The Nine Month Plan
Page 9
Now, as they push back their chairs and begin to clear the table, Joe marvels at how well they’ve kept the conversation going under the circumstances. But then, he and Nina can always find plenty to talk about.
They’ve jumped from the Yankees’ loss this afternoon to the humid weather to the latest news from the Middle East to whether any movie star actually deserves an eight-figure salary.
“Should we save this?” Nina asks, peering into the bowl of leftover pasta.
“Nah.”
“Oh, right. You never like to eat it the next day,” she says, and carries the bowl toward the kitchen. “You think leftover pasta tastes like mush.”
Joe follows her to the sink with both their plates. “Is there anything you don’t know about me, Nina?”
“Nope. I know everything,” she says, looking up at him with a grin.
“Not everything.”
“Oh, really? What don’t I know?”
“Plenty.”
“Such as?”
His arm brushes her elbow as he reaches past her to turn on the water, and his nostrils catch a whiff of rose-scented soap or shampoo.
Suddenly, remembering why she’s here on this particular night, Joe finds himself at a loss for words.
He busies himself stepping on the garbage can pedal to flip open the top. They scrape the food scraps in and Nina rinses the dishes in the sink.
It’s the good china his mother insisted on leaving behind when she moved.
“Take it, Ma,” Joe had urged her. “Take everything.”
“You keep it. You’ll want to entertain someday.”
Entertain? With linen and china? Who was she kidding?
At the time, Joe was certain he’d willingly eat off paper plates for the rest of his life. He figured that having the house to himself would mean never having to run the dishwasher, never having to drink milk from a glass instead of the carton, never using coasters.
But here he is, breaking out the Royal Albert Old Country Roses, the Waterford crystal, and the cloth napkins.
Which proves you just never know.
You never know when you’ll need to wine and dine a guest in style . . .
And you never know when your best friend is going to want to sleep with you so that she can have your baby.
Wow.
“Want any more wine?” Joe asks, as they return to the dining room.
There isn’t much left on the table, other than the wine bottle, their glasses, and the vase filled with the roses he bought for her.
“Sure, I’ll have more wine . . . why not?”
He fills her crystal goblet, and then his own, thankful that he went for the 1.5-liter bottle of Pinot Grigio, rather than the 750-milliliter size.
“Cheers.” Nina clinks her glass against his. “I guess I’d better enjoy this stuff while I can, right?”
“Hmm?” Joe drags his thoughts from what lies ahead, and the question of how, exactly, they’re going to get from here—the platonic dining room—to his bed.
“The wine. I won’t be able to drink liquor while I’m pregnant.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t know what else to say, struck by the enormity of the sacrifice she’s about to make for him. Not just the wine, but all of it. The pain, the morning sickness, the weight gain, the exhaustion . . .
“I don’t mind, really,” Nina goes on, gathering the cloth napkins and stray utensils and walking toward the kitchen again. “I mean, I can live without anything for a while, as long as I know it’s not permanent.”
Oh. Right. She’s still talking about giving up the Pinot Grigio. And she sounds a little—well, if not tipsy, then certainly more relaxed than she was when she got here.
Joe follows her back to the kitchen, carrying only his glass, and sipping his wine along the way.
“Take sex, Joey . . .”
“Huh? Take sex?” Joe echoes, and gulps his wine. Sex. Right. Tonight is about sex.
“Yeah, take sex.” She dumps the utensils in the sink, the napkins on the counter, and returns to the dining room.
He’s right at her heels.
“I’ve lived without sex for . . . well, let’s just say for longer than nine months,” she tells him candidly, picking up her own wineglass again. “And I’ve managed to survive.”
“Same here.”
“Really? So when was the last time that you . . . ?”
“It’s been at least a month.”
“A month? When you agreed with me, I thought you were saying it had been at least nine months for you, too.”
“Not nine months.” He shudders. “God, Nina, nine months is . . . it’s almost a year.”
“So what are you saying, Materi? That I must be an undesirable loser?”
“No! No, you’re . . .” He’s at a loss for words. Again.
Because she’s . . .
Not a loser, and certainly not undesirable.
No, she’s . . .
Well, actually, she’s the same.
Nina, tonight, is the same as she always is. Yet now that there’s this sizzling awareness between them, this anticipation, everything familiar feels different, somehow. Their banter, their teasing, their flirting—all of it has taken on a new dynamic, and Joe isn’t sure how he feels about that.
Nina narrows her eyes at him, her fingers twirling the stem of the wineglass. “So who was she, Joey?”
“Hmm?” he asks, though he knows very well what she means.
She gives an exaggerated sigh. “Who was the last hot patootie that you slept with?”
“Hot patootie?”
“Well, I’m sure she was no dog. Do I know her?”
“Trust me, you don’t know her, Nina.”
“So who was she?”
“Her name was Kim. We went out on a few dates. It was nothing serious.”
“What was she like?”
He shrugs. “She was nice. Sort of quiet. A paralegal.”
“No, I mean . . .”
“What?”
“What was she like? You know. In . . .”
“In bed?” He laughs. “Nina, what do you want? The intimate details?”
“No, I just . . . you know. I just want to know if she was . . .”
“A hard act to follow?”
“Well, gee, Joey, why not toss it right out there for discussion?” She shifts her weight, smiles, looks him in the eye.
Her nonchalance feels forced.
“You can relax, Nina. She wasn’t anything to write home about.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He wishes he could tell her more. Normally, he would tell her that with almost every woman he’s ever been with, it’s just been about sex. That whenever he wakes up in the morning with a woman by his side, it always seems to feel wrong, somehow—she’s always the wrong woman, and being with her, whoever she is, feels wrong.
But he doesn’t elaborate. Not tonight. Not under these circumstances. Not when his old pal Nina, in whom he regularly confides about his love life, is about to become his lover.
A lover only in the most physical sense of the word, and only temporarily, of course. Nonetheless—
“Joey?”
“Hmm?” He finds her staring at him, wearing a bemused expression.
“How the heck are we going to do this?”
He laughs. “Do you want a blow-by-blow plan of action?”
She doesn’t laugh. “No, I just . . . I just don’t know . . .”
“We don’t have to,” he reminds her. “We don’t have to do it, Nina. We can just forget the whole thing. We can make popcorn and go into the living room and turn on the game and—”
“No! No, I want to do this. I want to be pregnant. You want a child. It’s the ri
ght thing. I just don’t want it to change anything.”
“Between you and me? It won’t change anything, Nina. You’re my best friend. My best woman, remember? Sex is just sex. And hey, it didn’t change anything between us before. Not in the long run.”
“I guess not.” She exhales shakily. “But you still haven’t told me what you—how we’re going to . . . I mean, are we just going to march upstairs and do it?”
He can’t help laughing at her blunt suggestion. “It doesn’t have to be that clinical, Nina.”
“I know. I just don’t want it to be . . . awkward.”
Suddenly, struck by the vulnerability in her eyes, he no longer feels like laughing.
“It won’t be,” he says softly. “It might even be . . .”
“What?” She sounds breathless.
“It might even be . . .” Joe reaches out and brushes her errant bangs back from her face.
Hell. He wants to kiss her. Not on the cheek. Not lightly on the lips the way he has on many a New Year’s Eve.
No, he wants to kiss her.
This is Nina, he reminds himself. Nina.
He allows his gaze to drift over the graceful line of her neck, the swell of her breasts against her white cotton blouse, the curve of her toned legs beneath her short summer skirt.
He can feel himself stirring to arousal. His instinct is to quell the sensation.
No.
No, tonight, it’s okay. Tonight, he’s supposed to be attracted to Nina.
And so, for once, he welcomes the quiver of lust in his belly; the pleasurable tension in his lower body.
He raises his head and their eyes collide.
“Whoa. Nina . . .”
“You feel something?”
He nods.
“I feel something too, Joey.” Her voice is hushed.
“Nina, I . . . you’re . . . tonight, you’re just . . . there’s something about you that’s making me want you like crazy.”
“I feel the same way about you—tonight,” she adds, almost self-consciously. “I guess it’s a good thing that we—”
“Stop talking, Nina.”
“Why?”
“Because I have to kiss you,” he says, and bends his head toward her.
BEING KISSED BY Joe fifteen years ago was good.
Being kissed by Joe now is shockingly, mind-numbingly better.
So much so that Nina’s limbs turn to al dente linguine the moment his lips meet hers.
Who’d have thought Joe Materi is capable of kissing like this?
The first thing he does right is to cup her face in his hands. Nina wonders, fleetingly, if she ever told him how important it is for a man to do that. She doesn’t recall ever giving Joe kissing pointers, but she must have. How else would he just know exactly how she likes to be kissed?
Hmm.
Mmmmmm . . .
Joe seems to have learned this all on his own.
His lips are soft but not too soft, moist but not too moist. He doesn’t slip his tongue in until she encourages him by opening her mouth against his.
Desire stirs within Nina as he deepens the kiss with a groan.
She allows her fingers to thread through his hair. His hands wander down to her shoulders and then around her, pulling her closer.
Pressing the length of her body against his, Nina is lost in exquisite sensation.
He tears his mouth from hers long enough to ask, “Want to go upstairs?”
She nods blindly.
He takes her hand and leads her through the dusk-shadowed house, not pausing to turn on lamps along the way. His fingers are laced warmly through hers, a contact that strikes her as profoundly romantic.
Holding hands. Such a simple act of intimacy. Such a sweet thing: holding hands with Joe.
Has Nina ever held hands with Joe before? She combs her memory. Occasionally. Square dancing in gym class. Doing the Tarantella at family weddings. At Sunday mass, when Father Tom asks the parishioners to join hands during the Our Father.
But always in public. Never in a romantic way.
So why does she feel so comfortable now, as though she’s held hands with Joe all her life?
Why does she feel, when they reach the upstairs hall, as though she’s come home?
This is familiar and foreign territory at once.
Nina spent a good part of her childhood chasing up and down these stairs, dashing in and out of Joe’s boyhood bedroom.
Now, when he pushes the door open, she expects to see the worn denim blue quilt, the row of baseball trophies, the Don Mattingly and Dave Winfield posters.
She is taken aback by a new version of Joe’s room.
The twin mattress and box spring have given way to a queen-sized bed with a mission-style headboard. The desk where they worked on countless school projects has been replaced by an armoire containing a television entertainment system. The built-in bookshelves still line the wall beside the lone window, but the Hardy Boys have been replaced by Grisham and Crichton. No more blue and white ticking-striped wallpaper, nor matching curtains, just muted paint and masculine shades.
She turns to him. “It looks different.”
“Well, I’m a grown-up now,” he says softly, taking her into his arms again.
He kisses her again, and again. He kisses her until she’s weak-kneed; he kisses her until she’s weak with need.
They find their way to the bed. Nina sinks back into the billowing down comforter. It’s soft, so soft; she has a vague memory of Joe telling her not so long ago that he had bought a featherbed mattress.
Funny how the details of their everyday friendship continue to surface, past mingling with present.
Joe trails leisurely kisses along the nape of her neck, then begins unfastening the buttons of her blouse.
A box fan whirs lazily in the window, wafting the humid night air around them.
There was a warm breeze that night, too—that fated June midnight. Nina closes her eyes, feeling tendrils of hair blowing softly against her cheeks, seeing Joe as he was then . . .
Twenty-one and broken-hearted, drinking champagne straight from the bottle. He would pass it to her, and she would sip and pass it back, as they sat on swings in the deserted park playground, legs dangling, voices hushed. . .
Joe’s mouth is on hers, his fingers still working the buttons on her blouse. She can feel the length of his body, his masculine arousal.
He kissed me first, that night. I had my arms around him, trying to comfort him, talking about Minnie, and then he just moved his face a few inches closer and he kissed me. . .
Joe’s tongue caresses her; he tastes of sweet Pinot Grigio.
She could smell the wedding champagne mingling with cinnamon gum on his breath; knew that they were both a little too drunk and a little too shell-shocked to be thinking clearly. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that kissing Joe felt right. . .
Pushing her blouse aside, Joe encounters the white lace lingerie.
“Wow,” he says in a low voice. “You’re wearing this for me?”
She smiles. “I’m wearing it just for you, Joey.”
“Not for long.” He slips the satin straps down over her shoulders. Nina moans as his warm mouth laps her breast.
Has she subconsciously craved this for all these years? Has she been wildly attracted to Joe and not even been aware of it?
“I’ve always wondered what this would be like, what you would be like, Nina,” he murmured, when they were lying in the damp summer grass, undressing each other in the moonlight, secluded by a clump of trees. . .
No. No, she isn’t doing this for purely selfish reasons. Not just because she wants Joe to make love to her, or just because this is her last chance to experience pregnancy and childbirth.
Nina’s hands find their way under his shirt to roam over taut shoulder muscles cloaked in warm skin.
Joe slowly moves the lace teddy down to her toes, taking the time to caress her breasts, her hips, her legs; pausing to kiss her again and again, and to nuzzle the rose tattoo low on her hip.
“Have you wondered, Nina, about me, too?” Joe whispered, and she didn’t know how to answer. He was her best friend’s boyfriend, then fiancé. He belonged to Minnie, was at that very moment supposed to be spending his wedding night with Minnie.
But now Minnie was gone, most likely for good, leaving a gaping hole in both their lives.
And Nina was struck by the realization that maybe she had been attracted to Joe all along, and the attraction had been shrouded by the platonic confines of friendship, until now. . .
Joe hurriedly sheds his own clothes, lowers himself over her, their bodies melding perfectly together. He is against her and then he is inside of her, his breath hot against her neck.
She wasn’t going to tell him, even after she realized it. But then, when the initial stab of discomfort had subsided and her body had adjusted to his rhythms, she was caught up in the wonder of making love.
The words just spilled out of her somehow, whispered against his sweaty, straining neck muscles. “Yes, Joey, yes. I’ve always wondered what it would be like with you.”
He lifted his head and his eyes flew open, as though he was startled—by her belated answer to his question, or by her mere presence, or by the abrupt eruption that she, in her inexperience, didn’t realize was his climax. . .
This time, his eyes are open, his gaze pressing into hers as he moves above her. This is not the frenetic pace of a young man’s maiden voyage into adult passion, but the languid lovemaking of a grown man as caught up in her pleasure as in his own.
Looking up into his familiar brown eyes, Nina glimpses something she has never seen before: a raw intensity that catches her off guard. With that, all that is purely physical in the act seems to give way to a profound spiritual connection.