“Come here,” she says, pulling me into the kitchen. Even though it's an open floorplan, we're a little bit to the side of everyone else by the patio.
Allison refills my rosé and then says, "I have to tell you about Richard."
6
Jacqueline
“What about Richard?” I ask, taking my glass and coating a cracker with a generous amount of cheese from the charcuterie board.
“He's amazing," she says after a long pause. Her eyes light up as she begins to gush. "He's so charming and fun and witty, and he has just the most interesting things to say, and the way that he feels about music, it just takes me away."
"That's amazing," I say. "So you had a good day with him?"
"Just the best, and I can't believe that we met just walking around. I mean, who would have thought?"
"So have you, like, done it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
I love hearing the details. The beginning of relationships are always so exciting and full of intrigue. Every conversation, every little bit is discussed in crazy detail.
What did he say when she said this?
What did he say when she told him that?
"No, we haven't.” She smiles and looks down at the floor.
"Well, I guess you didn't have time. You were getting ready for the party."
"Yeah, it's more than that.” She nods. "We were, I don't know, just really enjoying ourselves. We had some wine and some coffee and some more wine. We danced a little."
"You danced?"
"Yeah. He just put on these records from, you know, back in the day and took me into his arms, and we started dancing. I didn't know anyone danced like that anymore."
"What kind of records?"
"I don't know. Just these songs from the 50s and 60s. He just kept going on and on about them; how effervescent the music is, how simple but beautiful in its simplicity. I could listen to him for hours. And then he took me shopping, and then we came back here to set up for the party."
"Oh, wait. What about last night?" I ask, knowing full well that I wasn't at the cottage and wondering if she was.
"We talked," she says. "We talked late into the night.”
"Wow.” I nod. "I'm actually genuinely surprised."
"Why is that?" She laughs, shifting her weight from one heel to another to let the ball of her feet rest just a little bit.
"Well, you know. You always like to take men for a test drive, so to speak."
"I know, but it's so different with him. We have so much in common."
"You do?" I ask. "You don't even really like music."
Allison shakes her head.
"It's not about that. I mean, yes, I like music, but I don't know anything about it really. But it's more than that. It's like we get each other, you know? I understand where he's coming from, and he understands where I'm coming from, so we talk for hours and hours."
I nod, loving the fact that my friend who I thought would never settle down and never consider having a boyfriend suddenly has leapt over all the stages of a relationship and ended up here in this place that is all too familiar to me.
"I still can’t get over the fact that you haven't slept with him yet." I shake my head. "That must be, what, a first for you?"
"Oh, come on. Don't be like that. And don't slut-shame me. I’m a modern woman who is in touch with her sexuality just like any man.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” I quickly retract. “All I’m trying to say is that he must've made an impression."
"He did, and he asked me to stay here longer.”
She says that in a giddy, high-pitched sort of way that makes me lean closer to her.
"What do you mean?” I whisper.
"Well, he has a beach house. He's going to be here all week, and he wants to spend more time with me. He asked me to stay, take off work."
"Are you going to do that?"
"I want to. I have a bunch of days saved up. What would you think of that?"
"You don't need my permission," I say.
"I know. I'm just wondering, you know? I've never been on vacation with anyone before. Not a guy, anyway."
"Yeah, and I guess we will both have to agree that this trip as a girls' trip has been kind of a bust since I reconnected with an ex-boyfriend and you found a new one, huh?"
Allison laughs. We talk for a little while longer, discussing little details about Richard, things that he probably wouldn't want me to know, and I feel like she and I have really reconnected.
We've been friends for a long time, and sometimes long friendships go through ebbs and flows, and it's hard to feel connected the same way that you once were.
You start having doubts.
You start thinking maybe we're good friends after all, but the truth is that a friendship is a relationship, and you have to be willing to stick it out. For the longest time, I would never continue to be friends with someone that I had a big fight with. It just seemed like an impossible thing to do.
If I were to fight with a friend, the fight would end the friendship, and that's it.
But you can't have that same standard when it comes to romantic relationships or even familiar ones.
If you have a fight with your sister, as long as it's not earth-shattering, you move on. You say, "I'm sorry. We disagree. I was wrong. She was wrong." You make amends. You start new.
But with friendships, it's hard to think that way. It's easier to just toss it away and say, "We grew apart. We're no longer the people that we used to be."
But I have to remind myself that that's wrong.
I have to remind myself that life is short, and the friendships that go back years are even shorter, and it's worth fighting for people you believe in.
“I'm really glad that we're friends," I say, clinking my glass of rosé with hers. "I'm sorry that I neglected you this weekend. It was stupid and selfish, and I want to make it up to you."
"Yes, of course. Don't worry about it," Allison says, waving her hand in my direction.
"I want to make it up to you. I shouldn't have acted that way, and I'm really sorry," I repeat myself after clearing my throat.
"Don't worry about it," she says again. "But if you do want to make it up to me, I do accept jewelry, flowers, and in some cases chocolate as payment."
"Got it.” I laugh, and she laughs along with me.
Leanne comes over, and so does Marguerite and the other woman whose name I find out is Ellen. We all chitchat for a while, catching up on who we are and sharing little bits of ourselves.
Leanne tells us about writing and publishing fiction, and everyone listens, hanging on her every word. She's the first real writer that I’ve met out in the wild so to speak.
I ask Ellen what she does, and she says that she's a session musician. She can play piano, guitar, and about a dozen other instruments, and she goes to recording studios and plays what people need played for their albums.
She has worked with Lady Gaga, Madonna, and a slew of country stars like Miranda Lambert and even Taylor Swift.
"Have you ever worked with Richard?" I ask.
"I wish.” She laughs. "But no, unfortunately not. My husband has. We work together in our company."
"What company is that?" Allison asks.
"The Session Musicians. Basically we're a two person crew, and he does a lot of the bookings, and we're always looking to work with new people."
"That's really exciting. I had no idea that you could even do that for a living," I say. "I mean, I’ve heard of it, but didn't realize that you can make a good living doing it."
"Yeah. It's great. I mean, you work for yourself, clear six figures easily. As long as you are good at what you do, show up, build your clientele. You can't get a big house like this, but you can make a nice retirement.”
"Yeah. I keep hearing that.” I laugh, turning to Leanne.
"Well, big house like this requires a lot more popularity. You'd probably be the one hiring the session musicians then.” Ellen laughs, and s
o do the rest of us.
We talk for a little while longer while the boys mingle out on the patio, and everyone gets along.
Dinner arrives, and Richard makes a toast thanking us all for coming out and sharing the special day with him. He also makes another one thanking
Allison for coming into his life and for reminding him just how fun life can be. She blushes and little beads of sweat form on her forehead, but she laughs it off, and so does everyone else.
That night, I feel genuinely happy. I haven't had many friends besides Allison.
It's always hard to compare it to anything, but just the fun and relaxation that I had this evening talking to people about music and books, not complaining about stuff that doesn't matter, it puts me at ease the way that I haven't felt in a long time.
Dante relaxes, too, and I see the way he breathes in and out so easily and effortlessly like I haven't seen him do before. We stay for a while, try to leave a few times, but Richard keeps extending our invitation.
We have a little bit too much to drink, nothing like falling over drunk, but enough to convince me that it's a good idea to go swimming in his pool.
I’ve felt it calling to me all evening, but it's only after a few glasses of rosé that I can no longer say no.
7
Jacqueline
Richard shows us to the pool house, where he has an assortment of bathing suits, bikinis and full pieces, as well as men's trunks in a whole variety of sizes. It's like a clothing store back there, but he tells us to pick whatever we want and join him in the pool.
When Allison caves and pressures me, I can no longer say no. The water is exhilarating.
There's a large hot tub that can fit about ten people out in the corner with a waterfall going into the pool. I pull my hair up off my neck with a scrunchie that I find in the pool house. But Dante dives in head first from the diving board.
Water rushes over me with each person getting into the pool and then Richard pushes a button and a volleyball net pops up.
He grabs the ball with one hand and spikes it over, splashing Allison right in the face. I can't help but laugh, but she doesn't find it nearly as funny.
Richard is incredibly fit and agile, not just for his age, which sounds like a compliment, but it's not. In real life, I can see the way his shoulders are broad and the olive skin and muscles that stand out and peek out of his stomach; two little rows of three.
I watch Allison watch him, her mouth practically salivating. Dante is, of course, just as easy on the eyes as always. He and Lincoln immediately form a rivalry, taking opposing teams.
Despite the fact that if you choose Marguerite to be on his team, he will inevitably lose. She's his first pick and she beams from ear to ear.
Allison and Richard stay on one team and Leanne and her husband, Colin, get on the other.
No one is keeping score, we're just trying to keep the ball in the air when they're at one side and then not in anyone's hands on the others. As soon as the game is over, Dante celebrates and Lincoln sulks because apparently, some of us have been secretly keeping score. Richard and Allison are incredibly cute.
After the party, Dante takes me home and I feel high on life the way that I haven't felt in a really long time.
Perhaps it's the invigoration from jumping into the pool.
Perhaps it's the excitement of actually running off into the ocean right afterward and losing myself there, but whatever it is, I want to capture the night and make it the best one ever.
I kiss Dante before we get to the top of the landing at his house, and he kisses me back, pulling me into the bedroom. His hands are deliberate, strong, making their way up and down my body.
My dress falls off, and so does his shirt.
I've had way too much to drink, and I'm not processing everything as it should be. Instead, I'm living in this netherworld of emotions and desire and a body that seems to belong to me.
His kisses alternate between being sloppy and deliberate. He looks me straight in the eyes.
Our lips collide, but then he moves and he kisses not just my mouth but the side of my cheek. I start to laugh and so does he, and we tumble onto the bed.
We lose our clothing, whatever's left.
His hands make their way up and down my thighs. I climb on top of him and he squeezes my butt cheek, spreading them lightly and then giving me a little slap. I laugh some more and kiss him harder. Then he's on top of me again.
We fumble around with the birth control, trying to find it in the dark before turning on the light and searching for it wholeheartedly.
He goes down on me for a while. I look up at the ceiling and stare at the crown molding, but I can't let myself go.
The line's blurry between this and the past, and I pull him up and he kisses me and slides into me.
Our movements become one.
We're both clumsy. We keep trying.
Nevertheless, it feels good to have him inside of me. My mind is connected to his body, not so much my own. I feel myself like a bird floating away, here but not here.
Then, a familiar, warm sensation rushes through me. It comes out of nowhere.
It takes me completely by surprise.
He continues to push harder and harder inside of me, pressing my wrists into the bed.
I watch his face as he moans my name and then collapses on top. We're both out of breath, searching for peace after what felt like an earthquake.
Finally, Dante pushes himself off of me and lies flat on his back on top of the sheets.
I pull a sheet over my naked body and notice that I'm still wearing my shoes. I kick them off and bury my feet under the covers.
"That was good," I say through heavy breaths.
"That was more than good," he mumbles.
He forces himself to his feet, goes to the bathroom, comes back, lies down and wraps his arm around my shoulder.
A moment later, I hear him snoring. I struggle to reach for the light. I'm tired, and the weight of half of his body pressing me into the bed makes it feel like an impossible task to turn off the light.
Eventually, I do.
As nice as the cuddle is, it's not great to lie under a practically lifeless body, so I push him over to the side, curl up next to him, and fall into a deep sleep.
The following morning, I wake up with a headache, which I haven't had in a very long time. I'm not a big drinker, and this one pounds through me.
I can barely open my eyelids. They feel like razor blades are cutting into my eyeballs.
I wash my face and add some drops, but it's all to no avail.
Nothing helps.
I grab a glass, fill it up with water, and down two Advil, think about it and then take a third.
Anything to make this stop. My mouth is parched like a desert.
"Are you okay?" Dante asks when I sit down on the edge of the bed, holding my shoulders, trying to make the shivers go away.
"Yeah. I'm just really hungover," I say very slowly.
The words feel terrible in my mouth.
I want to make them go away, or maybe I can just go back to sleep and forget that I ever woke up this morning.
"How are you feeling?" I manage to ask.
"Not too bad.” He shrugs.
He looks practically perky in comparison to me, excited, on his feet. He even took a shower.
His eyes don't seem to be bothering him, and when he kisses me, his lips are soft and the skin is stretchy and vibrant. I have to lie back down and mumble, feeling sick to my stomach.
I've never been very good at vomiting.
I don't know if that's something that you can be good at, but it's always grossed me out, and even when I had food poisoning or it would have been a good idea to do something like that, I never could.
Dante tells me that he'll be back sometime later, and when he returns, he comes back with some toast and hot tea, black, served in a big mug.
I'm glad that it's not one of those small, porcelain dainty cups,
because I don't think I'd be able to hold onto something so small at this point.
I sit up, lean against the headboard, and try to eat a bite. I can't taste a thing.
I chew a little bit, then give up, washing it down with black, Earl Grey tea. There's a wedge of lemon on the plate, and I squeeze it in and watch it bounce in the mug.
The tea does make me feel better.
After I finish it, Dante pushes me to take a shower.
I refuse, but he keeps nagging, and eventually give in, mainly because I can't keep talking about it.
I hate to admit it, but I emerge a new woman.
I'm not saying that the hangover is gone. Far from it, but I feel refreshed and awake, more energized. Still not back to full operating capacity, but at least there's a glimmer of hope.
"Thanks for everything," I mumble, wrapping myself in the towel he hands me, linen jogger pants and a loose-fitting long sleeve sweatshirt to go with them.
"Where is this from?"
"Got it downstairs in the guest room."
"It's your mom's?" I ask, remaining skeptical that I'd be able to fit into anything she wears.
"No, not at all. She just keeps clothes here in case there are visitors and they need something. It's a common thing."
I think back to the way Richard had all sorts of bathing suits and different sizes arranged in his pool house.
What is it? A rich person thing to keep clothes for their visitors?
I've never heard of anything like that, but I appreciate the sentiment.
The sweatshirt and the pants are incredibly soft and comfortable and fit just right, and that's exactly what I need at the moment.
I don't want to head downstairs, but again, Dante pushes me, insisting that I need to have some lunch.
We're way past breakfast at this point.
"Everyone else is at the beach," he says, "and Mom is having a meeting at the club with some of her old friends, so we have the house to ourselves."
He makes me a sandwich and a fresh spring salad. By the time I'm done with the plate, I start to resemble a normal human being.
Dark Sins Page 4
