave a little shrug. “That’s just what I do, when I put myself out there and am rejected.” He sighed. “It’s a way of dealing with it. I guess I’ve always been like that.”
“That’s not unusual. If you feel like you’re being attacked, it’s human nature to strike back. Not that poor Heather deserved it.” Deanna’s eyes were searching his face. “What’s the matter? What are you thinking about now?”
He had absolutely no reason to answer her, but he found himself doing it anyway. “I was just thinking back to when I was eight. I wanted to meet my father.”
Her expression changed. “I thought you said he was a salesman passing through town.”
“He was. I never got to meet him. I wanted my mom to tell me his name so I could contact him. I pestered my poor mom for weeks about it, and she kept putting me off. Finally, she admitted that she’d contacted him several times over the years, to see if he’d changed his mind, but he still didn’t want to know me.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last words, and for the first time in a really long time he once again felt the wave of crushing rejection he’d felt as a boy, when he’d wanted so much to be loved by a father, only to hear that he wasn’t wanted at all.
Deanna was silent for several moments. “I’m sorry,” she murmured at last. “That’s…that must have really hurt.”
“It did.” He shook his head to dispel the mood. “Not now, but it was hard to take when I was eight. I was so angry. I wrote my dad a searing letter of contempt and outrage, and I put it in an envelope for my mom to mail to him.”
“Did she do it?”
“I doubt it, but it made me feel better to think she did.” He let out his breath, wishing he hadn’t admitted something so vulnerable to Deanna. He wanted her to think he was impressive, not some silly, spiteful, lazy boy.
Her expression didn’t look surprised or disappointed in him. In fact, she still looked rather soft. “It’s nice that you’re close to your mom.”
He should have kept his mouth shut, but instead he admitted, “I wasn’t always.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. In college and then through my twenties I was…I don’t know, I was kind of distant. She always called me, but I never made much effort toward her. Same with Brie, to tell you the truth.”
Deanna believed in family. She was really close to her own. She wasn’t going to like knowing that he’d been such a bad son and brother.
“Well,” she said softly, “at least you’re close to both of them now. Does Brie have a different father?”
“Yeah. Another loser. My mom always had bad taste in men. But at least Brie knows who he is, and she occasionally gets to see him. He lives in Savannah too.”
“Oh. I guess maybe that’s why you don’t believe in marriage, since you never saw a good one.”
He was starting to feel a little uncomfortable, so he turned the conversation intentionally. “Did you?”
“Yeah. My parents had a good marriage, and I was eleven when they died, so I was old enough to really see their marriage.”
“They were in a car accident?”
“Yeah.”
“Eleven is pretty young to lose both of your parents.” He could j
ust picture her as a girl, with her long hair and big eyes, trying desperately to be grown-up enough to take care of her family.
She was staring down at her beadwork. “Our grandmother stepped up to take care of us. She’s…she’s eccentric, but she loves us.”
“She doesn’t act like she loves you.” He said the words before he could think through whether they were wise.
Deanna didn’t look offended. “I know, but she does. She’s still trapped in the past in a lot of ways, and what she thinks is best for us, isn’t always the best. But she tries. She might not be warm and fuzzy, but people love in different ways.”
“Still, it seems like you’ve had to sacrifice a lot to help take care of your family. Did you never want to go to college? Surely you could have gotten grants or scholarships or something, if you couldn’t afford it.”
She put down her beads. “Yeah. I could have. But I never really felt the strong desire to go to college—not like Kelly has. It seemed more important for me to work full-time so I could make a real salary as soon as possible. Maybe it was stupid.” She closed her eyes. “Maybe I’ve made nothing but stupid decisions.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that,” he said quickly, worried because she looked suddenly glum. “I was just asking.”
She opened her eyes to meet his squarely. “But you think I’ve been kind of weak, don’t you?”
He didn’t think she was weak anymore. Not even close. But there was something serious to what she was asking, so he answered her carefully. “I don’t think you’re weak. I think maybe you’ve poured yourself so much into doing what you think is good for your family that you don’t always think about what’s really good for you.”
She broke their gaze and looked at a spot in the air just past his shoulder. After a minute, she gave a little nod, as if she might have admitted to herself that he was right. She finally said, “You know, Harrison Damon said something similar—about making sure family loyalty doesn’t lead you into something that’s wrong. It’s…interesting to think about.”
Mitchell didn’t think what Damon had said was the same thing he was trying to say.
And he didn’t appreciate having Damon dragged into a private conversation between him and his wife.
