Pointing over her shoulder with her thumb, she said, “I’m going go get changed.”
I watched her as she climbed up the ladder, the soaked material of her bikini bottom clinging just a little too close. Totally un-self-conscious, she stepped onto the pool deck and slid a finger on each side of the small triangle of fabric to adjust it. Women did that on purpose, I was convinced.
So, Penny was going to come back to my place, and we were going to behave.
Hand to God, we were going to behave.
* * * *
I spent the drive to my place wondering what incriminating evidence I may have left lying about the living spaces. I hadn’t taken out the recycling in a while…Would she judge me on the number of beer bottles in it? I hadn’t left my laptop open with some porn site prominently displayed on the screen, had I?
“I’m so excited, right now,” she said with a little bounce while we rode up in the elevator. “You have no idea how often I’ve looked at this place and fantasized about what it might be like inside.”
“I hope the fantasy lives up to the reality, but you have to remember, a very single, very depressed man has been living here.” There was a pair of jeans across the back of the couch, I knew there was. If I could sneak in and hide them…
“My mom used to tell people, ‘I’m here to see you, not your house,’ but then, she would bitch about their housekeeping for the entire ride home.” Penny rolled her eyes. “I promise I won’t do that to you. As much as I want to see the inside of your apartment, I really am here to see you.”
The doors opened, and we stepped out of the entry elevator into the open floor plan of the first level.
“Oh my God,” Penny said breathlessly. “You made this.”
“I designed it,” I clarified. “Many people who are far more skilled than I am built it.”
I was being modest, but I knew the apartment was impressive. Three floors surrounded a private glass elevator, the shaft freestanding and wrapped by flights of floating stairs. Both led all the way up, beyond the second and third stories, to a modernized, partially enclosed deck. The entire apartment had great views; three-hundred-and-sixty-five degrees that included the Brooklyn and Williamsburg bridges, and on clear days, the Statue of Liberty off in the distance.
Penny walked cautiously down the shallow steps into the living room, where a U-shaped sofa rested in front of the first of the four big clock faces.
“And they really work?” she asked, stepping timidly over to the window, as though she were afraid of falling.
“They do. There is a very nice service technician by the name of Andrew who comes by every now and then to inspect the machinery and make sure it’s all running properly. There’s a room where all of the clock-related equipment is. I don’t go into it.” I eyed the jeans laying across the back of the couch. There was a knitted cotton throw there, too, so I quickly lifted it up and stuffed the jeans beneath it while she was still captivated by the clock.
She turned and came toward me, trailing her fingers along the back of the couch in such a way that I couldn’t tell if she were being intentionally flirty or just feeling the upholstery. “Your decorator really knew what they were doing.”
Ah, fuck. I looked down, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide the sudden shock to my system. I hadn’t realized until that horribly inconvenient moment that I had never brought a date back to this apartment. Gena and I had moved here together. This place was a timeline of my failed marriage.
That could have occurred to me at any point before I’d asked Penny over.
Against my own will and every instinct screaming through me to not say a fucking word, I stammered, “My—” and just caught myself before I said wife, “Gena. My ex-wife Gena, excuse me. She did all of this.”
If my slip had bothered Penny, it didn’t show. “Did she? Well, it looks fantastic.”
As long as Penny was pretending things were fine, I would, also. “She’s talented.” In many areas. Several of which she had pursued relentlessly and dropped easily when they no longer challenged her. “Unfocused, but talented.” Stop talking about your ex-wife, you complete and utter cock. “And I’m not saying that to be bitter, I—”
This was ridiculous. I couldn’t possibly start a new relationship if I went on pretending the end of my old relationship didn’t bother me. Penny knew I was divorced, and she had gone through a breakup of her own recently, as well. I rubbed a hand over my face, which suddenly felt very tired. Perhaps that was just dryness from the pool. “I’m sorry. I have to confess something. You’re the first woman I’ve had over here, since Gena. Besides her and our female friends at parties and the like. You’re actually the first date who’s come here. I hope I’m not out of line telling you that.”
“No, I don’t think that’s out of line,” she assured me. “Thanks for telling me instead of being weird all night about it.”
I had to touch her. Maybe it was relief at how accepting she was of the six-piece luggage set of personal baggage I’d just deposited at her feet. She hadn’t acted offended that I’d brought up Gena, or the fact we were standing in the home I’d once shared with her. Penny had now seen my messy emotional compound fracture, and she didn’t seem eager to run.
A curled wisp of hair had fallen out of her braid to lay against her cheek. I stepped closer and tucked it behind her ear, aching at the too-brief contact. “I didn’t see the point in being weird. Honesty worked well enough yesterday.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m glad I’m here.” She swayed toward me, perhaps unconsciously, and I couldn’t resist. I brushed my fingers down her jaw to cup her cheek, and leaned in. Did I want to kiss her properly, until both of us had to come up for air? Of course I did. But, if I did that, we might never order dinner. So, I kissed the corner of her closed lips then put my hands in my pockets to physically remind myself I shouldn’t touch her. “So. Dinner.”
She blinked up at me as if in a daze.
Christ, did that do things for a man’s ego.
I nodded toward the kitchen. “That’s where I keep the delivery menus.”
Penny followed me to the kitchen. It’s the one area of the apartment I truly dislike, because I hate galley kitchens, but it was also the only design that made sense for the space, and I’d had to compromise for the sake of flow. I’d managed to keep it entirely open but for the hood over the stove, which I’d designed a free-hanging enclosure for.
“In the refrigerator?” she joked, and I was glad she couldn’t see me wince.
“You’re going to laugh at me, but I do keep them in the cupboard.” I opened one and pulled down the stack of pamphlets I’d amassed over the past few months. If I ate at any restaurant in the area, I collected a delivery menu on the way out. I shopped for them the way most people shopped for groceries.
Penny noticed. Eyeing the contents of the cupboard—a jar of peanut butter, a box with too-little macaroni to bother cooking, and some pitted dates that may have moved into the apartment with me, I hadn’t checked the expiration—she asked hesitantly, “Ian… What have you been eating?”
“Delivery, mostly.” I realized how pathetic this must look, and there was really no saving face. This was the most well stocked food storage area in the house. “And peanut butter.”
Her brow rumpled as she looked around the counters. “Do you even have any bread?”
My shoes became a point of great interest to my eyes, much in the way they had when I’d been scolded by my mum as a boy. “Not as such.”
“God, I hope you are using a spoon and not your hand,” she said. She sounded like someone describing a disaster.
I suppose she was.
Still, I wasn’t going to stand for that type of accusation in my own house. I had to defend myself. “Well, of course I’m using a spoon.”
I pulled out the built-in rubbish bin, displaying its contents: approximately sixty of the plastic spoons from the one hundred-spoon box in the silverware drawer.
&n
bsp; I was about to point out that some of them had been used to stir coffee, but I realized that would only compound the problem.
She laughed at me but not unkindly. “You’re a mess.”
I had a chuckle at myself, too, because I would rather do that than start openly weeping at what my life seemed to have become. It hadn’t felt so pathetic until I’d brought another person into the rubble of my imploded marriage. I’d really become a textbook for how not to date women.
“Ah, you were going to find out soon, anyway.”
“You’re right. So thanks for once again not being weird,” she said.
Her fucking smile. Could anything be more beautiful?
I wanted to see it again. Teasing her seemed to be the most effective way of bringing it out. “You’re weird enough for the both of us.”
It worked.
Deciding where we should order from was slightly complicated by the fact that both of us wanted to be malleable to the other person’s preferences. We settled on Italian food, though I got the impression neither of us would have picked it as a first choice.
While we waited, I gave her a tour of the apartment. She’d already seen most of the first floor—it was impossible to walk into the place and not see most of the first floor—so I took her up to the second to see my studio.
In general, I didn’t like to take people into my studio or mention the fact that I draw anything beyond blueprints. It wasn’t false modesty that drove me to seek privacy about my art. I knew I was good, and that was the problem; if you’re good at something, people want to know why you’re not making money from it. I’d done a few gallery shows to appease Gena, and I’d sold a few pieces. It had been a nice ego boost, but drawing had to remain a hobby. If it were my career, I would lose my mind.
So, it came down to either showing Penny my studio, or inviting her to see my bedroom, which would sound like a come-on, no matter how it was meant. I chose the studio.
Any twinge of misgiving I might have felt vanished as I watched Penny walk through the wide, mostly unfurnished space with quiet thoughtfulness. She studied the placement of my drafting table in relation to the windows in the slanted ceiling and asked, “Why don’t you have lights up there, if this is where your table is?” She walked around the desk and gestured to it. “Can I look?”
My blood turned to stone for a painful heartbeat. I’d forgotten the drawing I’d left there.
“Sure,” I said, hoping she would take my hesitation as protectiveness for my work. On autopilot, I added, “And the reason I don’t have lights directly above my desk is because they would be coming right at the back of my head. It’s hard to draw in your own shadow.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t have thought of that,” she said, her focus on the paper taped there. “Is this a relative?”
Well, we did look alike. “My brother, Robby. When he was twenty. I’m trying to do it from memory, but I can’t quite get it right. I may turn to a photo reference soon.”
I would have to get one from Annie, if I could bear it. Every time I looked at a photo of my brother, I only saw the way he’d looked when I’d arrived on the scene.
Drawing him from memory, that was the only way I could focus my concentration on remembering what he’d looked like without half his fucking head gone. But that wasn’t anything I ever planned to burden Penny with knowing.
“Do all of you guys look alike?” she asked, brightening up.
“I take after my dad. Most of us do. My sister, Annie, looks more like Mum.” I had to get out of the room. It felt haunted, now that we’d talked about Robby.
I started casually for the door, and she followed along beside me. Without thinking, I blurted, “The third floor is my bedroom—”
“No, I’m not used to your creepy stairs, yet, and that’s way too high,” she answered quickly.
There was an elevator right in front of us. I got the hint. I wanted her to know it hadn’t been a come on—or at least that I wasn’t going to use some sleazy, high-pressure tactic to get her into my bed—so I said, “We’ll take the elevator back down, then.”
Afraid of stairs or not, I had a great idea when the food arrived. I would take her up to show her the absolute jewel of the apartment, the entire reason I’d purchased it in the first place. After I paid the delivery man, I took the plastic containers and let her carry two bottles of beer and some silverware. “Let’s bring this with us.”
She came to the elevator with me. “Where to?”
I used my elbow to press the button. “Up to the deck.”
“The deck?”
“It’s more of a widow’s walk, but it has great views.” I was downplaying it intentionally. The rooftop deck was fantastic, a little box resting at the apex of the tower, partially enclosed from the elements with glass walls and railings, and a ceiling of thick glass blocks.
As we rode past the third floor, Penny excitedly exclaimed, “Is that Ambrose?”
I didn’t catch the glimpse she had, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Ambrose was slinking around the third floor. He was wary of strangers. “If it was a cat, and it was in my apartment, then I very much hope it was.”
“This is amazing,” Penny breathed as we stepped onto the deck. It couldn’t have been a more romantic evening. The brutal heat of the day had faded into a balmy night, and the sunset melted into a purple twilight that contrasted beautifully with the yellow and orange lights of the city.
Gena had picked out what I still considered fairly impractical outdoor furniture, a chair-and-a-half and chaise longue in lacquered black wood and white linen upholstery, and a square black coffee table. Then again, I supposed it wouldn’t have been as impressive to invite Penny up to see my deck with Adirondack chairs or a picnic table.
I placed our food on the table as I apologized in advance for the way we would have to hunch over to eat. “Not an ideal dining arrangement, I know, but I think it’s worth it for the atmosphere.”
“I think it’s fantastic,” Penny said, sliding into the chair. “I eat a lot of meals sitting on the floor next to our coffee table at home, anyway.”
While we ate, Penny regaled me with tales of her move from the Midwest to the Big Apple, and I responded in kind, explaining how strange it had been coming to the city from Scotland. It did not surprise me in the slightest to find that for both of us, it was like traveling to another planet, not just a new city or country. She also told me about her friends, and we found we shared an oddly contradictory personality quirk in which we considered ourselves outgoing but introverted.
It was that conversation, in which we talked about the few close friends we each had, that she asked a question I hadn’t even realized I’d been dreading.
“How do you know Sophie?”
I had just twirled up a bit of spaghetti bolognese and was about to lift it to my mouth when I froze. My first instinct led to a lie of omission: “I went to university with her husband. Briefly.”
“Oh, really? Where was that?” she asked. It might have sounded like a trap because I felt guilty. Or she might have already known the truth: that I had slept with Sophie. It wasn’t as though I could ask her if she knew without telling her if she didn’t, and I still hadn’t figured out exactly when it would be appropriate to bring it up.
So, I just answered her question. “Exeter. I went for fine art.” I took a bite and pretended to be interested in the plate from which the next would come.
“And that turned into…architecture?”
I took a swallow of my beer. I had been forced into architecture. After my brother and sister had died, I’d been paralyzed by the sudden upheaval in my family, and I’d felt responsible for my mum. Art had seemed like a lark, and I’d felt I needed a real career. “The two have a lot in common. But some personal circumstances arose that changed my career path, as it were.”
“Ah.” She paused. She did know something. She had to. “So, was Neil a fine arts major?”
Ah, fuck it. I’d have to tell her. “No
, economics. We met through a club. I’m not sure I want to tell you which.”
“Well now you have to. You’ve piqued my interest.”
“It may change how you feel about me,” I warned her. And I hoped it wouldn’t. God, I hoped it wouldn’t. My sexual past had never been any obstacle to my sexual future before, and I was beginning to sweat under my collar.
She laughed, because she didn’t know where the conversational path we were on would lead us to. “Ian. I’m pretty much sold on you at this point. Unless you were a Neo-Nazi skinhead, I won’t care.”
She’s sold on me? The momentary swell of joy in my heart was tamped down firmly by the reality of what I had to tell her. I nodded, looked down then decided that I was going to have to make eye contact with her to really prove I wasn’t joking. “It was a kink club.”
She went as still as a photo, her eyes wide, cheeks flaming red. When she spoke, she sounded like the words were choking her. “A…oh.”
“Yeah. It was an experimental time in my youth.” My gaze wandered off, away from the discussion we were having. Talking had been so much easier when we’d been discussing the difference between having a party and going to a party.
It took her a moment to respond, and I panicked. Was I going to have to explain to her what a kink club was? Schools had had them secretly for a long time. I thought Harvard’s might have been officially recognized. The one at Oxford had been a word-of-mouth, private gathering.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Penny began. “People are into all sorts of things. I might not be—”
“It isn’t a relationship requirement,” I hurried to assure her. The last thing I needed was for her to think I was hiding shackles behind my back or something. “Besides, we’re not sleeping together.”
“But that doesn’t mean we won’t.”
My throat was suddenly very dry, and I swallowed.
She went on, “And it doesn’t mean I’d never try something a little risqué. What’s your kink?” and I thought I might need oxygen.
First Time: Ian's Story (First Time (Ian) Book 1) Page 9