Falling

by Jane Green

  Oh yes. Emma knows these women well thanks to Sophie and her vocal feelings about them. She can see their whole lives laid out in front of them in a way they will not be able to for years. As the women answer her questions, she wonders whether they will ask her anything about herself, but she is entirely unsurprised when they don’t. Once she stops asking them about themselves, they grow quiet.

  “I saw what just happened,” Dominic says, dropping his voice so they can’t hear. “They were as interested in you as their husbands were in me.”

  “Their husbands weren’t interested in you?”

  “Nah. I don’t work at a hedge fund or bank. I told them I was a bartender and their eyes glazed over.”

  “But everyone loves the Fat Hen! Why didn’t you tell them you worked there? You know they would have wanted you to be their new best friend if you’d told them.”

  “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell them,” murmurs Dominic. “The Fat Hen has enough of those types. I definitely don’t want to encourage any more.”

  “I’m sorry,” whispers Emma. “I think we got stuck with the duds.”

  “We have each other,” says Dominic. “And I couldn’t be happier with the company I’m keeping tonight.”

  She flushes with pleasure, just as the feta and watermelon is set on the table, and she can distract herself with the food. They chat about this and that, until the plates are removed, when Dominic turns to her and asks, “How is it you don’t have a boyfriend? I asked you before but you didn’t give me a straight answer.”

  This time, she manages not to blush and commands herself to hear the question as one from a friend and not a flirtation. “I’m pretty self-sufficient,” Emma answers. “Honestly, I’m not sure I’m a good girlfriend. I had a very long relationship when I was younger and everyone expected us to get married, but I think I’m a bit of a lone wolf. It’s a terrible thing to admit, and not the thing you’re supposed to say, but I’m perfectly happy being on my own. Why are you smiling?”

  “Lone wolf,” he says. “When I was a kid I used to be in a rock band and we called it the Lone Wolves because that’s what everyone called me. The Lone Wolf.”

  “So you’re independent, too?”

  “It’s different for a man. We’re expected to be. But I don’t know how easy it would be for me to share my life with anyone, either.”

  “Really? You seem so open. You seem exactly the kind of man who would, should, have a partner.”

  “Yeah. I know that’s how it seems, but my model for marriage wasn’t a great one.”

  Emma remembers what that real estate agent Jeff had said about Dominic’s parents: the fighting, the drama, the violence.

  “Your parents? Were they not happy?” She already knows the answer but wants to hear it firsthand from Dominic.

  He laughs. “That might be the understatement of the century. They hate each other, but they’re still married. I think my mom planned a huge bunch of kids, but after me she had a ton of miscarriages, and I think the whole thing was a huge disappointment to her. They’re very Italian, which means there’s always a lot of shouting, but in my family’s case that comes with a lot of anger and a lot of . . .” He shakes his head. “This is boring.”

  “No. It’s really not. I imagine that growing up in a family like that must have scarred you in some way, must have made you reluctant to get involved with anyone.”

  “I didn’t think so when I was younger, but I realize now how often I was attracted to women who brought drama to a relationship. Everything I thought I wanted to avoid from my own childhood: the shouting, the anger, the turmoil? I always seemed to pick women who brought exactly that into my life.”

  “But not now?”

  Dominic pauses. “I had a girlfriend once. I was about seventeen, and we would fight all the time. There was this one night when we were yelling at each other, and I was so angry, I swear to God it’s the only time in my life I actually have come close to laying a hand on someone. I didn’t. But I was scared that I was going to. And I realized then that if I didn’t make a conscious choice to live differently, I was going to follow my parents’ path. And I didn’t want that. That night changed me completely. I learned that it’s all a choice, and that choice is up to us. And then of course Jesse came along, and it’s always different once you’re a father. I’m different. Not only do I always have to put Jesse first, I’ve had to learn what it is to have a relationship. I know it’s my kid, but it’s the first real long-term relationship I’ve had as an adult. I’ve had to learn to be selfless. To put someone else before me. And I’ve had to try to teach Jesse that we’re the only ones in control of our happiness. It’s been a great lesson.”

  “So now you’re ready for the woman of your dreams?” says Emma.

  “Maybe.” He looks at her. There is a long pause.

  “Gina?”

  “That’s over,” he says simply.

  Emma fights the delighted grin that is itching to get out. “Didn’t I see her come over late last night?”

  “She did. And I ended it.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Dominic stares at her. “Are you?”

  She is quiet for a minute. “I don’t know. Are you?”

  “No. It was pointless. It wasn’t going anywhere. It wasn’t fair, either to her or to me.” Dominic reaches for the basket of corn bread, takes two pieces, hands one to Emma. Without looking at her, he reaches for the butter and keeps his eyes down as he slathers some on his bread. “I found myself thinking about other . . . things,” he finally says.

  Emma’s heart jumps. “Other things?”

  Dominic looks up and gives her a slow smile. “Yes.”

  They make it through the lamb-and-date meatballs, the braised short ribs with succotash and roasted beets, through the burnt caramel ice cream with toffee apple slices. They make it through talking, and drinking, and laughing, and looking at no one but each other.

  They make it through coffee, and fine, delicate ginger-and-lemon cookies, and mint tea with tiny chocolate biscotti.

  They make it halfway up the mown pathway on the way back to the car park after dinner, couples behind them, couples in front.

  “Look,” says Dominic, pausing along the path and pointing out something glistening beyond the trees. “A pond. Shall we check it out?”

  Emma nods, and as they step off the path and through the long grass, Dominic reaches out and takes her hand, and a warmth settles over her entire body as she feels his hand wrap hers.

  They walk down to the pond, and stop when they reach the water, turning to each other at the same time. Emma is hardly able to breathe.

  Dominic reaches out and places a hand on her cheek. And then she is in his arms, his mouth is on hers, her mouth opening as his arms wrap around her body and she sinks into something that feels so familiar, so right, that when they finally disengage, when they open their eyes and look at each other, her cheeks are wet with tears.

  “Why are you crying?” Dominic asks, looking at her with wonder.

  “I have no idea,” she says, which is absolutely true.

  • • •

  They kiss at every stoplight on the way home. They do not talk about what will happen once they get there until they pull into the driveway. Then Dominic asks if she will wait in the car while he pays the babysitter and sends her home.

  Emma sits in the car, astonished by what has happened. She watches Dominic, standing in the doorway paying the babysitter, feeling a jolt of lust in her loins, something she hasn’t felt in a very long time. She’s not even sure she has ever felt exactly this before.

  She looks at him from inside the darkened car, tasting him still on her tongue, remembering from earlier in the evening what he feels like, the shape of his head, the texture of his hair, and a shudder runs through her body.

  She wants to dri
nk him in, eat him up. She wants to fold herself into him so tightly that the two of them become one. She wants to consume and be consumed, in a way so unlike the Emma she has always been, that when the babysitter leaves and she finally gets out of the car and joins him in the house, her legs are shaking.

  “Sssshhh.” Dominic puts his finger to his lips, indicating that Jesse is fast asleep, before pulling her back into his arms. They stand at the foot of the stairs, kissing, and when he takes her hand and motions her upstairs, she nods, and follows him up into the master bedroom, where he inches her back, until she falls backward on the bed, laughing softly.

  He dips his head down, kisses her neck, pushes the strap of her dress down, and the laughing stops, replaced with a sharp, ravenous intake of breath as she pulls his head back up, needing his mouth to be on hers.

  Dominic kisses his way down her body, pulling her dress down, fumbling around her back to undo her bra and throw it across the room. He lingers on her breasts, slips a hand down inside her underwear, as she lets out a small, pleasurable moan. She reaches down to undo his jeans, unbuttons his shirt to feel his skin against hers.

  She marvels at the intimacy of these acts, and how she feels so comfortable performing them. It should feel so strange, she thinks, guiding him into her, feeling him inside her as he props himself on his hands and gazes at her. But everything feels so right. So very different from before. From ever before.

  • • •

  The last time Emma had sex was through Tinder. She is not a Tinder girl, but everyone she knew was doing it, everyone said she had to do it. She thought, after a while, that she should try it. Though people used the app mostly for sex, surely there were some who found relationships unexpectedly, and if they did, why not her?

  She was swiped by a handsome artist who lived downtown. Naturally. He was in his late twenties, and confessed to always being drawn to older women, which threw Emma slightly, for she didn’t consider someone in her midthirties an older woman. They went to the bar of a basement restaurant in the West Village, where he was greeted by the hostess, the bartender, and even the manager, who came out from the back to give him a bro hug.

  They sat at the bar and had dirty martinis, two for her, three for him. They talked about nothing very important, but he was good-looking, and young, and his interest in her made her feel desirable and beautiful. It had been a while since she had felt desirable and beautiful. Attention from the lecherous men with whom she worked didn’t count—that was all part of the game.

  She couldn’t see herself with this Tinder man in any meaningful way, but the attention was flattering, and easy. Toward the end of her second martini, she began to feel like Mrs. Robinson. How old must Mrs. Robinson have been? Much older than thirty-five. In her late forties, at least, thought Emma, picturing Anne Bancroft in the film, her age indeterminate, a young and gorgeous Katharine Ross as Elaine. She was much older than me, thought Emma, looking at the bloom of smooth skin on the artist’s cheek, but I think I now know how she felt.

  “Want to come back to my place for a . . . coffee?” murmured the artist, after he had kissed her, at the bar, in full view of everyone, his tongue snaking into her mouth in a way that was both embarrassing and exciting.

  She knew that coffee was not on the agenda, and she nodded. Why not? It would be something new for her.

  Emma was not the sort of girl to have a one-night stand, had never, in fact, had a one-night stand. Emma was a good girl, a rule-follower. The only rule she had ever broken was not marrying Rufus. It was high time she did something unexpected.

  So, yes, she would go back with him; yes, she knew coffee would be forgotten once they walked into his loft; no, they didn’t have enormous chemistry. His kissing, in fact, was very . . . enthusiastic. Too enthusiastic. And wet. There was no buildup, no excitement, no anticipation; one minute his face was in front of hers, the next his tongue was plunging around her mouth. That’s okay, she thought; that didn’t mean the sex itself would be awful. Maybe it would be wonderful, despite the bad kissing. Why not have wonderful sex with someone young and handsome, and fun?

  She should have listened to her feelings about the kiss. For she soon learned, a bad kisser was not a good start. A rough, wet, overenthusiastic kisser meant a rough, wet, overenthusiastic everything.

  Emma did go back to his apartment, where he threw her on the bed in a way that he perhaps thought was dominant and sexy but was in fact the opposite. His tongue was too big, his touch too impersonal. There was no chemistry, and it was too late. Emma felt too guilty to get up and leave.

  It was, thankfully, quick. She spent the few minutes it lasted thinking about a pair of shoes she had passed on the way to meet him, wondering whether they would go with a white dress she had hanging in her closet. As soon as it was over he grabbed his iPhone from the nightstand and started reading texts. She watched as he hovered over the Tinder app, and she started laughing.

  “You’re actually going to swipe now? Seconds after you’ve finished having sex with someone?”

  At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. She left, vowing not to have regrets. She had tried Tinder, and clearly it was not for her. The sex was definitely not for her.

  Not long after, when she found herself out with a group of women, all talking about Tinder and their sexual escapades, she was gratified to discover she wasn’t alone. Most of them were disappointed, complained that sex was a commodity, felt disposable. There was no intimacy, they agreed, and worse, no pretense or effort at giving them pleasure.

  And yet these women kept doing it, addicted to the swiping, to being swiped, to the possibility that one of the swipes might, just might, turn into something more. Not necessarily a relationship but, at the very least, great sex.

  Not Emma, though. She deleted the app from her phone. No sex at all was better than selfish sex. She threw her energy into her work (and bought a small, discreet vibrator online).

  Until now. Until Dominic, who has made her heart smile these past few weeks. She hasn’t thought about him much, hasn’t allowed herself to think about him, because the two of them seemed so mismatched, from such different cultures and classes, but there is no question she has a warm glow of happiness whenever he is around.

  They have become friends, with an ease and openness that Emma isn’t quite sure she has experienced before. With that friendship, she has found herself looking at him, with something she refuses to recognize as lust.

  But it is lust. Oh God. It is definitely lust.

  He doesn’t stop looking at her as he moves inside her, Emma’s legs wrapped around his back, her hands moving over his arms, his shoulders, his chest. He dips his head to kiss her, over and over, smiling, watching her face as she feels an orgasm beginning to build, tipping her head back and moaning as the feelings overtake her body, as he allows himself to be overtaken with her.

  Afterward, as she lies in his arms, Dominic talks. He tells her stories about his family, his friends, his hopes and dreams.

  “I must go soon,” she whispers, and he nods, and keeps on talking. He is still talking when she falls asleep.

  FIFTEEN

  It takes Emma a while to orient herself. Her eyes are closed as she fights her way upward, out of the deepest of sleeps, with the vague awareness that something is different.

  Everything is different.

  The smell of the room is unfamiliar. She is pressed against something warm. Something breathing. Last night comes back to her in a flood, flashes of memories like Polaroids, flitting through her mind. The dinner. The kiss. The drive home. The strap of her dress being slipped off her shoulder. The hand moving . . . Oh! There is a flicker deep down as she gasps ever so slightly and opens her eyes.

  She didn’t mean to fall asleep in Dominic’s arms. She didn’t mean to spend the night in Dominic’s bed. She is pressed against him, or is he pressed against her? The two of them are in the mi
ddle of the bed, squeezed together. She can smell his cologne, the musky scent of his skin. She didn’t think she liked cologne, but Dominic always smells delicious, even when he is building shelves, and she sniffs deeply now, drinking him in.

  She wants to kiss him, to reach out and stroke him, but what if last night was a one-night stand? What if he wants nothing to do with her now? What if it is awkward, and awful, and they are not able to look at each other?

  Damn, she thinks. Why did I allow this to happen? Where am I going to live if it all goes horribly wrong?

  She turns her head and squeals in fright. Standing right by the side of the bed, up close, staring at her with narrowed eyes, is Jesse.

  Oh shit.

  She has no idea what to say. She wouldn’t have wanted Jesse to know they were more than friends. She wouldn’t have wanted him to know anything until she was sure there was anything to know.

  “Hey,” she whispers, pulling the covers up under her chin, attempting a natural smile as if it is completely normal to find the next-door neighbor in your father’s bed. “How did you sleep?”

  Oh God. Why did Jesse have to be standing here?

  “Are you okay?” she whispers, when he doesn’t answer. “We had a sleepover with your dad last night,” she says lamely. “We didn’t plan it but, obviously, I ended up staying over.”

  Jesse just stares at her.

  “Why don’t you have any clothes on?” he says eventually.

  “It was so hot,” she says. “I think maybe the air conditioning was broken. Was it hot in your room? No? It must just be in here, then. I do not want your father to see me with no clothes on, though. Would you mind passing me that dress on the floor over there so I can put something on before he wakes up?”

  Jesse squints at Emma, deciding whether to believe her, knowing, she suspects, that her story doesn’t quite add up, but eventually he gets the dress and throws it at her, quite unpleasantly she thinks, although she’s in no position to say anything.