She gave up on her hair. They had limited time before the play started anyway, and she was starting to get hungry.
As she turned around, she got a glimpse of her ass. The pencil skirt emphasized the full curve of it, and the fabric was so thin she’d had to go without underwear, since she didn’t have a thong with her and all of her other pairs created an obvious panty-line. She made a face as she saw herself from this angle. “The dress doesn’t make my ass look too big, does it?”
Paul made a brief choked sound as his eyes lowered to that particular feature. “Of course not. Your ass looks great.”
* * *
Paul took her to a place he said had the best steak in New York. It was a dimly lit restaurant with swanky décor, and it seemed to match Emily’s sexy, sophisticated outfit.
She felt eyes on her as she and Paul walked to their table, and she couldn’t help but wonder what people thought of them. Paul dominated any room he entered—with his looks, his money, his brilliance, his presence, the charisma that seeped from his pores.
She could see women watch him, watch her because of him, and she couldn’t help but notice some female eyes would stray to his left hand, in an automatic check of his marital status.
Something inside her bloomed at being that girl—the one with the most desirable man in the room. She’d never been that girl before. She’d always been second-best, gazing from the outskirts at the Lauras of the world, the luckier girls, the girls who always got the guy.
But Paul was with her tonight, and everyone seemed to recognize it. It was her ring on his left hand. Even though the rational part of her brain recognized it was somewhat artificial, Emily didn’t really care.
She felt special, and Paul was treating her like she was his date, smiling, giving her compliments, laughing at her jokes, and making sure she had everything she wanted. His eyes weren't roving around the room, searching for someone more attractive. Maybe he was just being nice, but he seemed to genuinely like her now, genuinely enjoy being with her.
It didn’t have to be love. It didn’t have to be a real marriage. It didn’t have to last longer than the evening.
For once, Emily felt like the girl she’d always wanted to be.
The girl men might actually want.
She’d finished her steak—which might have been the best piece of meat she’d ever eaten—and was starting on her dark chocolate mousse when she felt an inexplicable bubble of emotion rising in her throat.
Paul was being light and charming like he’d been most of the day, and his demeanor just strengthened the thrilling, surreal quality of the evening. He must have noticed something on her face, though, because he halted the story he was telling and peered at her closely. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, feeling silly for her emotional response to the evening and incapable of explaining it to him without feeling like an absolute idiot.
“Are you sick?” His eyes scanned her face, looking urgent in a way they hadn’t all day.
“No,” she replied, trying to suppress a flash of annoyance. She wasn’t going to ruin her fairy-tale evening by having an argument with Paul about his constant inquiries about her health. “I’m fine. I was just having a good time.”
He seemed like he wanted to question her more, but the manager came over then to ask them how their meal was. The manager was a young, attractive brunette—like Laura or the models Paul used to date—and she definitely seemed to have noticed his appeal.
She stayed for a while to chat, ostensibly with both of them, but her eyes rarely made their way over to the other side of the table. Emily definitely didn’t miss the way the woman checked out both Paul’s ring finger and Emily’s.
Emily felt a ridiculous vindication at the flicker of disappointment in the woman’s eyes at discovering Paul was married. It was such a petty feeling that Emily tried not to indulge it, but she’d never been someone other women were jealous of.
Paul was polite and friendly with the manager, but after a few minutes he said, “We better get going soon. Are you ready, Emily?”
Then, when they stood up to leave, he put his hand on the small of her back as they walked out.
Emily decided she better go the bathroom at the restaurant, in case the theater restrooms were crowded. After she’d gone and then washed her hands, she stared at herself in the mirror, almost not recognizing the elegant, sensual woman she saw there. Even her ass didn't look too bad.
She knew Paul was waiting, so she didn’t linger to admire her gorgeousness more than a minute.
Paul wasn’t waiting right outside, so she walked toward the entrance of the restaurant. She paused as she turned a corner and saw him talking with the brunette manager again.
The woman was tall, slim, and darkly gorgeous—and she was now flirting big-time with Paul. Emily could see it immediately in the kinds of smiles, hair tosses, and slanted glances the woman was throwing at him.
Paul was smiling back, with his eyes as well as his mouth.
Emily stood frozen as she watched. First, she was flooded with a wave of furious possessiveness. Paul was her husband, and that bitch was making a play for him.
Her initial reaction didn’t last long, though. Emily wasn’t a fool. She knew Paul didn't belong to her. He cared about her—more now than he had a month ago—but he never would have married her under normal circumstances. He never would have even gone out with her.
He wasn't really hers.
Emily turned on her heel and hurried back to the restroom. Stared back into the mirror and made herself face the truth.
She wasn’t really that woman. She was just Emily, and she’d always known what it meant to be one of the Emilys of the world.
Paul was being incredibly generous in giving her a wonderful end to her life, but she had to keep the reality in perspective. She was allowed to enjoy the daydreams, as long as she didn’t believe they were real.
It would only lead to this kind of kick in the gut when the fuzziness finally cleared.
It always cleared eventually.
Emily had never been the girl that men wanted, and that wasn’t going to change now.
Her fairy-tale prom with Chris had ended without even a kiss. Her fairy-tale wedding had ended with her husband refusing to have sex with her. And her fairy-tale evening of being sexy and sophisticated would end with her husband flirting with the kind of woman he really liked.
Story of her life.
She just wasn’t destined for the happy ending.
Her shoulders shook with a few helpless sobs, but she stifled them almost immediately.
It didn’t matter. It didn't matter. She still had good things left to look forward to. She was going to see Henry V tonight. She was going to see the Pyramids tomorrow.
Ultimately it wouldn't matter since she only had a couple of months left to be anyone at all.
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, feeling more like herself. She’d always been tough. She’d always taken care of herself. There was no reason that had to change.
She was about to leave the bathroom when the beautiful manager came in.
“Oh, hi,” the woman said, with a smile that looked a little fake. “I told him you were probably just redoing your makeup, but your husband was worried for some reason and wanted me to check on you.”
Emily blinked. “Oh. I’m fine. I’m coming.”
She followed the woman out of the restroom to find Paul pacing in the hall. When he saw her, he took three strides over and searched her face in concern. He must have been looking for signs of illness, but he evidently saw something else.
“You’ve been crying. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replied with a bright smile. “Sorry I took so long.”
“Emily,” Paul persisted, a warning note in his voice.
“I’m fine,” Emily forced out between clenched teeth, flushing hotly at having this conversation in front of the gorgeous woman who’d been flirting with him. “
Nothing’s wrong.”
Paul looked like he would argue, but then he noticed the manager too. He took Emily’s arm, although his grip was tighter than civility called for, and walked them out of the restaurant.
Emily fought to keep her expression neutral, although her emotions were a confused, tumultuous jumble. As they were waiting on the sidewalk for the car to pull up, she noticed Paul searching her face again.
He was worried about her. She could see it in the urgency of his eyes, the tension in his features. He thought she was sick or grieving—not moping because no one had ever really thought she was pretty.
For some reason, that thought pushed her into tears again. She turned her face away from Paul so he wouldn’t see her contorting her features in an attempt to stifle the sobs.
Evidently, he saw it anyway. He sucked in a harsh breath, and his hand tightened on her arm. She could feel the intensity pulsing from him, but he waited until they’d gotten into the car to ask her again.
He didn’t really ask. He demanded, “Tell me what the hell is wrong.”
“Nothing,” she said over the painful lump in her throat. “I’m not sick. I’m really not.”
“Something is wrong. Stop lying to me.” He grabbed her face in one of his warm hands and turned it so it was facing him. “Tell me what upset you so much.”
She thought frantically, trying to come up with something, anything, to tell him. There was just no way she could tell him the truth. “It’s…it’s nothing. I was just having a good evening. And…and I started to think about…about being sick.” She improvised as she stumbled through an explanation and hoped it would be convincing.
The truth was she was doing her best to forget that she was sick at all. If she thought about it, she couldn’t fully enjoy her final months—so she kept forcing the bleak reality to the back of her mind.
Paul didn’t have to know that, though.
He dropped his hand from her face, and his intensity softened. His eyes were narrowed as he studied her, though, as if he wasn’t entirely convinced. He didn’t say anything. Just watched her.
She looked away, since his eyes were too penetrating. Gazing out the window at the crowded street, she stammered, “I’m sorry I took so long. But…but you looked occupied, so I figured it would…it would be all right if…”
“What?” Paul interrupted.
Emily blinked over at him, trying to think through her broken rambles. “What what?”
“What do you mean I looked occupied?”
She suddenly realized her mistake. She never would have slipped so foolishly if she hadn’t still been fighting lingering tears. “Nothing. I meant nothing.”
“Emily,” he said, his voice thick and intimidating.
She could have held out. She was strong enough to put her foot down, even with Paul Marino. But, for some reason, she heard herself saying, “It’s nothing. I just meant you were talking to that woman, so I thought—”
“Damn it, Emily. Did you actually think I was hitting on her?”
“No. No. I mean, even if you were, that would be all right. I know we’re not—”
Paul was really angry now—angrier than she’d seen him since the night she’d tried to sneak out of the apartment. “What kind of man do you think I am?” he broke into her garbled explanation. “You really think I would hook up with another woman while my wife was in the bathroom?”
“No,” she mumbled, staring down at her twisting hands. “I didn’t mean that. I know you’re not the kind of guy who would cheat on his wife. But, since we’re not really married, I would understand if—”
Paul grabbed her left hand with his left hand and displayed the rings in a rough, frustrated gesture. “We are married. For whatever reason, we are married. I’m not going to cheat on you.”
Emily stared at their rings, the platinum band on his long, masculine finger and her rings on her much smaller hand.
The sight had pleased her earlier in the evening, feeding into the daydream she was indulging. But now it seemed more real, more strange, more inexplicable. It made her chest hurt.
“Didn’t you know that before?” Paul asked, his voice still gravelly. “Didn't you know I wasn't going to sleep around? What kind of man do you think I am?”
“I did know,” she said in a rush, feeling a wave of intense guilt because she’d never meant to insult him but somehow still had. “I know you aren't that kind of man.”
Just a couple of months ago, she would have said he was.
“But you were crying in the bathroom. You must have thought…” Paul trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished.
“No, no, no. I wasn’t crying because I thought you were making plans for a sleazy affair. I just…I mean, I was upset because…I was just enjoying feeling like…like someone else, and then I was kind of hit by the reminder that I’m…that I’m not.”
“You aren’t what?” The resentment and impatience had faded from his face during her halting attempt to explain, and he looked more thoughtful than anything else now.
She gave a long sigh and leaned back against the seat of the car, closing her eyes as she admitted the truth. “I’m not the girl who gets the guy that everyone wants.”
The silence following her words stretched on so long that Emily realized how Paul might have misinterpreted her words. Her eyes flew open, and she saw Paul staring at her blankly. She said, “Not that I was thinking it was romantic between us or anything. I’m not crazy. I wasn’t ever thinking that. I was just having fun pretending I was the girl everyone envies because… because she’s got the best guy.”
She was so mortified by having told Paul the truth that she dropped her face into her hands and tried to breathe.
After a minute, she realized Paul still hadn’t answered. When she looked up, she saw he was still gazing at her with the strangest expression.
“Paul, I’m so sorry,” she said, the words cracking in her throat. She reached over and put her hand on his sleeve. “I really wasn’t thinking that you were going to cheat on me. I was just thinking that maybe you…you’d prefer to be with the kind of woman you really like. And that just got me going with some old issues.” She attempted a dry laugh, although it was more of a snuffle. “You’d think that dying would put your issues in perspective, but I can’t seem to shake some of them.”
When he still didn’t answer, she asked, “Are you really mad at me?”
“No,” Paul said at last. “I’m not mad. I think I…understand.”
Emily collapsed back against the seat, feeling like an absolute fool but relieved that she hadn’t ruined her friendship with Paul. To her surprise, he reached over and pulled her against his side, the weight of his arm around her warm and incredibly comforting. He smelled like Paul, so she breathed him in.
After a minute, he murmured, “Emily, half the men in the restaurant were jealous of me this evening.”
“What?” She didn’t pull away from him. Just twisted her neck so she could peer up at his face.
“You heard me. You may not have noticed, but I definitely did. Men were checking you out, sizing me up, concluding I must have money because otherwise I’d never be able to get a woman like you.”
Emily straightened up, one of her hands fisting in his jacket lapel. “That’s ridiculous. I appreciate your attempt to boost my ego, but you have to be somewhat realistic in the exaggeration for it to work.”
He ignored her light irony and shook his head. “It’s the truth. Everywhere I looked, some other guy was leering at my wife. Honestly, I found it rather obnoxious.”
If it hadn’t been for the faintly aggrieved tone of his last words, she wouldn’t have believed him, but he seemed to be telling the truth. She gave a little giggle, just an overflow of too much emotion, and nestled back under Paul’s arm.
They were almost to the theater when Paul murmured, without any segue, “Not even once have I wanted to cheat on you.”
A swell of relief and affection rose in her thr
oat. She knew they weren’t in love and that the marriage was mostly a sham. She knew, after she died, he would go back to pursuing the women he really wanted. But she still would have hated for her husband to be having lecherous thoughts about other women while she was around.
All she said was, “Good. Me either.”
* * *
Paul dropped his light, charming demeanor like the façade it always was. When they went into the theater, he didn’t tell her any funny stories or give her any pretty compliments. He was quiet at first. Then he was annoyed because there was some sort of mix-up with their tickets and it took a couple of minutes to sort it out.
Then he started telling her about the English history leading up to the events of the play, and he got wrapped up in the explanation with an intensity that made otherwise boring details absolutely fascinating. Then, during the intermission, when Emily was feeling tired and kind of achy, he peered at her with concerned scrutiny and put a hand on her forehead to check her temperature.
All of it was Paul. And Emily liked all of it—the quietness, the grumpiness, the intensity, the concern—better than when he had been light and charming.
The play was amazing, and they got back to the hotel very late. Emily had to conclude, despite the minor emotional upheavals, it had been a very good day. Plus, they were flying to Egypt tomorrow.
She was absolutely exhausted, and she was feeling even more achy than before, probably because they'd done so much today. So she took a couple of Tylenol and went to bed.
***
Emily was so achy she could barely force herself out of bed the next morning.
She sat on the side of the mattress, trying to catch her breath and assess her condition. Her whole body hurt, and she felt hot and clammy at the same time. She drank several gulps of water from the bottle at her bedside. After a minute, she convinced herself that she was just tired and sore from the long day of shopping and sightseeing yesterday.
Today she was going to Egypt. She only had a very small window of time to do everything on her list, and she wasn’t going to miss one of the things she was most excited about.
So she managed to shower and dress, although she had to sit down for a few minutes to recover afterwards. Her head was throbbing now, and she had started to shiver a little, but she was finally able to rouse herself enough to leave her bedroom and head into the parlor of their suite.
Listed: Volume II Page 5