by Kelly Rimmer
I want to rail at her—to call her out on the blatant lie. Maybe she’s at peace with her decision to leave, but she’ll never convince me it didn’t hurt like hell to do it. I can see it in her eyes—in her smile—in the way her curls seemed weighed down, for God’s sake. Isabel looks every bit as tired and drained by this year as I know I do.
I’m trying to think of a way to respond to her without using the words “cruel” or “fuck,” and Isabel is staring out at the ocean, seemingly at ease. But then she turns to me, and I realize she’s actually battling tears.
“Why am I so awful now? I kept saying shit like that at mediation, too, and then we were always fighting and...we never fought before, did we? And why would I do it now, when we’re suddenly getting along?”
She chokes on a sudden sob, and I don’t know what to do. I’m still bracing myself in case her mood swings back to vicious, but even so, I want to reach to comfort her, and that’s against the rules now.
“Maybe I just can’t let myself think about the good times yet,” she whispers now, and the hurt and disappointment on her face hurt me just as much as the god-awful comments that preceded them.
We stare at each other for a minute, and then she looks away to stare at her shoes. “This was a stupid idea.”
“Shit, Isabel,” I breathe, but my voice breaks midway through her name.
She looks hesitantly toward me. I’m still winded by her cruelty and there’s no way I can hide it. I don’t even want to hide it, because I would go on the defensive again and that would lead to me being angry and...
It’s an endlessly awful cycle.
Anger begets anger. Hatred begets hatred. And the one thing that’s worked to break that cycle this year has been me waking up half drunk and forgetting to be defensive. I can’t ignore that lesson. This is an odd, tense reunion, but in some strange way, the world seems to have righted itself a little tonight, even though my once-lovely ex-wife apparently has a hidden talent for intense cruelty. I knock the back of my head gently against the cold metal of the streetlight while I try to make sense of it all.
“I’ll go—” she says now, and I can see her shifting, as if she’s going to stand.
I reach to touch her arm gently. “Don’t.”
“But—” Her voice is still wobbly, so I exhale, sit up and tentatively slide my arm around her shoulders. I’m tense—mostly because there’s a very real chance that she’s going to elbow me in the balls. I’m almost surprised when she doesn’t. Instead, she relaxes just a little into my embrace.
I squeeze her shoulders, and then I whisper gently into her ear, “Just stay and talk to me. It was just a bad moment, but if we stay here, we can push past it and I know we’ll be glad we did.”
She squeezes her eyes closed, and I can almost see the battle playing out in her mind. I don’t even know why I want her to stay—apparently even a civil conversation with Isabel these days is like playing Russian roulette.
When she pulls away from me, I think she’s about to storm off, but instead, she looks right at me and she blurts, “I didn’t think I had the power to hurt you, Paul.”
I don’t know what to say to that. She couldn’t be more wrong, but the fact that she’s managed to draw that conclusion is probably my own fault for holding her at arm’s length when things between us began to strain. I desperately want to avoid her gaze right now, but I will not allow myself to retreat.
Instead, I look right at her. “You did. You still do. You always will.”
She swallows hard as she looks back to the pier.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Paul
WE FALL INTO silence after that, as if we both want to stay but we’re too scared to try to converse. We simply sit side by side, watching the water as the sun sets and the darkness takes hold. We pass the wine back and forth occasionally, but neither one of us is taking more than tentative sips. The food, on the other hand, all but evaporates as we both tuck in like we haven’t eaten for months.
I find that I actually like sitting with her; even in silence, even with the emotional distance between us. There’s something both familiar and alien about this moment, but it’s strangely comforting and I don’t want it to end.
However, it’s getting late, and while we really should go back to the house to get out of the increasingly cool breeze that’s now coming off the water, my mind starts flicking forward to ways to stay. That means I’m well and truly ready with a response when Isabel says suddenly, “It’s colder down here than I realized.”
I automatically sit up to slip out of my jacket.
“Oh, don’t do that... Paul, I wasn’t hinting for that—”
“I’m still drunk enough that I can’t feel a thing,” I lie as I pass her the jacket.
Isabel pulls it around herself and a flush steals over her cheeks. She glances at me, almost shyly, and murmurs her thanks.
“It swims on you.”
“But I’m sure it still looks fabulous. Black is definitely my color, right?” she says wryly. There’s Funny Isabel—I miss Funny Isabel. She’s so much more endearing than Bitter Isabel.
“You look good in any color,” I say impulsively, but I do mean it.
Isabel blinks, apparently shocked by the compliment, and then she tries to deflect it. “It’s the hair,” she says, with unconvincing and clearly artificial confidence. She flicks her hair off her shoulders and flashes a duck face in my direction like a fourteen-year-old Instagram star. “I could look good in a burlap sack.”
“You could,” I whisper, and then I have no idea what comes over me, but with what’s left of the bottle of wine caught between my legs, I push myself out of my semi-recline against the streetlight and I cup both sides of her face in my hands.
She’s staring up at me, and she’s really here—Isabel, my beautiful, magnificent wife. She was the best thing in my life, and then she was gone. Somehow, she’s right back here and it feels too good to be real. Maybe that’s why it’s easy for me to speak freely—to tell her exactly what I’m thinking, just like I should have done every time my heart was full during all of those wonderful wasted moments over all of those wonderful years.
“You’re beautiful, Isabel. You’re perfect, actually. Whatever happens after tonight, just promise me you won’t ever forget it.”
She’s startled—her hand is still in midair near her shoulder—but she’s holding her breath and her eyes are huge.
I’m not going to kiss her. Holding her hand was stupid—an old habit, nothing more—but kissing her, well, that would be a disaster.
But our faces are getting closer. I don’t exactly know how that’s happening since I’m telling my body not to move and I’m pretty sure that Isabel shouldn’t be moving either, but...our lips are now almost touching.
Don’t you dare kiss her, Winton.
She wets her lips, and her breath catches. The anticipation is delicious for her, too. The instant I realize this, I’m lost.
I kiss her gently, but as I do, I’m waiting for her to push me away furiously—which she should, and I know I deserve it because this is insane. And at first, she doesn’t kiss me back—she is completely still—but she’s also relaxed and her lips are soft against mine as they even fall open just a little. I lean into the kiss like I’m sinking into a glorious daydream, reliving the best moments of my life as I pull her closer to me. But this is really happening; I can taste wine and salt on her lips. I can taste my Isabel, and oh God, I’ve missed her in ways I haven’t even let myself acknowledge over all of these months since she left.
And then, something switches, and Isabel is kissing me back—hard, every movement of her mouth against mine a declaration of a longing every bit as intense as my own. Soon her arms are around my neck, pulling me firmly against her. As if I could ever want to escape. My hands contract, I’m impatient to feel more of her skin. If we were back at th
e house, I’d be tearing her clothes off, but we aren’t and so I do use some restraint. She’s well sheltered by the oversize jacket, so I lift the bottom of her T-shirt and stroke the taut skin of her stomach and back, leading upward to the clasp on her bra. I unclip it easily, and she releases her breath in a hiss against my mouth.
We both open our eyes at the very same moment. We’re on the same page like that; years of living together and making love will do that to a couple. We can read each other’s bodies and minds when it comes to sex now—it’s the bodily equivalent of finishing one another’s sentences. Maybe for some couples, familiarity leads to boredom, but for me, it led to comfort and security and a depth of love I didn’t even know I was capable of before her.
“This is such a stupid idea,” she whispers, but the depths of her blue eyes are dark with desire and I know that she’s no more put off by this realization than I am. That’s why I have no hesitation at all in agreeing with her.
“Possibly the worst idea anyone ever had,” I whisper back, and I slide my hand from beneath the soft fabric of her T-shirt to run my thumb over her lower lip.
She stares at me, her eyes wide and her pupils dilated. “We should stop this right now and go back. To our own beds.”
“We definitely should.” I’m still whispering, too scared to speak normally in case I break this spell.
“We’re not going to, though, are we?” Isabel asks suddenly. She’s daring me to talk her out of this, and I’m apparently foolhardy but I’m not a masochist.
“Well, I do think we should go back to the house.” I keep my voice low as I glance over her shoulder. “Especially since there’s a family over there trying to eat their dinner and I’m not sure the mother appreciates the show we’ve just given them.”
Bel turns back to the family with a gasp, then looks down at her shirt. It’s bunched up just below her breasts, and underneath it, her bra is still over her shoulders but loose because I undid the clasp.
I chuckle and pull the jacket closed, then zip it up. “Better?”
“Not really.”
I scan her face, then dip my gaze to the bottle of wine resting in the grass beside us. It’s still more than half full. I’m relieved because if we’re doing this, it’s not going to be some drunken mistake. Maybe it’s going to be a sober mistake, but we won’t be able to blame the wine.
“So. What are we going to do, Isabel?”
She hesitates a moment, then she leans forward and kisses me again.
“This is just one of those ‘for old times’ sake’ fucks, right?” she whispers against my lips.
“Is that a thing?”
“I think so,” she whispers, just as I think, I hope so. I climb to my feet and reach down to help her up, and when she’s standing, too, I contract my fingers around hers.
“Then let’s go.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Isabel
IN THE ORDINARY course of growing up and making my way to adulthood, I made plenty of mistakes. My mom would say I made more than my share of them. I always thought the important thing was to learn from my mistakes so I’d never repeat them.
But now, even as we’re traveling back to the house in the back of the cab, I already know I’m going to regret what I’m about to do. That’s why I’m trying to talk myself out of it, because when you know you’re going to regret something deeply, you should just not do it, right?
But I want to.
Okay. I’ll make a mental list of all the reasons why I shouldn’t sleep with Paul.
1. He let me walk away without so much as a fight.
2. Maybe he’s not in a relationship, but we never went more than a few days without sex, so him waiting for ten months as a single man? Not a chance. Does that matter? It shouldn’t, but I feel like it does.
3. See point 1, and remember that mediation? He couldn’t be bothered fighting for me, but he had plenty of energy to fight for his stupid house. Seriously. I hate him so much.
4. See point 2. I hate that (those? Oh God) other woman so much.
5. I really want to.
6. He’s looking seriously good at the moment.
7. I haven’t run my hands over those muscles on his shoulders and arms yet, and to do so, I need to get him naked, and if I do that, we’re going to sleep together anyway, so why fight the inevitable?
9. Wait, wasn’t this a list of reasons not to sleep with Paul? And what happened to point 8?
I’m not drunk—not drunk on wine, anyway. I threw the bottle in the bin as we left the waterfront and was surprised to see how little we’d consumed. Instead, I’m caught in some bizarre dreamlike state that makes it very difficult to think clearly. It’s the surreal nature of this moment, I think.
I’m not at all equipped to deal with the confusing reality that it feels good to be here with him right now, like relief and happiness and coming home and a reprieve all at once. It’s his scent and the warmth of his hand in mine and the fact that I forgot about this. I forgot how easy it was before it wasn’t easy anymore, and how good it was before it stopped being good, and I have a feeling in an hour’s time I’m going to be thinking and I forgot how great the sex was, although right now, I’m rather enjoying my own efforts to remember that even before he reminds me.
We leave the cab and cross the front lawn toward the house...toward privacy, and I know what’s going to happen once we close that front door behind us. That’s why, with every step I take, I’m more and more aroused.
I try to remind myself that nothing has changed. Sex was never the problem for us, it was everything else, and everything else matters. The thought of that is like ice water on my long-neglected libido and I have a moment of startling clarity among the raging hormones just as we step up onto the front porch.
“Paul,” I say urgently, and even in the darkness, I see his face fall at my tone.
“So close.” He sighs, and he releases my hand.
“We can’t do this,” I say.
“Okay,” he says. He turns to face me and offers me a sad smile.
“I...” I reach a hand up to touch his cheek, because I’m wavering again already. He steps away from me, giving a frustrated groan as he goes. I miss him the second the contact is gone, and maybe that’s why I can admit the truth to myself for the first time in a long time.
I have missed this man. I’ve missed him for years—since even before I left him, because he was slipping away from me long before that. And maybe, just for tonight, I want to ease that missing and longing.
Nothing has changed and nothing is fixed, but what was always good was the sex, and I want to enjoy that again. Paul’s gaze is still dark with desire. He runs his gaze from my face to my hand—outstretched toward him again, and he shakes his head sharply.
“Don’t play games with me, Isabel. Do you want this or not? I promise you that either answer is completely fine. It’s just pretty messed up to give me both in the same breath.”
It’s two steps to catch up to him. When I do, I throw my arms around his neck.
“Fuck it,” I say, and then I reach up and I kiss him, deeply.
He breaks our mouths apart to whisper against my lips, “You’re sure? You have to be sure. If you’re not 100 percent sure, let’s just go inside and go to our own rooms. I promise you, I’m okay with that.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “Are you going to talk me out of this now?”
“Fuck no.”
And then he’s cupping my head in his hands and kissing me back, and I can’t get close enough—I want to shred those stupid trendy clothes right off his stupid hot body and mount him here, exposed on the front porch. But common sense prevails. We’re still kissing, but Paul somehow has the key in his hand and he opens the door without letting me go.
“Nice,” I whisper, but then I squeal as he lifts me into his arms and kicks the door
closed. It’s ten steps to the sofa, where Paul carefully sits me down.
“Here?” I squeak, and he nods and lifts his shirt over his head. I reach up to his shoulders, but he brushes my hands away impatiently and moves onto his jeans. He slides his wallet from his back pocket and dumps it onto the floor beside us, and then kicks his jeans away, stripping down smoothly and efficiently. I finally catch on—shrugging out of his jacket and then my sweater and then my tank, tossing my bra into the irrelevant space beyond us.
Paul is naked now, but before I can make the most of this opportunity to enjoy the sight of him, he comes back to me and goes for the zip on my jeans.
“Lift,” he commands and I comply, helping him to shrug my jeans and panties down over my legs and ankles. I gasp when my naked skin makes contact with the cold leather and Paul flashes me a wicked grin and takes me back into his arms. Finally, I get to run my hands over those supremely sculptured shoulders, identifying and appreciating each muscle as I go.
Deltoid. Teres major. Supraspinatus. Infraspinatus. Pectorialis.
For a moment or two, I ponder his body almost clinically. He feels so different in my arms from the endless memories I hold of earlier moments like this. He’s harder now, solid and strong and powerful, and I feel soft and sheltered in his arms.
Right now, his lips are working magic—magic on my mouth, magic against that amazing spot beneath my ear, magic when he shifts his attention lower. His palms line up against my breasts, and he groans softly, and then bends to plant a soft little kiss between them, a moment of surprisingly gentle affection tucked in among all of the raging lust.
“I’ve missed these so much.”
I let my head fall back and my eyes close as I focus on the sensation of his mouth as he roams from one nipple to the other. He nibbles, licks, sucks, and bites—gently, and then harder, and there’s pain; the kind that offers only shades of dark among the blinding light of the pleasure, and in doing so heightens everything else. When he stands, I fumble to reach for his erection, but Paul gasps and catches my wrists, dragging my hands back to set them firmly against the leather sofa.