by Marie Sexton
“Is everything all right, love?” he asked me, as we waited for our table to be ready.
“Of course,” I said, making myself smile.
“Mmm-hmm,” he said, watching me, and I felt a blush start to creep up my cheeks.
“Everything’s fine,” I said.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” he said, giving me a sad smile. “I know that I’m embarrassing you.”
“No! Absolutely not!” I said, and then immediately wondered if I had protested a bit too vehemently.
He continued to smile at me. “It’s nothing new to me, love. Some people get flustered, and some get offended. Some find it amusing.” He shrugged. “It’s okay to admit it.”
“It’s not that,” I said, wishing even as I said it that I was telling the truth. “I promise—”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, turning away from me. “You’ll either get used to it or you’ll decide I’m not that good in bed anyway.”
I didn’t know if I should deny it more or try to apologize or just let it go. I stood there cursing myself—first for being such an ass and then for being so transparent about it. I had never minded before if people knew that I was with another man. Why should it be any different now?
Once we were seated, I got my bearings back. Yes, we were in public. But sitting together at the small table, it felt more like we were alone again. There were still the flirting looks and the singsong, mocking cadence to his speech. Those I was used to. But all the rest of it seemed to fall away, and I felt myself relax again.
“I really am sorry,” I told him, although I couldn’t stand to meet his eyes.
“Don’t apologize to me, love,” he said. “Just don’t expect me to apologize either.”
Whether he felt awkward for a while after that or whether it was only me, I didn’t know. We of course had to order dinner before we ordered wine. My half-joking suggestion that we simply order a bottle of Chianti was met with mocking disdain, especially after I ordered salmon.
“What do you think of the food?” he asked me halfway through dinner.
“It’s delicious,” I said, winking at him, “but your cooking is better.”
He looked quickly down at his plate, and I suspected it was to keep me from seeing the blush on his cheeks. “You’re so good,” he said. He kept his eyes hidden from me, but I could tell he was smiling.
“Somebody in your past trained you very well.”
I laughed, although only a little. “Yes, he did,” I admitted, thinking of Zach. “And then he let me go.”
The waiter eventually brought the check, and we had one of those ridiculous moments that I thought only happened in movies where we both reached for it at the same time. We each had one hand on the little faux-leather folder, but neither of us picked it up.
“You know I’ll get it,” he said.
“I know you will,” I told him, “but I don’t want you to.”
“Really?” he asked, looking amused. “I picked the restaurant. It only seems fair that I pay.”
“You paid last time.” And paid way too much to boot, but I didn’t say that part. “I want to get it this time.”
“Sweetie, I’m not trying to brag here, but we both know I have a ridiculous amount of money—”
“That’s not the point,” I said, feeling my cheeks turning red again.
“Really?” he said again, but this time he sounded genuinely surprised, rather than amused.
Of course he had more money than me. Way more money than me, and that was putting it mildly. But I wasn’t exactly broke. I made a very good living and had few expenses. I had always thought of myself as being on the lucky end of middle class. He, on the other hand, literally had millions. Even though it was an expensive restaurant, I knew the cost of our dinner was a mere drop in the bucket to him. Still, it bothered me to think of him paying for everything. My pride wouldn’t allow it.
“I know it seems silly to you,” I told him, “but you paid to fly here just to keep me company. And you’ve cooked every night. I owe you this.”
He still looked amused and a little bit baffled. “This is important to you,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but I could tell he didn’t understand either. He was trying to puzzle it out.
“Yes,” I said. He sat there looking at me, waiting for something— whether it was for me to change my mind or to offer some type of an explanation, I didn’t know. But then, slowly, he took his hand away from the folder.
It was late by the time we left the restaurant. He was quiet most of the way back to the condo. We got ready for bed in silence and got in on opposite sides. He didn’t seem inclined to initiate anything, and I didn’t want to be pushy. He curled up on his half of the bed, and I stretched out on my back on mine. I was almost asleep when I suddenly felt the weight of his thin body on top of me. I opened my eyes to find him looking down at me. The lack of light in the room made it impossible for me to read his expression.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said quietly, “and I can’t actually remember the last time anybody bought anything for me.”
I was surprised. “Not anything?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Not even dinner.”
My insistence on buying dinner had been nothing more than my own pride. I had never expected it to mean anything to him. But hearing him now, I realized it did. “What about Christmas?” I asked.
He shook his head again. “No.”
I realized then, for the very first time, how lonely his life must be.
His father was dead, his mother apparently estranged. He had no siblings. He had nothing but a handful of casual lovers, scattered across the world from Paris to Hawaii.
My first instinct was to hold him—to apologize and try to make things better—but I also suspected that he would never allow that. I put my fingers into his silky soft hair and said only, “You’re welcome.”
Date: June 28
From: Cole
To: Jared
Hey there Sweets. I knew you would be intrigued by that last email.
Well, that was the point, wasn’t it? But honestly, I only did it to tease you. It was nothing special. Jonathan was in Vegas on business, and I just went along for the ride. And honey, that was a sexual innuendo.
HE SPENT two more nights with me in Vegas before returning home. I called him when I got back into town several days later.
“Hello?” he answered, and it sounded like I had woken him up.
“It’s Jonathan. I wanted to let you know that I’m back in Phoenix.”
“That’s fascinating, darling, but I’m not.”
“Where are you?”
“In Tokyo.”
“Tokyo?” I asked, flabbergasted. “What in the world are you doing in Tokyo?”
“Sleeping,” he said, and hung up without saying goodbye.
I was a little bit worried that I had seriously annoyed him, but two weeks later, I came home from work to find him cooking dinner in my kitchen.
Over the next few months, we fell into an easy, albeit completely erratic, relationship. We were both out of town so often that it was hard to find time for each other, and he didn’t seem to like to plan anything in advance. I also learned that it did me no good to call him beyond simply informing him that I was back in town. Asking to see him only caused frustration. He might give me a flimsy excuse. He might say no but show up at my house later anyway. But no matter what, he never did anything that was not his own idea. So I waited for him. And eventually, he always called.
Our time together out of bed had grown less awkward. I gave him a key to my house—not because things were that serious between us, but because it was the only logical thing to do. He hated to wait for me to get home to start cooking, and it was ridiculous for him to have to rely on Julia to let him in. Often when we were both in Phoenix, he would call me only to say that he was busy. But then I would come home to a house that smelled like heaven and him barefoot in my kitchen. I quit tryin
g to predict him at all, but I was always happy to see him.
I was still getting used to what we had together. I knew this type of relationship wasn’t new for him, but it was for me. I had been in long-term relationships before, and of course I had been involved in casual hook-ups. But this strange area in-between was completely foreign to me. In my experience, when you kept seeing somebody, it was with the understanding that you were moving toward something more serious. I had always believed that relationships had to move forward or end. But Cole made it quite clear that becoming more intimate was of no interest to him. We had sex, yes. Often. But once we were out of bed, any attempts I made to touch him or kiss him were countered by him pushing me away, playful, but absolutely firm. It was a strange relationship—not lovers, not quite friends even—and I didn’t always know how to handle it.
It was September fifteenth, and I had just finished a four-day stint in LA. I landed back in Phoenix at ten o’clock in the evening. I called Cole when I got home.
“This better be an emergency,” he said sleepily, without even saying hello.
“It’s me.”
“I know, love. I have caller ID. I take it you’re home now?”
“I am. Why? Did you miss me?”
“Not a bit,” he said.
“Good. I didn’t miss you either.”
“I’m glad you woke me up to tell me that,” he said. And then the line went dead. I couldn’t help but laugh. I was getting used to his temperament by now, and I knew better than to be offended.
I wasn’t surprised when my phone rang the next morning as I was driving to the office. I smiled when I saw Cole’s name on the display.
“Hello?”
“Hey sugar. I’ve decided to forgive you for waking me up last night.”
“I knew you would.”
“How’s your weekend looking?” I knew what he was asking: would I be free, or would my clients be calling nonstop?
“Everything’s wrapped up at the moment,” I told him. “I’m all yours, if you want me.”
He was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke again, I could hear the smile in his voice. “I think maybe I do. Why don’t you come spend the weekend with me?”
“Where?”
“At my house.”
He had never invited me over before, and I was curious about how he lived. “Where do you live?”
“Paradise Valley.” Of course. I should have known. Paradise Valley was the most affluent area of Phoenix. “I know it’s not as convenient for you during the week,” he said, “but it’s so much easier to cook in my own kitchen.”
“That sounds great,” I told him. “Do you have a pool?”
“Of course I do. And a hot tub too. But whatever you do, sugar,” he said, his tone turning flirtatious, “don’t bring a swimsuit.”
By the time I left work, drove home to pack a bag for the weekend, and made it to his place, it was close to seven. He lived in a gated community, although his house was one of the smaller ones in the neighborhood. It was a Spanish-style home: white with a red roof, all on one level.
“Hey sugar,” he said when he opened the door. “Take your shoes off.” He didn’t wait for me, but turned and disappeared deeper into the house.
I knew he would be cooking, so I took the opportunity to put my bag in his room and wander around. The house had big, open rooms and high ceilings. Most of the decor seemed to be shades of white and cream. There were a few paintings on the wall, but otherwise the house felt half-bare. There were only three bedrooms: one that was obviously his, one that was filled with bookshelves and a desk, and a third that was outfitted for a guest, although it felt like a tomb. The living room was incredibly formal and obviously not often used. There was a family room that was more lived-in, with a large cushy couch and several luxurious throws. I remembered how he had curled up in a blanket to read in my condo in Vegas and imagined that was how he spent many of his evenings at home.
I wasn’t surprised to find that the kitchen was the most comfortable room in the house. It was huge, and although I was no expert on the subject, I suspected a great deal of money had been put into it. The countertops were dark marble. There were two sinks, a giant refrigerator, and a stove that would have put some restaurants to shame.
He was at the stove, of course, stirring something. His feet were bare. His hair had grown out longer than he usually allowed it to get, and it covered half of the butterfly mark on the back of his neck. I found myself wanting more than anything to touch him and to put my lips on that tiny spot, but I knew it would be a breach of protocol.
“Nice house,” I said.
“Thank you,” he replied, not looking at me. “Of all the homes I own, this is the only one I purchased myself.”
“The rest were bought by your father?”
“Or his mother. Or my mother. Or one of the wives who preceded her.”
“What made you pick Phoenix?”
“I rather like the heat.”
“Are you crazy?” I asked in surprise.
He shrugged. “Something about roasting in the desert makes me feel both rebellious and mundane, all at the same time.” I wasn’t sure how those things were actually connected to sweating one’s ass off in hundred-degree weather, but as the pampered but forgotten son of millionaires, I could see why feeling rebellious yet mundane might appeal to him. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked, turning back to the stove. “Help yourself.”
I opened the fridge, which was huge and completely full. “I’ll have some wine,” I told him as I scanned the shelves.
“Sugar, we’re drinking red tonight. It won’t be in the refrigerator.”
But I had already spotted what I assumed was the wine and pulled it out, although upon closer inspection I saw that it had a screw top instead of a cork. “What’s this then?” I asked. I turned it so I could read the label and laughed out loud when I saw what it was. “Arbor Mist Island Fruits Pinot Grigio?”
I looked over to find him staring at me with a look of sheer horror on his face and his cheeks bright red. “I forgot that was in there.”
“Do you drink this stuff?” I asked him in surprise.
“No.”
“Then what’s it doing in your fridge?”
“Rosa must have put it there.”
“Your housekeeper? Why? Is she under the age of twenty-one?”
“No. Why?”
“Because only teenagers drink this stuff.”
“Not only teenagers,” he said defensively.
“So you do drink it?” I asked, and I could barely keep from laughing at his obvious embarrassment.
His blush deepened, which I wouldn’t have thought possible if I hadn’t seen it myself. “Well, I….”
“Yes?” I asked, and I really couldn’t keep the smile off of my face now.
“I….”
“I’m waiting,” I prodded sarcastically.
“Fine!” He grabbed a potholder off of the countertop and threw it at me. “I drink it. Are you happy now?” He turned away from me, back to the stove, but I could see that he was smiling. “Now you know my dirty little secret. I have a penchant for cheap, fruity wine.”
“You scold me for drinking Chianti with fish—”
“Of course I do, darling. It’s a terrible choice.”
“—but you have a secret stash of Arbor Mist. Tell me, Cole, what exactly goes with Mixed Berry Pinot Grigio?”
He was silent for a moment, but then he said with obvious mirth,
“Not much, I admit. But sugar, the Blackberry Merlot is to die for. I’m fairly certain it goes with everything.”
I laughed and gave up on keeping my distance from him. I crossed over to him and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, kissing the back of his head. He tensed noticeably but didn’t pull away. “I love that you drink five-dollar-a-bottle wine,” I said.
“Well for goodness’ sake, don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”
“No, not really.” He pushed me playfully away. “But at least allow me the luxury of my own self-delusions, won’t you?”
“I’ll try,” I told him. I opened the bottle and smelled the contents.
It smelled like Kool-Aid. “Is this what we’re drinking with dinner?”
“Absolutely not. I actually bought you a nice bottle of Chianti.”
He pointed his spatula at me. “Don’t even mention fava beans, or I guarantee you’ll be sleeping on the porch.”
“I don’t mind,” I told him, “as long you’re sleeping there with me.”
He turned his back to me, but not before I saw that he was pleased.
Date: Sept 16
From: Cole
To: Jared
I have to say, Sweets, the constant nagging for information is getting awfully tiresome. I haven’t been telling you anything because there really is nothing to tell. Yes, you’re correct in saying that we seem to be spending a great deal of time together. But your assumption that our relationship is becoming serious could not be further from the truth.
This is a casual arrangement—nothing more—much like the one you and I enjoyed for so many years. I’m getting used to Jonathan being so ridiculously uptight, and I dare say he’s getting used to me being… the way I am. In another month or two, I’ll be heading back to Paris for the holidays. I’ll probably come home to find him shacked up with some big angry cop. Now why does that story sound familiar?
Take care, Sweets, and say hello to your big angry cop for me. Let me know if steam actually emerges from his ears when you do.
HE SPENT Sunday and Monday night with me at my house. Tuesday morning, he lay in bed, talking nonstop as he watched me dress. He talked about needing a haircut and what we should have for dinner and made what I thought was an off-hand comment about not having been to Mazatlan since college. By the time I got home from work that afternoon, he was already on the beach. He called to tell me he would be gone at least a week. I could only marvel at how he seemed to flutter wherever the wind might carry him. I didn’t hear from him the rest of the time he was gone, but two Fridays later, I came home to find him barefoot in my kitchen.