“I don’t know, shrimp,” Bill said. “Liv’s still got some inches on you.”
“Anyway,” Gretchen interjected impatiently, “the plane lands, and I rush to the station, just barely making the train. Since it’s now one in the morning and I’ve been traveling for fourteen hours, I immediately pass out. When I wake up, the—what are they called—stewardesses?—she says, ‘Welcome to Chile!’”
“Chile!” one of the women cried.
“I’d gotten on the wrong train, slept through the entire ride, and ended up in Santiago.”
Everyone laughed. I politely joined in, though I’d heard the story twice before.
“To make matters worse, it was fifty-something degrees outside, and I was wearing shorts and a tank top.”
The man next to me guffawed loudly. He was the only one who’d been introduced without a partner; Gretchen’s lure was cast.
“Oh, I think it’s time,” Lucy said when the lights pulsed.
The single man sidled up to Gretchen as we made our way to our seats. “What do you do that you can take off to Chile whenever you like?”
“Entertainment PR,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
“Hook, line, and sinker,” Bill whispered, reading my mind. Gretchen turned and shot us a dirty look when I giggled. “Uh oh, Windex is mad,” he said with a playful smile. Her face softened. She liked Bill’s nickname for her. When I’d introduced them, he’d said hers were the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.
Once we were seated, he leaned over so only I could hear. “Are you familiar with the tale of Odette and Prince Siegfried?” He passed me a program. “Swan Lake. Just another love story gone wrong.” He laughed at my expression. “I probably never mentioned my parents took me as a teenager. Another thing to give me culture.”
The lights dimmed, and Bill sat back, shifting to get comfortable. His long legs knocked against the seat in front of us multiple times before its occupant turned to raise her eyebrows. I suppressed a laugh just as the conductor lifted his arms.
Before long, the stage was awhirl with white tulle, hard muscles, prettily pink slippers. And those pink slippers, which curled and arched and lengthened unnaturally, seemed perfectly untouched. Everything about the ballet appeared smooth and blemish-free, from the dancers to the patrons. The graceful precision was one thing, but I was floored by the flawlessness of the performance. Everything in life should be so clean. When the curtain fell for intermission, I clapped gleefully with the crowd.
We spilled into the lobby, excitedly reviewing what we’d just seen as we maneuvered. Bill and Andrew left to get drinks as Gretchen, Lucy, and I broke away from the others, keeping close through a room brimming with people.
“I can’t believe my mother let me quit ballet when I was seven,” Lucy said once we’d found a semi-open spot. “I could’ve been a star.”
“I don’t think it’s as easy as that,” I said.
She shook her head. “I could have been a professional ballerina.” Gretchen and I laughed at her sincere expression. “Fine, don’t believe me,” she said. “I’m going to the restroom.”
“Oh, me too,” Gretchen chimed. “Liv?”
“I’ll wait here for the guys.”
I craned my neck above the crowd to search for the bar, where I expected Bill would loom over everyone. My gaze lingered on different people, noting how their stiff, deliberate movements countered the elegance of the dancers on stage. To me, they not only seemed like strangers, but like aliens. Or maybe I was the one who didn’t belong.
Since the abrupt divorce of my parents when I was a teenager, I’d never figured out exactly where I was supposed to be. Large crowds heightened that insecurity and left me feeling vulnerable. It was an unfortunate ability of mine, feeling spectacularly alone in a crowd, even when surrounded by friends and family.
I had the sensation of being watched seconds before I met a man’s unfamiliar pair of eyes across the room. They were dark, narrowed intensely in my direction as if he were trying to place me. Everything slowed around me, but my heartbeat whipped into a rapid flutter.
Our gaze held a moment longer than it should have. My body buzzed. My pounding heart echoed in my ears. It wasn’t his immense, tall frame or darkly handsome face that struck me, but a draw so strong that it didn’t break, even when I blinked away.
A woman bumped my shoulder as she passed. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. Bill waved as he wound through the crowd.
When I looked back, the man loomed closer than necessary. Something about the lean in his posture was intimate and easy, yet the space between us was physically hot. Fire under my skin. I reminded myself to breathe.
Hair blackest black, short and unruly but long enough to run my hands through. His suntanned complexion appeared natural from time spent outdoors. Strong carved-from-marble facial features were softened by long, unblinking lashes. Involuntarily, I drew a sharp breath at the magnitude of his beauty.
A woman’s voice cut into my consciousness and he turned, giving me the opportunity to regain control. In one swift movement I ducked away, exhaling audibly. Bill and Andrew were there then, shoving a wineglass at me as I shielded myself with their bodies.
“Where are the girls?”
“You like Pinot right?”
“What do you think of the show?”
My attempt to speak was just a noise.
“I’ll take that,” Gretchen said, intercepting the wine.
“The line for the bathroom isn’t bad if you have to go,” Lucy said. She touched my arm. “Liv, are you—”
“I think I will go to the restroom,” I said, backing away. I only just saw her puzzled expression as I turned to struggle through a crowd dense enough to suffocate. Or so it felt in that moment.
* * *
I could not remember what he looked like. Our exchange was a mere moment, but I had felt the shift.
After, as I sat in the theater, the velvety red seats that I had not much noticed before pricked at my exposed skin, causing me to shift uncontrollably. Because each time I sat still, his heat enveloped me again. As hard as I tried, I could not remember what he looked like. I could only feel him.
I forced myself to focus on the second half. A bewitching Odette mournfully enthralled the crowd as her story unfolded. Why did it feel as though she watched me between sequences?
Back in the lobby, I scanned the crowd for clues. Hints. That man, who he was. To both my relief and disappointment, I did not see him again. I tried to forget the feeling while we dined and drank into the night.
* * *
The heavy door of our Lincoln Park apartment threatened to slam behind me, but at the last second, I caught the knob and eased it shut. I yawned, hanging my coat and sliding out of my pumps. Bill flipped on the television set in the next room while I sorted through mail, tossing half of it into the trash. On the brown polyester couch his mother had given us some years ago, I found him in his boxers, languidly watching replays of the basketball game he’d grudgingly missed.
Three glasses of red wine coursed through my veins. I stripped off my emerald dress in one sinuous motion and let it drop onto the floor. When he didn’t look up, I shimmied over and settled myself onto his lap.
“Hi,” I said in my sultriest voice. His hand righted a stray strand of hair as he glanced between the screen and me. I wet my lips and kissed him full on the mouth. I’d been humming with electricity since intermission and was impatient for human contact.
“Well, well,” he said when we broke. “What’s gotten into you?”
“It’s late. Take me to bed.”
His eyebrow rose, and his mouth popped open as if connected by an invisible string. He looked about to protest and then relaxed as he thought better of it.
In an uncharacteristically graceful motion he stood. With my body secured to his, he carried me to the mattress. Fingertips tenderly caressed the outsides of my thighs as he hovered over me.
“Shit,” I said, just as his fac
e dipped. I sat up in a panic. “I forgot to pick up condoms.”
“It’s fine.”
My brows furrowed. “It is not fine. Not while I’m not on birth control.”
He sighed, annoyed. “Come on, just this once.”
“Nope. You know how I feel about no condom.”
“There’s one in the kitchen drawer,” he said, rolling his eyes. I slid out from underneath him and shuffled to the kitchen. I rifled through the cluttered drawer until I found one in the back. “Liv,” he called impatiently.
I checked the expiration date and ran back, jumping onto the bed. “I’m sorry, babe, where were we?”
Frown lines faded as he propped himself up on long, wiry arms. I touched his pecs, trailing my fingers down to a soft midsection while goose bumps sprang to attention across his skin.
“My, my, Mrs. Wilson,” he said. The designation always made me think of Bill’s mom, but I’d managed to control my grimace over the years. It remained one of the reasons I hadn’t officially changed my surname. “What big green eyes you have,” he continued, touching his lips just above my cheekbone. “And such pretty blonde hair,” he added, brushing a lock from my forehead. His hips ground against me in anticipation. I reached up and ran my hand through his floppy brown hair, cocking my head to the side.
“Not blonde, just plain brown,” I said with a pout.
“What?” he asked with feigned surprise. “You must be colorblind. I see some blonde strands in there.”
“You just want to tell people you married a blonde.”
“Agree to disagree, then.” He smiled. It creased his adorably crooked nose. He loved to say he’d broken it during one-on-one, but the truth was that it was just naturally that way.
He unhooked my bra swiftly, gently cupping my breasts in each of his hands. His fingers were long. I didn’t quite fill them up. From the living room, the unmistakable sounds of a heated basketball game blared from the television.
The motions were familiar. His touch had become defter, more confident, over time. And his usually awkward nature became more fluid. He groaned my name as he pushed himself into me, pulling my hips closer. I echoed his movements, my arousal growing with his satisfaction. I watched beads of sweat form on his brow, more apparent when his face screwed up with pleasure. He didn’t kiss me again, but I’d become accustomed to that. Making out was for teenagers.
I inhaled his natural scent, enhanced by a salty concoction of unwashed hair and fresh perspiration; it was always sharper when we were making love. I felt a twinge inside and sighed softly, but then it was gone. It wasn’t long before he came, squeezing his eyes shut as he called out and collapsed onto me.
“Sorry,” he breathed into my ear after a moment. “Do you want—”
“It’s fine,” I reassured him, suddenly tired from the wine. “It was nice.”
It took him less than two minutes to fall asleep; I knew because I often watched the clock as I waited. I untangled myself from his clutches and tiptoed out of the room.
Once the apartment was dark and still, and I’d washed my face of the day, I returned to cocoon myself in the soft sheets. He stirred and reached for me, but I expertly dodged his grasp. I’d had to learn to find the comfort in postcoital cuddling. I was always the one left with tingling limbs and uncomfortable sweating as I willed myself to sleep.
A twinge. Though the sex was comfortable and good, a twinge wasn’t much of anything. I let my head roll to the side to look at my husband. At one point he’d wanted my orgasm as much as I did, but it was the one thing I couldn’t give him. There were times when we’d been close, when the stars and the body parts had aligned, and I’d shuddered in response. But when it came time for the grand finale, I’d buckled under the pressure.
Bill had found comfort in the fact that it wasn’t just him. I’d been with other men before him, mostly in college, but despite my efforts, had yet to find my slice of Nirvana. I couldn’t find comfort in that, though. To me, it was my eternal flaw and as a wife, my greatest inadequacy. If things were the other way around, could I live with the fact that I couldn’t pleasure Bill?
I was happy, though. I had other ways of getting myself off when necessary. I had my husband, who loved me in spite of everything. My life was pretty much as perfect as a night of good friends, wine, and sex. I lay in bed and watched the ceiling, waiting for sleep. Yes, I was happy.
Read Come Undone Now
Copyright
Move the Stars All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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© 2017 Jessica Hawkins
www.jessicahawkins.net
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Something in the Way extras.
All Jessica Hawkins titles.
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Editing by Elizabeth London Editing
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Proofreading by Tamara Mataya Editing
Cover Design © R.B.A. Designs
Cover Photography by Perrywinkle Photography
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