“I’ll just let myself out.” I push back on the kitchen door, glad to be of help but equally glad to be leaving. As I hail a cab, my mind drifts back to the arguments I never had with Aidan. We weren’t fighters. We didn’t argue. The most we did was bicker from time to time over whether he would ever clean while he cooked and whether I had any right to criticize when I never cooked. We always got along, our little charade of a marriage a silent ticking time bomb.
Still, I have to wonder if there was an undercurrent my blinders didn’t let me see. If I had needed Kelly to put Ethan to bed one night during one of our “Do you think you can ever clean while you cook?” mini-tiffs would she have been able to detect what was wrong with our marriage? Because I feel in those few seconds when I witnessed Grant and Kelly together, raw, exposed, and vulnerable, I saw the underbelly to their marriage. The parts that maybe they don’t understand. That Grant is matchstick and wildly worried. That Kelly is terrified of losing him. That Sophie would become some sort of pawn if they split.
As I leave, I’m left to wonder whether Kelly sees any of this.
We all wear rose-colored glasses at times, maybe most of the time, never really letting others see what we don’t see, or want to see, ourselves.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jane
Matthew doesn’t pick up. I’m already through the park and onto Columbus Avenue and he hasn’t answered his phone. I try him a third time. I get the same five rings, the same chipper recording, the same tone.
I’m not even sure where to tell the cab driver to go. Matthew must have left the restaurant by now. I tell the cabbie to stop at Ninety-First and Amsterdam. I’ve only been to Matthew’s place once, but I can picture the building and I remember he lives on the second floor.
I find a ten-dollar bill in my wallet, pay the driver, and get out of the taxi in front of Matthew’s apartment. His name is on the outside, along with the other tenants, so I press the buzzer for 2B.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
I hear the faint sound of a halfheartedly barking dog a floor above me. The Doctor’s home alone.
I stomp my foot once, pissed at myself. I scan his block up and down from my vantage point on the stoop. But I don’t see a tall, handsome man anywhere.
I hastily retreat down his steps and head to the restaurant, in case he’s still there.
I break into a trot, holding my right hand onto my bag so it doesn’t fall off my shoulder, even though I know how stupid New Yorkers look running down the street in heels, clutching their personal effects. I don’t care right now, though. I jog noisily, heels clacking over the two blocks, until I spy the sign for Happy Cow, the vegetarian restaurant. I slow down, taking my hand off my bag and giving my abused lungs a few feet to calm down. Two blocks in boots almost leave me more winded than running with Natalie.
I’m about to push open the door when I spot a tiny little store right next to the restaurant. An olden wooden sign, like the sign for a tavern, hangs above the entrance. An Open Book. Under the name is an illustration of that—the inviting image of fat pages filled with words.
An open book.
I know someone who’d have a hard time resisting an open book. Who’s powerless to turn away from a tale. He’s in there; I know it. I go inside and I feel like I’m casing the joint as I scan the rows of shelves stuffed into a space smaller than the cafés at most big bookstores. Matthew’s not in new fiction, he’s not in mystery, he’s not in literature.
I turn down a nonfiction row, defeated. Matthew wouldn’t be caught dead reading about something that really happened.
But there he is, leaning against one of the shelves, thumbing through a book, utterly at home. I tap him on the shoulder. “Fancy meeting you here. I never thought I’d find you in the—gasp—nonfiction section.”
He puts a finger to his lips. “Shh…don’t tell anyone.”
“I tried calling you. But you didn’t pick up, so I went to your apartment and then to the restaurant and then here.”
His eyes light up. “You searched all over.”
“I had to hunt for you, even in this tiny little store.”
He sighs. “I have to admit, I was a little annoyed.”
“You were?”
He nods, a little sheepishly.
“Were you avoiding me?” I ask softly. “When I tried to call?”
He shakes his head. Then he pauses, shrugs, looks away. “Maybe. I don’t know. I really wanted to see you and then I felt like an ass sitting there waiting.”
“I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” I place my hand on his cheek so he has to look at me. So much was unsaid at Kelly’s house, so much was hidden with Aidan and me. I don’t want to be like that with Matthew. I don’t want to be saddled with secrets or with fear. I have a golden opportunity to start anew, and I don’t want to second-guess every move, like Owen is doing, or overreact like Grant. I want a relationship built on trust and honesty and openness. So I give him that. “I wanted to see you, too. I thought about you all day.”
A brief smile flickers on his face. “And I didn’t even know if you were going to show up. Anyway, it’s not a big deal. I knew you had to help your friend. I just really wanted to see you.” Then he stops and gives me a sweet little look. “I said that already, didn’t I?”
I smile back at him and nod. “Yes, you did.”
Then his lips meet mine and suddenly he’s not mad and I’m not blowing him off and my heart is beating faster, but it’s not from running two blocks in heels at all. A man I want, the man I want and the man who wants me, is kissing me in public. The world is round again. Right is right and up is up and I don’t have to gawk at the Starbucks Couple anymore. I am the Starbucks Couple right now.
He reaches for my hand. “I rather like the idea of you hunting for me, though.” His fingers slip through mine and we walk to the counter like that, already hand in hand one day later, already a couple. I like both the gesture and the way the warmth from his hand transfers to me as his fingers curl around mine.
He buys the book he was reading, Sex, Drugs, and Updating Your Facebook Page. I’ve seen the book on Jeremy’s desk. It’s supposed to be the definitive look at how artists have impacted sales through fan interaction on the internet. It’s an odd choice because even though Matthew’s a music industry expert, he told me once he doesn’t read nonfiction. As soon as he is safely away from the office, the phone, and the plethora of music industry lunches, dinners, and after-work fetes, he’s off the clock and ready to dive into a story.
“That’s an unusual choice for you,” I say, pointing to the book.
He glances at it. “This thing?”
Laughing, I nod. “Yes, that thing.”
“Seems like something I ought to familiarize myself with,” he says, a little more evasively than I expect.
“Why do you need to familiarize yourself with it? Are you going to write the next Sex, Drugs, and Updating Your Facebook Page?” I ask as we exit onto Broadway, and he narrows his eyes, as if I’ve just said the most absurd thing.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Is that a crazy idea?”
“I’m looking at you like this because I’m not thinking about this damn book at all.”
A ribbon of heat unfurls in me as his eyes blaze with a hint of desire. “What are you thinking of?”
“I was just wondering if you even deserve dinner now, or if I should take you back to my place and spank you instead.”
I lower my eyelids, look at the sidewalk, then back up at Matthew. I’m almost embarrassed that a quick burst of desire floods my body when I admit, “I’ve never been spanked.”
A grin plays on his lips. “Would you like to be?”
“I don’t know. Would I?”
“I would be more than happy to help you discover if you like it.”
I shrug and grin mischievously, then reach my hand around his neck, playing with the back of his hair as we walk. “There’s a lot to
find out, isn’t there?”
“Fortunately, I am an intrepid explorer.”
I like the sound of that, so I stop, grab his arm, and pull him close. “Explore me,” I say to him in a low voice.
His blue eyes light up with hunger, and it thrills me that I recognize the look, the feeling. That there’s no confusion on my part as to what he wants. “Damn woman, you should blow me off more often. It makes you all frisky.” Then he lowers his voice. “But I’m really glad you didn’t blow me off.”
“Me, too,” I say softly. “Do you want to order a pizza?”
“Are you inviting yourself over?”
I nod.
“Ask me nicely, Jane.”
“Matthew Harrigan, may I please come over and spend the night and learn whether I like being spanked?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Matthew
It turns out Jane doesn’t mind spanking. She doesn’t mind it at all. Maybe that’s because I already made her come twice, reprising what I did to her on the couch last night.
For the record, I could spend all night with my face between her thighs, and I’m pretty damn sure she’d be amenable to that. I believe she set some sort of land-speed record for fastest route to multiple orgasms when I went down on her minutes ago as soon as the door clanged shut and I stripped off all her clothes.
Now, I’m seated on a wooden chair at my kitchen table, and she’s straddling me as I massage her bottom.
Really, this might be as good as it gets.
She grips my shoulders as she moves up and down on me, riding me, and then on the descent, I bestow another smack.
“Ouch,” she yelps but the word is chased by a low moan, so I bring my palm back to her ass with a quick smack.
“You like that?”
She grins and smiles dreamily. I groan and curve my free hand around her neck, pulling her in for a quick kiss. Her lips are delicious.
“You taste good,” she whispers.
“That’s because I taste like you.”
“How do I taste to you?”
“Like the woman I’ve turned on. That’s why you’re so fucking delicious,” I say in a hot, rough voice.
She presses her palms against my chest, running her hands up and down, as she rocks those gorgeous hips against me.
I smack her rear again, eliciting a gasp.
She shudders, like she’s close.
Another soft whack, then I rub my palm against her flesh as I drive into her, bringing her down hard on me again and again, filling her so deeply. She comes, and I follow her instantly, my climax ripping through me in a fierce frenzy, blotting out everything else in the world right now except for her, the sounds she makes, the way she says my name.
Soon, I breathe normally again, and I open my eyes to find her smiling like a happy sex-drunk fool. “So maybe we can try handcuffs next time?” she asks.
“Your appetite is fantastic. We could tie you up, too. Bring some scarves over and I’ll tie you to the bedposts and have my way with you all night long,” I say, layering hot kisses on her neck that’s damp with perspiration.
“You already have your way with me.”
Her words weave through me, making me want to get closer to her, and not just physically. In so many ways. This affection began with desire, but it’s rapidly spinning in every fantastic direction, and I don’t want to stop.
“I know,” I say softly. “And I love it.”
It’s such a relief to be with her like this, as a couple. It’s the most wonderful, welcome turn in my life.
An hour later, after devouring a half-mushroom, half-sausage pizza, we’re in my bed underneath the off-white comforter. I picked that color to blend in with The Doctor’s hair, since she has a habit of sleeping on the bed while I’m at work, a habit I don’t care, nor am able, to break.
Jane tells me about her evening, the phone call from her friend, the misunderstanding, the fight in the kitchen, putting her friend’s daughter to bed.
“So that’s why I wasn’t able to change or take a shower or get all dolled up.”
I sniff her. “Yeah, you’re a little mangy right now.”
“Stop it.” She pretends she’s about to fire off a pillow in my direction.
I dart away from it, but then return to what she shared. Because it matters. Because it reminds me of the type of relationship I want to have.
“But seriously, it just goes to show how incredibly complicated relationships are. I mean, you know that already from your marriage. But you peel back the layers of any relationship and you’ll find all sorts of compromises that you can’t even imagine from the outside. And then there are the compromises you won’t make.”
I put my hands behind my head, reflecting.
“Is this about your girlfriend from a year ago?” she asks gently, like she doesn’t want to probe at this tender, early phase, when relationships, like freshly ripening fruit, can bruise in an instant.
I know too well how that can happen. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but I’m a little protective of my background.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I don’t want people to like me or suck up to me because of my family. Because of a name. Or a title.”
“Sure.”
I heave a sigh, then dive into the story, hoping she’ll understand me better. “I was dating this woman here and she was English. We met in New York and there was that whole ‘Oh, you’re from England, I’m from England’ kind of thing.”
I tell the story while lying half under the covers, the streetlights from Manhattan streaming in through the half-open blinds, blanketing our skin with shadows and light. “Her name was Angeline and”—I pause, reigning in a grin—“she was a model.”
Jane groans.
I shoot her a devilish smile. “Just kidding on that part.”
“Only you would joke right in the middle of a serious story.”
I smile because she does indeed know me well. “Only I would do that. You’re correct.” I clear my throat. “Actually, she had a dreadful profession. She was a corporate attorney. Nowhere near as captivating as a rock star.” I nibble on her neck. “Anyway, we went together for a year or so. And when she found out about my family, I asked her to keep it quiet and I told her why. I happen to like privacy. So sue me. The next day she went and told pretty much everybody.”
Jane recoils. “That’s so shitty. And so you ended it with her?”
“No,” I laugh. “Well, I suppose yes. It was quite mutual when she demanded to be married to the Baron Somerset and I said no bloody fucking way.”
We both crack up.
She runs a hand down my naked chest, and I shiver slightly, loving the way she touches me. Savoring every moment like this. “I’m glad you get it.”
“I totally do. And thanks for sharing.”
“You make it easy to share.”
She smiles and drops a kiss to my lips, and yes, I could get used to this. In fact, I think I’m becoming quite accustomed to her. Quite happily accustomed.
That means I want to know more about her. “Tell me about your son. I’d love to meet him someday.”
“I want you to meet him someday. Someday soon.”
“What’s he’s like?”
“Oh, you do know the way to a woman’s heart. Let her go on and on about the love of her life.”
She tells me about Ethan and their shared Harry Potter obsession, about karate, about the vagaries of Ethan’s rule-making in his card game. About how much he loves dogs.
“My parents have three dogs. All border collies,” she explains. “And Ethan goes nuts for them whenever we visit my parents in Maine. I’m taking him there in April to see my mom’s production of Tommy, and I’m sure Ethan will spend most of the time with the dogs.”
“We should introduce him to The Doctor at some point,” I offer, picturing how much her son would get a kick out of my four-legged friend. I love t
hat image. Love it immensely.
Her expression says she does, too, since she lights up. “That would actually probably be the perfect way for him to meet the man in my life.”
“I like being the man in your life,” I say softly, and then I kiss her again. She sighs happily, melting into the kiss, then drifting off it seems.
I pull apart. “What are you thinking?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jane
I’m thinking and I’m not thinking.
I’m thinking how lucky I am and how unlucky, too.
I return to his mouth, lingering on his lips for a minute, then dart down to his neck where I taste the warm saltiness of his skin, mixed with the fading scent of his aftershave, a smell that—in this instant, I am struck by this thought—feels like mine. I could walk down the street years from now and collide with my memory of the way his neck tastes, by the clarity of the recollection, by the belief that his smell belongs to me. Even if this ends, even if it ends tonight, or in two weeks or two months or two years, I want to imprint him on my senses so I never forget. Because I am being reprogrammed right now, relearning everything about how it feels to know that someone can be yours, that you could be theirs, too, and neither one of you has to be Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill through eternity.
“Just thinking about how good this feels,” I say, obscuring the full truth.
“Let’s keep making you feel good,” he says, kissing my collarbone.
As I close my eyes, savoring the feel, my mind flits back over the day. To Owen and his unfounded suspicions of Taryn, to Kelly and her bone-chilling fear of the word divorce, to Matthew and the demands he wouldn’t meet, to Aidan and me. For the last few weeks, I’ve swung back and forth between wanting Matthew and doubting Matthew, between being playful with him and privately wondering if he was flirty to land the story. To learning to trust. To enjoy trusting someone, and here we are holding hands on the street, spending nights together, talking about exes, navigating little blips. We are quickly passing all these compulsory moments in a new relationship with flying colors. Yet, I can’t help but wonder what sort of secrets, lies, and quiet compromises Matthew and I might be making as I let him in.
The Break-Up Album Page 17