“Why didn’t you tell me the truth later? Or called me? Or argued about the divorce?”
“Charlie begged me not to tell anyone. Her dad—not Brandon—he was in the middle of an election campaign. She wasn’t sure what her mom had told him. More importantly, I didn’t think it mattered for us. Even in jail, Brandon was still everywhere. It was another sign that my life was screwed up, and that you deserved someone better. It seemed easier to let this be the thing that broke us up.”
Blinking rapidly, Tia whispered harshly, “First, how presumptuous you were to make that decision for me. Let me decide who I want to be with. Maybe we would have broken up anyways, but at least, I wouldn’t have thought you were a cheater all these years. I thought you regretted getting married to me, and this was your way of destroying the relationship.”
I shook my head vehemently. How could she think that? How could she think that I would cheat on her? Yet, her observation about me being self-destructive was spot on.
Her voice softening, she said, “Part of me is still mad at you for giving up on us so quickly. Part of me is mad at myself. I knew you, and I still let my insecurities get in the way.”
“It’s not your fault. I held you at arm’s length our entire marriage, in some misguided attempt to not get hurt. To be honest, I didn’t know how to function in a relationship. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier,” I said.
“I wish I had known back then. I hated you for a long time afterward.”
“Do you still?” Blood pounded through my body, as if it didn’t know where to go. My hands were icy cold, my ears were ringing with my shouting heartbeat, and my heart was bleeding. Waiting for her answer.
“I don’t think I ever did.”
And I could breathe again.
“I was mad at you for not fighting for us, and it took me a long time to realize that I was equally mad and disappointed at myself for leaving. I wish you had told me,” she repeated. Her voice was self-deprecating and that tugged at my heart. I didn’t like the thought of Tia being disappointed in herself and beating herself up. She deserved to live in laughter and light, not self-doubts and regret, especially not when caused by me.
“Thank you for telling me today,” she whispered, her gaze soft. “If you’re still interested, I’d like to continue our two weeks.”
Ignoring cautions and my earlier promise to myself to slow down, I pulled Tia towards me … an inch … another inch … until our lips touched. A whispered hello. It was deceptively gentle, belying the tumultuous need that threatened to take over. Desire thrummed and rocked through my body, focusing on this singular person in my arms.
With a groan, I leaned back slightly. Her eyes were hazy, her mouth puckered slightly as if in mid kiss, my touch still imprinted on her.
I couldn’t have moved. I was caught in a web in that moment, waiting for … something from her. Impossibly, as if she was as drawn to me as I was to her, Tia closed her eyes and swayed towards me.
Without waiting for my body to draw another breath, my mouth was on hers, probing, seeking her response. When her lips parted, I yanked her between my legs, devouring her lips. I couldn’t get close enough, as I trailed kisses against her soft cheeks, down against her neck, sucking lightly.
Had her skin always been this soft? Her scent always this intoxicating?
Shyly, her hands came up to stroke my shoulders, my arms, my chest. Even through the layers of clothes, her hands left a trail of want. I was shivering with need. I was burning with desire. This fire that Tia stirred inside of me, this turmoil wracking my body, was enough for me to forget my mind.
When I slid my hands into her coat to palm her full breasts, she gasped against my mouth. Even through her sweater and bra, I could feel her nipples harden against my marauding fingers. Whimpers spilled out of her, each sound a direct shot to my cock.
For an insane moment, I imagined tossing her down against the blankets and burying myself in her. That image of me losing control when I couldn’t afford to make mistakes with Tia was enough to sober me. With a groan, I pushed her gently off my lap, holding her shoulders to keep her at arm’s length.
For a suspended time, we sat on that rooftop, staring hungrily at each other as we tried to control our ragged breaths. I thought seriously of pulling her back.
I already missed her.
Tia was the first to recover. Her gaze still a little dazed, she whispered, “I guess, we’re going to give us a go. As long as you tell me the next time you discover a sibling?”
Relief mixed with happiness rang out in my laughter, as the pressure building within me dissipated. A broad smile took over my face. Going for a lighter note, I teased, “You’ll be the first to know. And, I promise, you’ll be the only person I send dick pics to.
“Hey!” I dodged a strawberry that Tia chucked at me.
“You’re the worst,” she said. The lift of one side of her mouth belied that comment. “No dick pics, please. I’ve done enough online dating to know that no dick pic is as impressive as the guy thinks. If you’re going to send nudes, at least send some shoulders or your back.”
“Really, my back?”
She shrugged, blushing as she refused to meet my eyes.
“Also, online dating? What kind of pickup lines got you to respond?”
Two eyebrows rose as she looked up at me. “The non-pickup lines that don’t come with requests to send photos of my feet.”
Grinning at her, I realized how much I missed this type of interaction. I loved talking with her, teasing her, arguing about ridiculous things with her, and hearing what she had to say. She was interesting and made me think and relook at my perceptions.
One question haunted the back of my mind even as we basked in each other. How in the world would I pick up the pieces again when she realized that she wanted someone better than me? Someone who didn’t have my baggage.
The chances that I was going to be okay with only a brief affair were looking slim.
Chapter Thirteen
Tia
December 31, 2009 (never sent)
Andrew,
It’s 11:17 p.m. I gave in and went to my parents’ friends’ New Year’s party for a little bit. Now, I’m sitting in my room alone waiting for the New Year to start. Will I feel differently in 2010? Will I be back to myself again when the ball drops? It’s weird seeing the crowd of people in New York on TV. They look so excited. I can barely remember what that feels like.
I wonder where you are, who you’re with, what you’re doing. I still hate you … but if I’m honest with myself, only a little. If I don’t hate you, then what am I left with?
Ting
I was in trouble. Deep, deep, where’s-the-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel trouble. It was eighty percent my fault. Maybe seventy-five percent, with a margin of error so big that my PhD dissertation advisor would have failed me for allowing.
I made assumptions that this two-week arrangement with Andrew would be a way for me to figure out what I wanted, which was obviously to beg Clayton to take me back. My assumptions sucked.
I could not have foreseen the truth about Charlie. Now that I knew, even though I agreed with Andrew that we wouldn’t have survived anyways, I still regretted how our marriage ended, especially when I still had my own secrets. But most of all, I had a hard time tamping down the euphoria of being with Andrew again. Whatever hesitation I had about exploring this something with him was draining like water out of a leaky pool, leaving me with the space to hope.
To dream.
To start afresh.
Since our rooftop picnic on Monday, we had seen each other every day. On Tuesday evening after work, he took me on a bike ride around Castle Island that ended in a secluded dinner lit by candles. On Wednesday, I had an evening meeting with my department that lasted far too long, so he came over with lemon squares and hot chai. On Thursday, he cooked for me in my apartment. It was an extremely gourmet meal of pasta with tomato sauce from a can and what looked suspicious
ly like salad from a bag. We laughed about the fanciness of it.
There were no helicopter rides to Newport, or sunset private cruises, or giant, bedazzling jewelry, like there were with Clayton. Yet, now that I knew that Andrew had not cheated on me, I was enjoying myself more than I should. I liked the normalness and unfussiness of the time that Andrew and I spent together. It was easy to fall back into the happy part of our past relationship—the teasing, the discussions about everything from the best pizza topping to systemic racism in the workplace, the non-judgement and ease in which we spun around each other. In the most telling sign, in just a week, I had relaxed to the point of forgetting to suck in my stomach around Andrew.
The more time that I spent away from Clayton, and critically, the more time that I spent with Andrew, the less I wanted to go back to my safe life. I liked being around Andrew. Both of us had changed, and yet, we had changed in ways that were, as I was discovering, still compatible.
Or maybe even more compatible.
Little things didn’t trigger big fights, like before. I didn’t have to tiptoe around subjects like his father or money. When I offered to split the cost of the bike rentals on Castle Island, Andrew had insisted firmly that he was going to pay. However, he didn’t shut down and accuse me of thinking he wasn’t good enough. Similarly, I wasn’t as overwhelmed. Yes, I still fretted about what my parents would think and whether this experiment would blow up in my face. But, for the most part, the two-week time limit kept me from self-destructive behaviors, like deliberating picking fights with Andrew.
The realization that Andrew and I could become something was scary. I couldn’t imagine leaving him after two weeks, and yet, I still hadn’t told anyone besides Pippa that Clayton and I had broken up. Whatever my colleagues thought of me not wearing my ring, I ignored their looks, and I let my mom still talk about wedding plans on our calls. Even though Clayton didn’t feel like an option anymore, telling everyone that Clayton and I were completely done felt huge and irreversible.
To top off my confusion, Andrew’s behavior was weirdly gentlemanly. After that schmexy kiss on the rooftop, the man made no moves. Whatsoever. Just easy, friendly conversation. He was so respectful that I wanted to shake him and demand what the heck did he want from me? What was with the pissing match between him and Clayton, if it resulted in one of them walking away so easily from an engagement and the other only wanting me as a friend now that he had “won” me for a couple weeks? What if Andrew changed his mind?
So yes, I was in a conundrum—a headache-inducing, exhausting conundrum. Muddled, fuddled, a proper tweetle beetle noodle poodle bottled paddled muddled duddled fuddled wuddled fox in socks. And the blame was one hundred percent, with a ninety-nine point five percent confidence level, Andrew’s fault.
Tonight, I faced a different conundrum, still with Andrew to blame. That morning, while in the middle of a lecture, I had glanced down at my phone to see a message from him pop up: “Let’s do something different tonight. I’ll come by at 6 to pick you up.”
Thirty very long minutes later when the class finally ended, I texted back: “What does that mean?”
Waiting for his explanation, I spent the next fifteen minutes answering questions from overachievers. It was my universally acknowledged truth that only high achievers asked questions or came to office hours. Either they had paid enough attention to my lectures or read ahead to know what questions to ask, or because they thought asking questions boosted the participation part of their grades. Never mind that I and my syllabus said that there was no participation score from the lecture portion of my class.
Andrew’s text while I was getting lunch made me immediately stress-order an extra side of fries. “My coworker Dan, who lives in Boston, invited us to his house for dinner. Want to go?”
Stuffing fries into my mouth to calm the sudden jump of nerves, my fingers typed a message.
Me: Who’s going to be there?
Andrew: Dan, his wife, us—casual.
Me: What do they know?
Andrew: Nothing. Dan invited me over since I’m in Boston. I said I’ll bring a friend.
Me: Is that friend me?
Andrew: No, my other wife.
I made a face at Andrew’s sarcasm. Curiosity got me. Without thinking too much about it, I typed with my eyes closed.
Me: Okay.
The excited part of me was jumping. What’s he like as a coworker? Was Andrew good at his job? The risk-averse part of me was lobbing concerns left and right. Oh no, oh no, we’re meeting friends, and that doesn’t feel like a two-week affair. What if they know Clayton?
Promptly at 6:30 p.m., our cab stopped in front of an unassuming house on a quiet street in Jamaica Plain. Andrew nudged me toward the door, one hand pressed firmly against the small of my back, as if worried that I was going to run away. I wouldn’t blame him for thinking that, because I was definitely pondering how far I could run in my heels without tripping over myself.
His voice was a hot whisper against my cheek, as he leaned down. “Tia, what can I do to help you relax?”
“Um …” Don’t go there, don’t go there. Oh fudge, here come the mental images.
“I wouldn’t put you in an uncomfortable situation. I think you’ll have a fun time. And we can leave whenever you want.” Hesitating a moment before adding, “They’ll like you. Just as you are. Just as I do.”
Leaving me beflustered at his admission, he rang the doorbell. The heavy, wooden door swung open almost immediately, revealing a burly man in his late-thirties with stripper eyes. His broad smile widened even further as he saw me. “Fuck.”
“Excuse me?” My head tilted to the side as I considered his word. Andrew laughed, so I assumed this guy wasn’t mean-cursing at me. I think.
“Fuck a duck. So you’re the one that’s got this fucker all wound up trying to woo you.” His laugh was booming, as he turned to yell over his shoulder. “They’re here!”
A blush tinted Andrew’s cheekbones, as he denied half-heartedly, “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“No wooing here,” I agreed solemnly, my lips curving up slightly.
“Say I was trying to woo—”
“Hi, you must be Andrew,” came a soft-spoken, gentle voice. “Tia?!”
I glanced up at the newcomer, wearing khakis and a light blue Oxford shirt. My eyebrows shot halfway to my forehead. “Kat?”
In a daze, I looked between Kat and her husband. They looked like opposite ends of magnets—Kat was polished and reserved, and her husband had greeted me with curse words. I had heard that Kat had married some random security guy, but I had figured that he was more like a Secret Service guy. The kind who wore suits and whose job was to blend into the background. Gosh, I didn’t even know this guy’s name except he was a security man, as Clayton’s parents had—
Ai ya ya. Fudge. Fudge. Fudgey fudgester. I had completely forgotten. Even though Kat wasn’t close to Clayton, they had known each other growing up. In her current position as head of a large pharmaceutical, we had crossed paths a few times at various charity and social events. I had heard plenty—trust me—plenty of gossip about some long-ago drama of Kat running away, only to return to kick her cousin out of the family business. Was it too late to bolt?
“Tia, I didn’t realize that Andrew was bringing you. Last time we met, I thought you were with um … hmm … I didn’t realize that you two …” Looking very uncomfortable, Kat turned to her husband for help.
Kat’s security man put a reassuring arm around her shoulder and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m Dan, by the way. Let’s get some fucking drinks and food, yeah?”
“Sounds good, man. Great to meet you, Kat. Thanks for having us over.” Andrew grabbed my hand and gave me a reassuring squeeze, prompting me to remember my manners and mutter greetings.
As we followed our hosts down a hallway, Andrew looked at me in question, one eyebrow raised. Trying not to be too obvious that we were talking about our hosts lit
erally behind their backs, I mouthed, “Through Clayton. They grew up together.”
The confusion in Andrew’s eyes gave way to something I couldn’t quite read, as he nodded absentmindedly. Stopping me before we entered the dining room, he pushed me against the wall and bent to kiss me. This was no gentle kiss. This was possession and devastation, as he trapped me against his hard body.
Still reeling from the collision of my two worlds, I was so caught off guard that I could only respond with a needy whimper at the brutal kiss. By the time I had gathered enough control over my body, Andrew had pulled away, his eyes a little hazy and all territorial as they locked on to mine. We stood there, in the dark corridor, not saying a word, trying to calm our breaths. Through our clothes, I could feel Andrew’s hardness, triggering a low ache in my body. I arched into him, biting my lips against the pleasure. More, more…
From inside the dining room, Dan’s voice cut through our daze. “Stop pawing at each other in my fucking hallway like fucking rabbits. Get a fucking room not in my house, or come in for a drink.”
Andrew had been right—I did have a fun time. Dan was hilarious and had no filter, and unlike me, seemed completely comfortable with whatever came out of his mouth. Once she had gotten over the shock of seeing me in her house with someone other than Clayton, Kat was as sweet as I remembered her.
Maybe it was the combination of Dan’s crazy stories and Kat’s calmness, or just being around his true friends, but Andrew was a revelation. Once upon a time, I had taken pride that he could be himself around me, in a way that I didn’t observe him with others. So it was an utter surprise and joy to see Andrew relax so completely. I couldn’t take my eyes away from him as he and Dan went back and forth, ribbing each other, telling stories of the weird requests from their clients.
“My favorite has to be the guy who asked that his contract state that his bodyguards only wear tie-dye, bell-bottoms, grow out their hair and beards, and carry disinfectants to spray the air around him when he walked outside,” said Andrew, a broad smile lighting up his face, his arm draped casually over the back of my chair.
Give Love a Chai (Common Threads Book 2) Page 12