* * *
I tried napping but felt jittery all morning. I paced my small living room, trying to find one thing to focus on, but my head swirled with everything going on.
My job’s in jeopardy.
I’m sleeping with the married consultant hired to make that decision.
Oh, and Davis is back and who knows what he’s planning to do.
It was after noon when I fell onto my couch with an exasperated sigh and stared at my ceiling. I’d woken up feeling like I had things in my grasp, and after learning Jake was married, I was questioning everything again. My phone buzzed, and I glanced at it. Jake had texted a few times that morning, but I hadn’t replied, and I considered not responding to any future messages. I looked at my phone again, though. Ignoring it was what old Naya would do, so I thought about the list and mentally added Demand answers. This time, I opened his message.
Jake: I wish you were here. Want to crash the bridal party photos?
Naya: How could you not tell me you’re married?
The dots indicating he was typing moved and then stopped, started again and then disappeared. I waited an entire two minutes, which felt like an eternity, watching the dots bounce and disappear.
Jake: I’m sorry. Will you let me explain?
Naya: Why should I?
Jake: You probably shouldn’t, but will you give me a chance anyway?
I’d risen to my feet, pacing as I thought of a response. I didn’t want to let him explain. I’d made promises to myself about not putting up with liars, about cutting manipulators out of my life. I hadn’t expected Jake to fall into either of those categories, but it looked like he might fall into both.
Jake: You don’t have to forgive me. I just want to apologize in person for hurting you.
I bit my lower lip, resolve chipping away.
Twenty-one
I opened the door to Jake in his tux. His jaw was smooth, though his expression was frantic.
“I’m sorry.” The words spilled out and brought my attention back to the moment. “I’m married. But only legally. We’ve been separated for over a year, I swear.”
I avoided eye contact with him, glancing at my feet instead. It wasn’t fine. I stepped aside to let him in—seeing him in person was probably a mistake, because my body still reacted to him as if nothing had changed. “I overheard you talking in the hall this morning.”
“Shit.” He reached for my hand, his fingers grazing my wrist, and I recoiled. His shoulders slumped a little, his eyes wide. “Ten minutes. Please, let me at least explain.”
I didn’t want to care about his explanation, but I couldn’t shake how he’d made me feel the last few days. “Fine. Ten minutes,” I said with a tilt of my head, inviting him in.
Pushover.
I searched for similarities to Davis, scrutinizing the cut of his jaw and the shift of his eyes as he spoke, looking for tells that he was lying, looking for evidence he wasn’t worth it.
“We were married for six years, and then I found out she was having an affair with our neighbor.” Jake glanced away. “Her family . . . her parents are like the Cleavers and really conservative. She begged me to keep the real reason for our split from them. I didn’t do it for her, but they would have been hurt by the truth, mortified, and I didn’t want to do that to them. They’d become my family, too.” His voice dipped low, and I thought I saw a flash of something across his face. Bitterness? Anger? Loss?
“So you let them think it was you? They must hate you.”
He nodded with a sigh. “I’m not very popular with them, but I could never do something to drive a wedge between her and her parents.” He ran his fingers through his hair, puffing out a large breath.
His words spilled out, one on top of the other. “The divorce is almost final. I was as close with her brother as with my own sisters, and even though Gretchen and I separated, he still wanted me to be in his wedding. It was probably a bad idea.”
“You’re in your ex-wife’s brother’s wedding? Sounds . . . It sounds a little hard to believe. You didn’t even tell me you’d been married.” My voice was small, smaller than I wanted it to be because rage and shame tangled in my chest.
He rubbed his palms to his eyes. “Ugh, yes.” He shook his head. “It sounds like a lie, but it’s true. I swear. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” He spoke fast, his expression pinched and his brow wrinkling. “I should have. I just . . . We met at a bar. I didn’t want to be that guy, the guy with baggage. I didn’t think it mattered. It was only a drink, then just one night, and now . . .”
We sat in silence for a minute or two, and I thought about baggage.
He nudged my foot with his. “Are you kicking me out?”
“Not yet.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “It’s not like we’re . . . I mean it’s just a few days.”
He took my hands in his, and I dared a glance at his face. He was staring at me again. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“I thought about you all day, too. I mean, I was furious, but still . . .”
He didn’t respond immediately, and we sat in silence. “Sounds fair.” His long fingers stroked up my back, rubbing the nape of my neck. “Are you still furious?”
“I’m breaking so many rules with you. I want to be furious.”
He nodded, the hint of a smile curving on his lips. “But . . . ?”
“I have no reason to believe you . . . except that I do.” I wasn’t sure if I was a pushover destined to be lied to or if he was special. Maybe both.
He’d said he didn’t want to be the guy with baggage, and I was hiding a full set behind my walls.
“In the last few days,” he said, his voice still low and solemn, “I’ve been more myself with you than I have with anyone in a long time. Can we still have one more night?”
I wanted to tell him not to lie to me again, but what kind of unreal hypocrisy was that? I nodded, lifting my chin to meet his eyes. “One more night.”
Twenty-two
The faint smell of sandalwood filled my nostrils, and I pressed my face into the soft surface of my pillow. Slowly, awareness knitted together around me, and I smiled before my eyes opened. Jake’s face was inches from mine, and the heat from his body made me crave more contact with his skin. He gazed at me from under impossibly thick eyelashes. How long had he been watching me sleep? God, those eyes. The window behind him showed a flat gray sky, no trace of sunshine on our last hours together. Fitting.
“Good morning.”
At the sound of his gravelly morning voice, heat rose on my cheeks and spread across my chest as the memories from the night before flooded back. The feel of his hands and mouth, and how he’d looked at me like a crystal clear deluge.
I rubbed my eyes, stifling a yawn. “What time is it?”
“It’s after eight.” His voice was raspy and just above a whisper. “I woke up maybe an hour ago.”
Under the blanket, his finger touched mine. It was a tiny, soft gesture, the smallest point of contact—a sweet reconnection. “But I didn’t want to leave you yet,” he added.
When he spoke, images of squirming toddlers and reading the paper together in bed ran unbidden through my mind. Pull it together, heart.
I admired the line of his biceps cradled beneath his head and changed the subject. “Was I interesting while I slept?”
“Very.” A second finger met mine under the blankets.
“Talking? Something sultry and mysterious?”
“No.” He grinned. “Just snoring.”
My expression must have been one of horror, because he laughed.
“Don’t make that face. It was cute.”
“Oh, God. Really?” I raised my hands to cover my face. “That’s so embarrassing.” Maybe my next career move will be writing a book titled How to Fail at Flirting and Still Get Laid
.
“No,” he reassured me, a smile in his voice. “It was sweet. A sexy snore, even.” He touched my arm, trying to tug my fingers from over my face.
“I’m going to go hide in the bathroom,” I moaned. I turned to climb out of bed, realizing I was naked and I would have to walk the short distance across the room. Jake must have seen my brow furrow; the mattress dipped as he shifted.
“Here,” he said, handing me his white shirt. “But will you promise to come back if I rescind my snoring comment?”
After I pulled the shirt over my head, I walked across the room, feeling his gaze on me. I could get used to pulling on his shirts in the morning. I smiled over my shoulder, sweetly. “We’ll see.” As I walked, my muscles protested, sore from last night’s workout, and with each step I remembered the ways we’d contorted our bodies on the bed, in the shower, up against the wall. I groaned and then gaped at my reflection in the mirror—my hair was going in every direction and my lips were swollen. I looked happy, too, a small grin pasted onto my face when I remembered the look on his face when I’d woken up. He heard me snoring and still didn’t want to leave. I was sick at the thought of never kissing him again. And that isn’t going to work, girl, because he’s leaving . . . and he’s married . . . and he’s career suicide.
I washed my hands and tried to flatten my hair with my palms, which was as successful as my attempt at getting my emotions back in check—both ended up just as messy for my trying.
I took a deep breath and returned to the room, gripping the hem of the T-shirt and tugging it down.
Jake was sitting on the edge of the bed when I emerged. His hair was mussed, and he smiled, brows lifting. “I like you in my clothes, but you know, I’ve seen you naked a few times now.”
“I know . . . It’s different in daylight.” Stop being so awkward.
“Do you want me to go?” The way his eyes locked with mine, I felt exposed far beyond my body. I didn’t know how one glance could communicate that or could scare me in a way that made my heart jump.
“No!” I walked toward him, letting go of the hem of his shirt. “No, I don’t want you to go. I’m just bad at . . . flirting and being cute. Can we start over?”
He tilted his head, the smile returning to his lips. “Good morning, Naya.” He gripped my waist and pulled me between his spread knees. The skin on his shoulders was smooth and lightly freckled, the muscles solid under my palms.
“Good morning, Jake.”
His smile widened when I said his name, and my anxiety tapered off.
“You seem nervous,” he said, looking up at me, his thumbs rubbing small circles over my hip bones. “And, for the record, I think you’re incredibly skilled at being cute.”
I didn’t answer and, instead, changed the subject. “How did things go yesterday with your—um—with Gretchen?” I couldn’t bring myself to say wife, especially after hearing their conversation yesterday morning.
“As awkward as you’d expect, but it’s over, and I don’t have to see her for a while.”
My heart squeezed at his earnest expression.
“You still believe me, right? I swear it’s over. I’m not cheating. I would never.”
“I believe you.” I threaded my fingers into his hair, scraping my nails along his scalp the way he liked.
A low moan escaped his lips, and his thumbs stopped their circling to migrate down to my thighs.
“You get on a plane in six hours,” I said, voice breathy.
His mouth was a resigned line as he stroked my backside, then pulled me against him, still kneading in a teasing and delicious way.
I couldn’t help but wonder what the line of his mouth meant. What do I want it to mean? “I’ve only got two or three hours to make sure you don’t forget me,” I said.
I took in the look on his face, to store the details. No matter how much I wanted this to be more, I knew it couldn’t.
“Naya, I’m not going to forget you. What if—”
I kissed him, a hungry, deep kiss that stopped his words but didn’t quiet my thoughts. Don’t give me the option of “if.”
Jake’s tongue rolling with mine, the firm grip of his hands on my body, his arousal, undeniable between us—I cataloged it all, knowing I’d want to recall every moment later when I returned to the closed comfort of my office. Somewhere between waking and climbing on top of him, I’d tried to convince myself that my work would sustain me. If I kept telling myself I didn’t need silly jokes and soft touches and kisses that left me breathless if I had my research and my teaching, would I begin to believe it? I knew it was no use. No amount of hoping would change who he was or who I was, so I memorized how it felt to live this kind of life, and when we pulled apart, I cupped the side of his face. “Three hours.”
A doleful expression crossed his features before he dipped his head to kiss down my neck. “I know.”
Twenty-three
Green umbrellas shaded the coffee shop’s patio, which was the ideal location to meet Aaron and work. I’d submitted an article to a top journal about the use of computer games in teaching math, especially for students whose first language was not English. I’d been hopeful, but staring at page after page of harsh critique from the reviewers, I wondered where I would even begin revising it.
“Why do you look so angry?” Aaron returned from inside the shop holding a disposable coffee cup. He was in a suit, having just come from a job interview, and I wasn’t used to him looking so dignified. His first teaching job had been in one of the city’s underfunded, overburdened public high schools, and after spending a few years in the lily-white, elite, suburban private school where he worked now, he wanted to go back.
“What? I’m not angry.” I looked up from a particularly scathing question about the necessity of studying math development in immigrant children. I wasn’t sure why I lied—I was furious at the thinly veiled racism in the comments. I’d gotten so used to hiding when I was upset that it had become second nature. “Okay, I’m a little angry, but I’m just trying to make sense of these comments on this article.”
“Can you ignore them?”
I could, but the reviews were anonymous, and I had no idea what weight that person held. I wanted a few more publications under my belt before I submitted my tenure application. I had a lot, but I preferred to leave no room for doubt. I shook my head, minimizing the window. I could go back to it when I returned to my office.
I’d been cloistered there for the last two weeks since Jake went home. Those days had been back to normal—I woke early and went for a run, worked most of the day, and relaxed at home alone in the evening. The only thing that was different was me eyeing the clock. For the first time in a long time, I admitted to myself that spending every day in my tightly regimented bubble was unsatisfying. I thought I’d have my little tryst and get it out of my system, but I kept thinking about Jake. Jake’s scent. Jake’s hands. Jake’s laugh. Jake’s job and the giant, conflict-of-interest-sized hole Jake had the potential to punch through my career.
To do: Find more writing projects to keep my mind busy. In my head, I crossed that out. To do: Figure out how to make money from writing if I lose my job. Again, I made a mental adjustment. To do: Figure out how to make money stripping when I lose my job. Side note: Ask Aaron’s mom.
I chuckled to myself in my head as Aaron drank his coffee and checked his watch.
The afternoon sun would give way to backed-up traffic soon. “Have to go?”
He shrugged. “Soon, but Felicia told me about that guy, that married one. It’s like you’re in the middle of a romance or a porno or something. What gives?”
“You’re the ones who gave me the list!”
“I didn’t think you’d check everything off in one night. I didn’t think you’d use it at all.”
“I guess I can still surprise you. And, for the record, he’s getting divorced.�
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Aaron nodded. “And . . . ?”
“He was nice. I had fun. It was . . .” I struggled for the right phrase, words I was uncomfortable with already rising in my throat.
Paradigm altering. Hands down, the best week of my life. Real. Earth-shattering.
“It was unexpected, but it was nice.”
“Gonna see him again?”
Jake’s expression from that last morning stuck in my memory. It had held a flash of sadness. In that moment, I’d wondered if we should try for something more, but it was impossible, so I told him to look for me the next time he was in a woo-hoo girl wedding. Then we’d laughed, he’d kissed me again, we said goodbye, and that was it.
“No, it was just one of those things. You know my life. I don’t have time for that, and, besides, it was a no-strings thing. It would be a bad idea with work, anyway.”
“Have you ever done a no-strings thing?”
“I guess I have now. I think of it like an extended one-night stand. A one-week stand.”
Aaron cocked an eyebrow. “You, my friend, did not do no-strings or any kind of stand. You ended up in a weeklong love affair.” Aaron gave me a pointed look before checking his phone again and grimacing at the time. “I better get outta here. See you later?”
After he left, I sipped my iced hazelnut latte and glanced at my laptop. I could search for Jake. It wouldn’t be hard to find his company’s website. I had the photo of us on my phone, but my fingers itched to click around, to collect more crumbs. I shook my head and instead opened a different project, a book chapter I wanted to polish before submitting. As I read through a paragraph, wincing at my clumsy first draft, my phone buzzed with a notification.
Jake: Hi.
My heart rate sped up, and I stared at the simple message. I’d spent more time than I was ready to admit to reading old text exchanges, refreshing the app needlessly. I would chastise myself for being pathetic and then check my phone again for new messages. I’d been the one to clarify a few days was all we had. Of course, not five minutes after reminding myself that I’d made it clear we were only for those few days, I had returned to my phone.
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