Tell Me Everything

by Amy Hatvany

  “Okay,” I said, handing him Tuck’s backpack. “You’ll drop him back at our house Monday afternoon?”

  “Yep.”

  “Have a good one,” I said, and then made my way to my car. An hour later, I was following Andrew to his office, after being offered a heart attack shot of caffeine by the strikingly beautiful Jayla. He grabbed the silver handle on the door and moved to close it, but I stopped him.

  “Leave it open,” I said. “This won’t take long.”

  He smiled, a slow, sly thing. “Whatever you say.” He gestured toward the couches. “Have a seat.”

  “I’m fine right here.” I straightened my posture and looked him square in his dark, moody brown eyes. “I can’t see you anymore. I’m not comfortable with what we’ve done.”

  “You seemed pretty comfortable when you were doing it,” he said. His eyes traveled over my body, taking in my plain black capris and short-sleeved, white eyelet blouse. “You look gorgeous.”

  “You need to understand what I’m telling you,” I said, unwilling to be deterred by his compliment, or the sexual energy that emanated from him. “I made a mistake. One I won’t be repeating. I need you to respect that, and leave me alone.”

  “You’re incredibly sexy when you’re trying to be the boss,” Andrew replied. He took a step toward me, then, standing only inches away. I could smell his sweet, slightly spicy cologne. I could feel his breath on my face. My pulse sped up. “I know that’s what you’re used to, Jess. Bossing men around. But you like it when you don’t have to. You get wet when I take control.”

  My breath rattled inside my chest as I felt myself begin to soften. It was a chemical reaction, the desire I felt for him, nothing more, but it was strong and difficult to fend off.

  “You never should have called me at my office,” I said, determined not to waver in my stance. “You crossed a line, and you know it. I know it. And I should have known better than to see you after that. It was wrong. I told you I needed discretion, and you said you would give it. You lied.”

  “So did you,” he said, still looking at me, intently. “You lied to your husband so you could fuck me. You wrote me things that I’m sure he would be broken-hearted to read.”

  My heart stuttered, and my face went hot. “Are you threatening me?” God, I’ve been so stupid. How did I let things get this out of control? What if he called Jake? What if he had kept our texts and sent them to my husband? My stomach clenched.

  He took a step back, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just stating the facts.”

  “This is over,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Don’t text me. Don’t call. I wish you the best, Andrew, but I don’t ever want to see you again.”

  He smirked. “You could have told me that over the phone. Or in a text. But here you are.”

  “I wanted you to see that I’m serious,” I said, starting to feel angry. I wanted to smack that smug look off of his face. Yes, I was attracted to him, and the sex had been fantastic. He saw a need in me, and filled it. But I had changed my mind, and he seemed unable to respect that. However briefly enamored with him I had been, I realized he was not what I needed. He was nothing to me, at all.

  “I need you to say that you understand,” I said, forcefully.

  “I understand,” he said, solemnly, and once again, he lifted two fingers on his right hand, as he had when we met for coffee, and he walked me to my car. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I wish you well, Andrew, but this wasn’t meant to be.” I stepped around him, and made my way quickly out of his office and down the hall to the elevators. I did it, I thought. It’s finally done.

  I grabbed my phone from my purse and tapped the screen a few times, blocking Andrew’s number and then deleting altogether, as I had all of our text conversations. I couldn’t change the fact that I’d slept with him, or that I’d been dishonest with Jake. But I could change how I behaved from now on. I would talk with my husband, opening up to him about my desire to let go of the reins in bed. It would be a new experience for us, a different way of pushing our sexual boundaries. My focus would stay where it should—on the man I loved.

  The man I swore to myself I’d never keep anything from, ever again.

  JAKE and I spent that evening alone, sitting on the back deck, watching the sunset as we sipped at the mojitos I’d made for us to go along with his favorite meal: chorizo and chicken tacos. Ella was at work, Tuck was at Peter’s, and my mother had gone out for dinner with Helen.

  “Can you believe how much they’re hanging out together?” Charlotte had texted me earlier.

  “I think it’s kind of great,” I replied, not only because my mother’s new friendship kept her busy enough that I didn’t have to worry about keeping her entertained. More importantly, it seemed like spending time with Helen—and possibly the new friends she had made back in Boise—had softened my mom in some way, changing how she saw women who had followed different paths in their lives. Helen didn’t have a fancy degree—she never went to college—but she was passionate about women’s rights, and spent her life using her very loud, but well-informed, voice to advocate for those who couldn’t.

  “She’s a pioneer,” my mom said to me the other day, after spending the day in downtown Seattle, helping Helen pass out fliers about Planned Parenthood, encouraging those who passed by to take the time to educate themselves about what services the organization provided instead of relying on inflammatory political rhetoric to make their decisions. “I had to fight against so much blatant sexism from the moment I stepped into my first advanced physics lab in college. It was such a lonely road to walk on my own.” She looked at me, almost wistfully. “Helen understands that, but your father saw it,” she continued. “And encouraged me to keep walking. I loved him because he was a man ahead of the times.”

  “He admires you so much,” I said. “I knew that, even when I was a kid.” I knew that they had spoken a several times over the last few days, and I hoped that for the sake of their marriage, this meant that she might be headed home, soon.

  “He did,” my mom agreed. “But Helen and I were talking, and I realized I made the mistake of letting him be my only support system. I didn’t let other women close to me—I assumed that they wouldn’t understand me. I’m beginning to see now that I missed out. Especially in my relationship with you. I focused way too much on my work instead of just being there. Being your mom.” She paused, and her gray eyes shone with tears. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, feeling an ache in the back of my throat.

  We were both quiet for a moment, letting that subtle, but monumental moment of love and forgiveness settle into our bones, allowing it to become a part of us, of the story we shared.

  “I talked to your dad the other night,” she finally said. “I’m going home after this weekend.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Although it’s been so nice to have you here.” I was surprised to realize that I’d meant it.

  Now, as I sat on the deck with Jake, staring out at the quickly darkening sky, enjoying the streaked, thick ribbons of pink, orange, and lavender hues, I told him everything my mother had said, and her plans to go back to Boise.

  “Well, that’s good news,” he said.

  I laughed. “How so?” I thought perhaps he had tired of having her around.

  “You got an email from Andrew.”

  Jake had made a point of not logging in to our anonymous account since we decided that I would find a new lover without him, so I worried that he’d chosen to look at it now because he sensed how much I had been thinking about Andrew. “Oh,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Why did you check it?”

  He gave me a sheepish look. “Curiosity got the better of me,” he admitted. “I wanted to see what you two talked about. Why you picked him.”

  I felt a jolt of panic, trying to remember if I’d said anything in my brief email exchange with Andrew in the beginning that would give Jak
e cause to suspect something wasn’t quite right. But then I realized that I’d only ever texted Andrew after we met for coffee. Everything we spoke about before that was mostly logistical.

  “And?” I said, again, trying to keep my tone light.

  “I get it. He seemed intelligent, and laid-back, at least on the page. Very much your type.”

  “You’re my type,” I said, lightheartedly, despite the way my heart jack-rabbited inside my chest. “The only type that matters.”

  “He had an interesting suggestion.”

  “What was that?” Shit, I thought. I’m not going to get out of talking about this. I’d considered telling Jake that I didn’t want to see Andrew anymore because he’d tried to force me to have anal sex with him, but didn’t want to add another lie on top of the ones I’d already told. I wasn’t sure how I was going to communicate that I wasn’t going to see Andrew again; part of me hoped I could say that he wasn’t interested—that he’d ghosted on us, totally disappeared—so I wouldn’t have to explain why I didn’t want to continue fucking a man who I’d had incredibly chemistry with.

  “See for yourself,” Jake said, handing me his phone.

  I took it from him, and held my breath as I began to read:

  “Hello, Jessica. I’ve been thinking about you and your husband a lot this week. About you, especially. How hot it was to have you in my bed. I hope you told Jake how you let me pin your arms behind your back and told you not to speak. I hope you made it clear just how wet and swollen you were for me. Fucking you was the best sex I’ve ever had. I’m dying to see you again. Maybe this time you can bring your husband, so he can watch how incredibly turned on his wife gets when I fuck her?

  Let me know.”

  He didn’t sign his name, but there was a picture of him attached, the same one of him holding his hard cock that he’d sent me the other night, when we were sexting.

  “He’s got a huge dick,” Jake said, as I handed him his phone. “You weren’t kidding.” His words were teasing, so at least I knew he wasn’t mad or jealous about that, specifically.

  Still, I couldn’t ignore the twisting sensation in my gut. After the conversation I’d had with Andrew earlier that day, sending this email was a blatant, unmistakable fuck-you to my request to leave me alone. I was infuriated, but I couldn’t let Jake see this, so I gave him a coy smile, instead.

  “It’s not the size of your pencil,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s the signature you leave.”

  Jake groaned, but he was laughing. “Hey, now. I’m supposed to make the stupid jokes around here.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do you like knowing you were the best sex he’s ever had?”

  “You’re the best sex I’ve ever had,” I said, evading his question. I didn’t want to think about Andrew, or what I felt like when I was with him. The entire experience was tainted, and the last thing I wanted to do was go into detail about it with Jake. I felt disappointed and afraid—disappointed in myself for letting things with Andrew get so out of control, and afraid that if he was capable of sending this email so soon after I’d told him we were over, that he might do something more, something worse. Something that could make me regret that I’d ever known him at all.

  Twenty-Three

  After that weekend and my mother packed up and went home, I struggled as the days passed, trying to decide whether or not I should tell Jake what happened with Andrew—that I’d been keeping the full truth from my husband for weeks. Part of me ached to come clean, knowing that I would feel so much better not having to carry around the knowledge of what I’d done, but another part, perhaps a wiser one, worried that the truth would hurt Jake more than it would give me relief.

  This advice, at least, is what I gave Charlotte about her own situation, when she informed me that Richard had finally broken down about the state of their marriage. She and I had met for lunch the day after Andrew sent the email, and while I wished I could talk to her about the situation, I kept my mouth shut, listening as she told me the story about Richard’s emotional outburst.

  “I walked in on him in the bathroom,” she told me in a low voice, so the people seated near us in the restaurant wouldn’t hear. “He was naked, and crying. Like, serious, shoulder-shaking sobs.”

  “Wow,” I said. I had a hard time picturing Charlotte’s husband, who was a high powered, corporate attorney, losing it like that. “What did you do?”

  “I shut the door behind me—Bentley was at the pool with Ella, thank god—and I went over to him and got down on my knees, asking what was wrong.” She shook her head. “He told me that he was terrified that I was going to leave him. That I was probably already fucking someone else, and he didn’t blame me. He said the more he tried to get an erection, the more it didn’t happen. Which stressed him out, which made it harder—pardon the pun—for him to want to even try to have sex because he was so worried about not being able to perform. He also said he was terrified of going to the doctor and finding out he has prostate cancer or something, because of what it would do to Bentley and me. So he ignored the whole situation, hoping it would get better on its own.”

  “Holy shit,” I said. “The poor guy.”

  She sighed. “I know. That’s when I started crying, too, because of how I’ve been carrying on this emotional affair with Bryan. Because that’s what it was, right?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. “I mean, Alex fucking around on me was terrible—it gutted me—but I’m pretty sure in his mind, it was simply physical with all those other women, and he still only loved me, which is how he justified it when I found out. And I’ve been justifying having all these feelings for Bryan as being okay because I’m not fucking him, but really, it’s almost worse to emotionally betray the man I’m in love with. I should have tried harder to get Richard to a counselor or the doctor.”

  “You did try,” I said. “A lot. Don’t beat yourself up.”

  “Yeah, but clearly it wasn’t enough. He told me about all this underlying anxiety he deals with, and how he has to constantly push it down so he can deal with his huge clients or get up in front of judge and argue his cases. I had no idea that was going on with him, Jess. I’m his wife. I’m supposed to know him better than anyone else. How could I not see it?” Her brown eyes teared up, and I handed her my napkin.

  “I think it’s more complicated than that,” I said, wanting to comfort her. “Especially when they don’t want you to see it.” I thought about my own struggles with opening up on a deeper level, even with Jake, how most of the time I didn’t even realize I was hiding how I was feeling. It takes courage to reveal our innermost selves, to be vulnerable, when too many times, it can be used against you. But that was the risk, I supposed, in loving someone, and letting them love you. There was the chance they might hurt you, and yet, the brilliant, beautiful possibility that they won’t.

  “I need to tell him about Bryan,” Charlotte said. “Right? He was so open and honest with me, I owe him the same thing.”

  I shook my head. “No way,” I said. “I think the best thing to do is cut off your communication with Bryan. End it. And then focus everything you have on Richard. Be there for him. Help him feel safe again.”

  Charlotte gave me a dubious look. “Are you sure? I’m not just letting myself off the hook?”

  “You’re sparing him pain when he’s already struggling. If you did tell him, my guess is that it would be only to alleviate your own guilt.”

  I told myself that the same logic applied to my situation with Andrew. If I told Jake everything, it would only hurt him. And for what? I wasn’t going to talk with or see Andrew ever again. The email he sent was probably a one-time thing—a childish, knee jerk reaction to me cutting him off. He’d had a crush on me when we were younger, so I imagined my rejecting him, now, wasn’t totally painless. But he’d also told me that he’d engaged in casual hook ups before, when he was with his ex-girlfriend, so he had to know that sometimes, things didn’t work out. I told myself it was a good sign that he hadn’t called me
at work, which he could easily do, and since I’d blocked him on my phone, he couldn’t send me any texts. I hoped that after not hearing from him for a while, I could tell Jake he must have lost interest.

  “I think maybe I want to take a break from all of the hot wife stuff,” I told him one night, a few days after my lunch with Charlotte, when he and I were in bed, about to go to sleep. “I know we thought upping the ante would be good for us, and it was, but I think we can do that even more by exploring some kinky things on our own. Maybe you can dominate me a little. Make me serve you.” I winked at him, trying to be sexy and playful, but also, to gauge his reaction to that particular suggestion.

  “Did something happen with Andrew that makes you not want to see him again?” Jake asked, furrowing his brows. “Did he do something to hurt you or freak you out?”

  “Not at all,” I said, quickly. “I just want to focus on us for a while.” I paused. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” Jake said, raking the fingers of his free hand through his hair. “But are you sure nothing happened? Did he make you uncomfortable?”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not about him.” Andrew had made me uncomfortable, but it was because of my own reaction to being with him. The intense, automatic excitement I felt in his presence was treacherous. Even if it wasn’t emotional—even if I didn’t see stars and hearts and imagine spending time outside of the bedroom with him—the connection we had was undeniable, and I suspected that if I had allowed it to continue, it wouldn’t have ended well.

  “Okay,” Jake said. “Are you going to send him an email, letting him know, or should I?”

  “Do we even have to?” I sounded like a petulant child, but I wanted the conversation to end. “This is all supposed to be no strings attached.”

  “Yeah, but it’s sort of rude to not let him know. Remember all the guys who basically ghosted on us?”

  I nodded. Whenever we’d put up an ad looking for someone new to play with, there were always the men who would respond with enthusiasm, sending excited emails expressing their intense desire to make something happen, and then would disappear without warning. Jake pulled his phone out of the pocket of his black cargo shorts and tapped on the screen. “Let’s take care of it, now.” He spent a few minutes typing, and then let me read it.