by Poppy Parkes
“No, he’s wonderful. I’m the one who’s the problem.”
Kate frowns. “Explain.”
The meaning of the two syllables is clear. But for some reason, when faced with this stark, uncomplicated question, I find myself stammering.
My friend cuts me off. “Okay, let me see if I can get this straight. You met a man tonight?”
I nod. “At kickboxing.”
“And you liked him?”
Another nod.
“So you . . . ?”
“Went out for a drink,” I finish.
“And then you went home and had sex?”
I cringe. “We made it to the alley behind the bar.”
Now she whistles. “Holy shit, Em, that really is next-level for you.”
“Right?” Fresh tears, hot and fat, well in my eyes. “It’s terrible.”
Kate raises a hand to stop me. “Hang on. That’s not what I said. It’s different than your usual, sure, but I haven’t heard anything that’s bad.”
Without warning, my sadness turns to anger. I find myself wanting to strike out at my friend, to lash her with words that cut so deep she’s forced to turn away from me. But I know myself enough to understand that this is my gut-level way of trying to protect myself from pain — and that it won’t work.
So I haul in a shuddering breath and try to make her understand with words. “We’ve talked about this before — I can’t do relationships. I can’t do love.” I practically spit the words. “It’s not in the cards for me. And tonight, I let myself slip and I’ve hurt Oliver and myself in the process. And hell, probably you too.”
“Oliver’s a nice name.” Kate says it so quietly that I barely have time to register the words before she’s pressing on at her usual volume. “You’re not hurting me.”
“But I could, if I let things get out of hand.”
“If you let yourself fall for someone,” she says as if she’s reciting from memory. Which she probably is — Kate’s got a mind like a trap, and we’ve discussed my love principles more than once.
“Exactly,” I say.
“Well,” she replies, fixing me with a look that makes my neck suddenly prickle with the awareness that I’m about to hear something I won’t like, “I think this is all a bunch of bullshit.”
My mouth dangles open. I want to rage at her, to scream that she doesn’t understand. But all I can do is sit there like a dumbass, agape and mute.
Which is fine, because she’s not finished. “You’ve seen some rough relationships through your clients, it’s true,” Kate continues, “but I think you’re giving them too much credit.”
My rebuttal is elegant, truly a work of art. “Huh?”
“You’re a therapist. People come to you when they need help in their lives or their marriages or whatever. They don’t come to see you when everything’s fine and life is chugging along a-okay.”
“Your point being?”
She smirks. “My point being that you’ve decided all relationships suck based on the much smaller percentage of relationships that actually suck.”
“But the divorce rate —“
“Yeah, the divorce rate. But how many divorced couples seek counseling before calling it quits?”
I open my mouth to answer, but she beats me to it.
“I know, not nearly enough. So you’ve used a logical fallacy — logical, sure, but a fallacy nonetheless — to condemn yourself to a life of solitude.”
“I’d hardly say condemned —“
Kate grabs my hand. “Emmy. There’s nothing wrong with being happy on your own, with not wanting a partner. But deciding you don’t need a partner, even though you want one, because someone might get hurt?” She sits back, releasing me. “Well, that’s a damn shame.”
I blink, brain whirling. It’s been so long since Kate’s lawyer brain faced off with my psychology brain that I forgot she’s one of the few people on earth who can best me with my own logic.
Suddenly, I feel very, very tired. I rub my forehead. “What are you saying, Kate? Tell me straight.”
She slides back over so that our outer thighs press together, and I find the contact comforting. “I think that you long for love, but you hold yourself back from it because of what-if’s that might never come to be.”
Feeling the tears return, I look her in the eyes. “But what if they do?”
“Then you’ll deal with them with your partner. Together.”
“Together.” I echo the words in a ragged whisper.
“Em, don’t give up on love only because it’s scary. If it didn’t scare you a little, it wouldn’t be love. And love is worth the risk.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.” She giggles. “Remember, not that long ago I was with you on the love-is-stupid boat. But then I met Harry and all that changed.” She nudges me with a shoulder. “Maybe you just needed to meet the right person.”
“You mean Oliver.” Just the feeling of his name on my lips is enough to send a delicious shiver prickling down my chest, over my belly, landing in my clit.
She grins. “I do. And even if he’s not the love of your life, what’s the harm of having a little consensual fun with him?”
Love of your life. Kate’s words haul back my thoughts from the car with jarring alacrity. About how I didn’t long for sex with Oliver — I wanted him to make love to me.
“But Kate,” I rasp, clutching at her hand with trembling fingers, “what if I want more than consensual fun? What if I want all of him, even though we just met?”
“If you’re looking for someone to talk you out of the possibility of experiencing love at first sight, you came to the wrong person.” She leans forward, voice growing in intensity. “Because if that’s what you’re feeling for this man, I think you should go for it.”
“And if I’ve already messed it up?”
“Then you go to him and ask for forgiveness. What have you got to lose?”
My pride.
My dignity.
My ability to show my face at Shotgun City Fitness ever again.
I have a litany of answers at the ready. But before I can give voice to any of them, I realize that none of them matter much compared to the privilege of having Oliver in my life.
I need to find him and make this right, any way that I can. Otherwise I will forever regret not trying.
“I have to go.” I spring to my feet, feeling as renewed as I do afraid.
Kate smiles, slow and knowing. “Yeah you do,” she says. “Go get ‘im.”
Oliver
I fucked up.
There’s no doubt about it.
Otherwise why would Emmy have said she was going to the bathroom, only to slink from the ladies’ room the second she thought I wasn’t looking? I saw her just about flat out running from the building — and from me.
But then I think about the way her body felt moving over my length after months of dreaming about the girl with zero expectation of ever getting her, and I can’t help but smile.
Because as tawdry and illicit as it might be to fuck a woman in a dive bar alley the first day you’ve met her, it felt like anything but.
It felt like everything I’ve been wanting and thought I’d missed out on. It felt like magic and heat, like sunlight breaking through the clouds after the long gray of winter.
And it certainly didn’t seem like just a quick screw. It was more. Much more. The doorway to a different future than the one currently waiting for me.
At least, it might have been, if I wasn’t sitting alone at a sticky table at the bar wondering what the hell to do next.
If I knew more about Emmy than her name, I’d go after her. There’s no question about that. I have to physically force myself to stay seated instead of following my gut instinct to spring up and race after her. The fact that I don’t know her address or her workplace or even her damn phone number means nothing to my inner caveman.
But I’m not without resources.
Besid
es, just because I opt for a more frugal lifestyle than most millionaires doesn’t mean I won’t use said resources when I need to.
And tonight? I really fucking need to.
I’m also a smart man. And I’m keenly aware of the fact that Emmy is not the sort of woman I can win over by flashing my money around.
No, she’s after something real, just like me.
Something about tonight scared her. I have to show her that the thing she’s afraid of? It’s just the illusion fear can bring.
That’s the only way I’ll show her that she can let herself be mine.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I begin swiftly tapping away, sending texts and emails to all the right people. In the morning I’ll make phone calls.
Emmy might not want me. But I’m sure as hell not going to just wait and see what happens. She’s a woman worth pursuing, and I intend to do exactly that.
Emmy
The thing about mistakes is that some of them aren’t as easy to undo as they were to make.
Once Kate calmed me down and I got over the after-alcohol jitters that always hit me when I drink, this fact hit me like a thunderbolt.
And it hasn’t stopped.
It’s been two days since Oliver stormed the gates of my heart and I’m still not able to get over him.
Yes — get over him. Because even though I realized that I need more of him, no matter the risk, I’d forgotten one thing.
I don’t have his number.
I’m not about to turn stalker to track him down either.
So I’m left with one option — I need to accept my mistakes and work through the grief of losing Oliver because of them.
It sounds easy when you say it out loud. As a therapist, I know that it’s anything but, and now I’m living that truth.
It fucking sucks.
But what else can I do? In the space of mere hours, my life split into three fractured parts.
There was the before — before I knew Oliver, when everything was fine. Perhaps a bit boring, but fine enough.
And then there was the during, the hours that I had him, that we had sex. The memory of our time together makes my nether regions pulse with need and my face flush bright to the tips of my ears whenever I think of it.
Finally, there is the after, which is what I must now live with forever. And even though Oliver was barely a blip on the radar when you look at my life as a whole, he’s changed everything. The after is identical to the before, except now what once was fine is painful and harsh, and I long for the one person I can’t have.
Because after what I did, why would he want me?
There’s kickboxing tonight again. Of course I’m going, because what the hell else am I supposed to do? Stay at home and curse myself for my stupidity?
I won’t. So I’ll go.
But I refuse to hope that Oliver will be there too. My brain knows there’s no way in hell that he’d risk more damage by seeing me at class, even from afar, and I don’t blame him.
I hurt him.
I hurt myself.
This is why love is terrible, why I’ve never trusted myself with its awesome power.
But now I can also see why it’s worth the risk, like Kate said. Because those few hours I had with Oliver before I mucked it all up? They were some of the best hours of my life. I wouldn’t trade them, not for anything.
I finally understand that Shakespeare quote, which I’ve always thought was sentimental and simpering — it really is better to have loved and lost than to miss out entirely.
I just wish I’d known that before I ruined everything. Maybe I wouldn’t have let my own fears get in the way of whatever happiness, whether the fleeting or forever kind, awaited Oliver and I.
Now I’m left with choosing the next best thing for myself.
Right now, that’s to go to kickboxing and sweat out all of my sadness and all of my anger at myself. Then I’ll do it again in two nights from now, and again next week, and so on until, months from now, I begin to feel better.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
I grab my gym back from my office’s tiny closet, lock the door, and set off for class, tears in my eyes at the knowledge that the one person I want to be there more than anyone else in the world won’t.
As I’m walking down the hallway to the elevator, a young woman whirls up the emergency staircase and around the corner, barreling straight toward me.
“Hi,” she says, breathless from her climb up to the sixth floor, “is it too late? Is everybody closed?” She gestures at all the office doors.
I frown. “Who are you looking for?”
She pulls a thick envelope from her bag and looks at it. “Uh, Emilia Romano. Do you know her?”
I hold out a palm. “That’s me.”
“Wow, seriously?” The young woman’s eyebrows shoot straight up. “That was lucky. If I could just see some I.D. . . .”
Refraining from cursing the poor thing out, I dig around in my bag and emerge with my driver’s license. I glance at my phone while she examines it. Whatever’s in this envelope, it better make being late for kickboxing worth it.
“Thanks,” she says, offering me a crooked grin. “I know that’s a pain. Have a great day!”
I mutter something incoherent as she skips back down the stairs. Finishing the journey to the elevator, I press the button and wait, not wanting to take the six flights of stairs down.
While I wait, I turn the envelope over in my hands. It has my name scrawled in ornate lettering on the front but is otherwise blank. I get lots of mail delivered to my office — mostly bills, and certainly nothing like this.
The elevator doors slide open and I step inside, eyes still on the envelope. As I sway at the elevator’s descent, I debate whether I should open the envelope now or wait until later.
I decide to save it and slide it into my bag.
It takes me the rest of the elevator ride down to the parking garage and the journey to my car to change my mind.
Buckled into the driver’s seat of my little red sedan, I snatch the envelope and tear it open before I can change my mind.
Inside is a single flat piece of cardstock covered with masculine script. I read:
Emmy,
I am sorry. I know that I’ve done something to hurt you. Please forgive me.
I understand that you owe me nothing. If you read this letter and want nothing more to do with me, I will respect that.
However, if there is a chance that I can repair the damage I’ve done, I want to seize it.
You are a hell of a woman, Emilia Romano, and it would be my honor to have you in my life in any way that you choose.
With gratitude,
Oliver
Beneath his signature, Oliver’s included his phone number.
Oxygen feels suddenly hard to come by.
Because Oliver has found me.
And he thinks that he’s done something wrong when the reality is very much the opposite.
My brain skims over the fact that he is somehow still willing to put himself in my path and instead homes in on his phone number.
Quickly, I enter it into my phone and hit save. I need to text him, to set things straight. He’s done nothing wrong. Quite the opposite, in fact.
But first, in true therapist style, I need time to process this new development. So, checking the dashboard clock to see that I still have just enough time to make it to kickboxing, I put my car in reverse and head for the gym.
Five minutes later, I can’t deal with my own distraction for one second longer, so I pull my car over to the side of the road. I whip my cell out again, pull up Oliver’s number, and type a quick text:
Thank you for your letter. Please know that you did nothing wrong — I was the one making all the mistakes. I’m so sorry for my behavior. If you can look past that, I’d love to see you again.
xo, Em
I send the message off before I can think about it too much and carefully steer my car away from
the curb. But a second later my phone beeps, announcing the arrival of a text.
Veering back off the road, this time I put my car into park.
My heart hammers against my ribs when I see that it’s Oliver, already replying to my message.
You just made me so happy, I read. Can I try to return the favor?
I scowl at the phone, confused. Oliver wants to make me happy, when I was the one who up and left him without a word?
Are you serious? Do you really want to? :/
My text instantly registers as read, followed by the three dots indicating Oliver is typing.
More serious than a deposition in favor of the party I’m prosecuting. ;) his message says,
In spite of myself, my lips twitch into a smile at his lawyer joke. I wonder if he’s guessed how much I like nerdy puns.
But I’m the guilty party here, I type, fingers flying. Shouldn’t you want to see me behind metaphorical bars for my crimes against you?
His reply is swift: The only place I care to see you is in my arms.
I suck in a breath so deep that it makes my lungs protest, then hold it. My thighs press together of their own will at his words and I can feel myself growing wet.
When was the last time a man was able to make me drip with a few texts?
Not for the first time, I acknowledge that Oliver is not like other men. But this time, the truth of this rings through me like a bell, reverberating in my bones and making my nerve endings tingle with the knowledge that if there is anyone in this world meant for me, he’s the one.
And I can’t let him get away.
Another message chimes through: May I see you this evening, if you’re available?
I snort. If I’m available? The only nighttime events that occupy me either involve my friends or a thick book on any number of complex psychological topics. And right now, Amelia, Kate, and Hattie are all very much engaged with what’s going on in their own lives — new babies on the way, law school, blending families, and more. So all I’ve got on my schedule is a nightly book binge.
