The Ground Rules

by Roya Carmen

  “I was checking out some stores I like in the city.” When I should have been spending time with you.

  Gabe bounds down the stairs. I can’t quite look at him.

  I don’t want to do this.

  “Ella…” he says.

  I venture a look up at him. He stands there, motionless, today’s newspaper dangling in one hand.

  He knows. I’m not sure how, but his expression says it all. He looks like he’s been kicked in the gut.

  Damn it, I didn’t want this.

  He throws the paper at the wall and bounds back up the stairs. The loud bang stuns the girls—Chloe finally takes her eyes off the TV, slack-jawed. It’s what he does when he’s pissed—he throws things.

  I run after him, wanting to explain. “Gabe, I…”

  When I finally reach him upstairs, he turns to me and grabs my wrist, pulling me to him. I can tell he has no intention of letting go. He drags me to the powder room and slams the door shut behind us. He definitely knows what I’ve been up to.

  He glares at me. “What happened?”

  I can’t seem to form the words I need to answer him.

  “Did he hurt you?”

  Did he hurt me? Yes, he did. “No.”

  “Why have you been crying then? What happened?”

  I don’t say a word, knowing my silence will be his answer. The truth is, I can’t find the words. I can barely breathe.

  “Did you fuck him?” he snaps. I’m not sure why he’s asking since he seems to already know. He grabs my waist and buries his head into my neck. “I can smell him on you.”

  Tears make their way down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice ragged, “I planned to end things with him, but then…”

  He presses closer against me. I want to escape. I don’t want to have this conversation. “But then…you begged him to stick it in you…I get it.”

  “Don’t be like that,” I plead as I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. No wonder he knew; running mascara, flushed face, just-fucked hair—I’m a dead giveaway.

  “How was he?” he breathes in my ear. “Better than me?”

  I don’t answer him of course. He wasn’t better, I want to say…just different.

  He presses me against the wall. “I’d be surprised if he was,” gently biting my earlobe, “there’s no one who can fuck you better than I can.”

  He trails his mouth along my collarbone. “Tell me something,” he says, his words playful. “Did Mr. Stiff-Upper-Lip make you fold your panties after you took them off?”

  I don’t know what possesses me, but his arrogance gets to me. And I know I’ll regret the words as soon as I say them. And I know I’m not supposed to talk about what happens behind closed doors, but the words come out before I can stop them. “No, he buried his nose in them…and shoved them in his pocket.”

  He jolts back, a scowl on his face. He turns from me, grabs the hand towel off the hook and throws it at the mirror, so hard, the “smack” bounces off the walls.

  There’s a good reason for the rules, I chide myself.

  I have such a big mouth.

  Surprisingly, his expression softens and his anger seems to dissipate.

  His hand reaches for the collar of my blouse. He undoes the buttons slowly, surprisingly gently. “Wow, I’m impressed.” He trails his hand down my chest. “Did he use a condom?”

  I can’t believe he would even ask me that question. “Of course.”

  He slides his rough hand up my leg. “Good. I’m putting my stamp on you. I’m completely erasing him.”

  He can’t possibly want me here, now, in the powder room?

  I can’t do this.

  This is not the time or place.

  And he’s not thinking straight.

  His hand stills when he reaches my hips and realizes I’m going commando. “What the fuck?”

  “Uh…” I stammer. I want to disappear. “Still in his pocket,” I tell him, my words barely a whisper.

  He looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen before—anger mixed with pure desire. “You are a little tramp, aren’t you?” he whispers in my ear. “So, you’ll probably like it when I treat you like one.”

  He’s still fuming.

  The grasp of his hand is hard.

  This doesn’t feel right.

  His reaction shocks me—I’ve never seen him quite like this. I can’t let him treat me like this. No matter how angry he is.

  I push him off me. “Back off, Gabe. I don’t want to play this game.”

  His face softens—apparently, I’ve finally knocked some sense into him. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

  I don’t know what to say. I make an escape and run up the stairs, holding my blouse tightly against my chest.

  I plop myself on the bed and fall into a puddle of tears. Gabe doesn’t come to me. And I don’t want him to.

  God…what a hot mess.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Settle down…little butterfly.

  GABE AND I ARE LYING IN BED. My head rests on his stomach, and he strokes my hair.

  “I’m sorry, Ella,” he says softly. “I was angry. It was the initial shock. It won’t happen again, I promise. I just…I expected you to break things off with him, but then…”

  Gabe’s reaction wasn’t completely unexpected. I knew he would be very upset. I’ve never been with anyone else before. I’ve only been his. And now, someone else has had me—someone he’s threatened by. Gabe was angry, and he acted out of anger, and that’s all there is to it.

  I decide to let it go.

  “I forgive you.” I lace my fingers in his.

  “You know I love you, right?”

  “I love you too.”

  That night, although we know we can’t go into the details, we talk about the exchange—about our feelings.

  We discuss how strange it feels to be with someone else—the doubts, the fears and the excitement. We also confess the feelings of anger and jealousy we both experienced when we realized the person we love had been with someone else. And we talk about the guilt—the battle between remorse and desire.

  I tell him I don’t really want to do this again with Weston, but I don’t tell him why—I don’t admit Weston managed to make me feel like a whore. If Gabe knew, he would be livid and would probably do something very stupid.

  After much prodding, he finally admits he enjoyed himself with Bridget and wouldn’t mind seeing her again, but he also tells me he’s happy I want to end the arrangement. I let him know I’d like to see Weston again, perhaps just one more time. Part of me wants to see him again, despite the fact that part of me hates him.

  How can a person want to be with someone who makes them feel terrible? I don’t understand my emotions. I don’t understand him. He was so sweet and warm…and then, he just turned cold.

  I so desperately want to understand him.

  We don’t see or connect with Weston and Bridget for what seems like an eternity, communicating with Kathryn exclusively. She lets us know Weston is out of town on business. And I wonder if he’s avoiding me. His behavior was so strange after we had sex—he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Of course, I start obsessing, wondering what he thought of me. He did say I was wonderful. I chide myself for thinking this way and tell myself I don’t give a rat’s ass what he thinks. But I do.

  I wish I didn’t, but I do.

  I want to see him. I want to talk to him. I want to know why he behaved the way he did. I hate these rules. I want to call him. I realize how convenient this little arrangement of ours is for him—he gets to sleep with me when the mood strikes but keeps me at arm’s length. He gets a little on the side, and still, his perfect idyllic life is left unscathed. He’s managed to turn me into a miserable, pathetic excuse of a woman—I need to stand up for myself. It’s probably a good thing to keep some distance for the moment, because I might throttle him.

  But despite this, I can’t help thinking about him, about the way he made
me feel. As much as I hate to admit…the sex was amazing. I kind of wish he had been terrible in bed—then maybe I could just walk away. He still has my underwear, the bottoms of a very expensive set. And I can’t exactly call him up or text him about it. I can only communicate with Kathryn. A smile stretches my lips as I compose a note for her.

  Dear Kathryn,

  Please inform Weston that he is in possession of some of my personal property. I would like to see it returned at a convenient time.

  Thank you so much.

  Cheers,

  Mirella

  I have no clue how Weston will react to this playful e-mail, and I’m not sure if I even care. The next day, I receive a reply from Kathryn.

  Dear Mirella,

  I have informed Weston about your personal property. He is indeed in possession of it, is personally overseeing it, and will return it to you, in intact condition, at your next meeting.

  Best,

  Kathryn

  I laugh at the formality and absurdity of it all. It seems Weston does have a sense of humor after all.

  Weston and I meet at the restaurant at his building.

  My brain has been playing a very explosive reel—a constant loop of alternating images of me telling him to shove it where the sun don’t shine, my words laced with very colorful language. I’m still so angry at him, but I’m determined to not let it show. Under no circumstances do I want him to know I care.

  Because he obviously doesn’t.

  The hostess leads me through the sleek space—glowing amber pendant lights, glossy leather seats, wrought-iron accents. One of my favorite Adele songs is playing in the background. The mood evokes something in me—something I can’t quite put my finger on. But when I see him seated at the table, wearing a fitted paisley button shirt and dark wash jeans, it comes to me…yes…the mood is all sex.

  He waves and stands when he sees me.

  I take a step back when he kisses me on the cheek. He pulls a chair for me. I don’t care how polite he is, I’m still livid. How could he just leave me like that, not call me for over two weeks, leave me hanging, and let me spiral into an obsessive-compulsive state of near-madness. I really should end this…right now.

  I must admit though…the man does look good.

  He folds up his Chicago Tribune and tucks it away in his satchel. “How are you?”

  I take a seat, my body as stiff as a frozen shovel. “I’m fine, thank you.”

  I notice he’s put on his armor again—it’s evident in his rigid stance, his tone is even, his smile seems fake. This is the face he shows most people. But I’ve seen that softer, more human side of him, when we’ve been intimate—his eyes locked on mine, soft words whispered in my ear. I ache for that side of him again. I love when he loses his inhibitions around me, and I can truly see him. But that’s all an illusion.

  The server pours water and takes our drink orders. I opt for a simple cranberry and soda. She leaves us with a smile.

  He looks off into the distance. “I wanted to apologize to you for the last time I saw you.”

  I shake my head a little. I don’t say a thing. I’m not sure what to say.

  “I want you to know,” he’s still not quite looking at me, “it was wonderful for me.”

  It was wonderful for me too…except.

  “You were—”

  “Yes, we covered that already,” I scoff. “I was wonderful, amazing, a great lay.”

  He bites his lip and pulls at his collar. “I’ve been thinking about it endlessly,” he goes on, “about how we left things off,” he adds. “I’m afraid I left rather abruptly…”

  You did.

  “I fear I mishandled the situation,” he says, regret in his eyes. “I hope I haven’t upset you.”

  You did, I want to say…I wanted to crumble and die.

  I cross my arms. “It was fine,” I say, my words clipped. “You’ve told me. This is about sex. Pure and simple. I understand how this works.”

  “I shouldn’t have—”

  “You were in a hurry. You had to get back to your kids,” I point out, my eye drawn to the intricate paisley pattern of his shirt.

  “But still, I could have spared you five minutes.”

  He’s right, but I don’t say a thing.

  “It’s just that…”

  “That what?”

  He looks down at his glass, his mouth a hard line. “There was something…when we had sex…it seemed almost…too intimate.”

  Too intimate…

  I lean in close, glaring at him. “We had sex, Weston. We still had our clothes on.” I feel the color rise in my cheeks. “We still had our shoes on, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But what? You fingered me, threw me on the bed, slipped on a rubber, and pounded me.” I want to shock him. I want to anger him. I want him to react, not just sit there, acting cool and collected, like this conversation isn’t getting to him. But as I say the words out loud, I know I’m full of it. He’s right—it was more than sex.

  He sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry…but that’s not quite how I remember it,” he says, resting his hand gently on mine.

  I jerk my hand away. “Don’t.”

  He closes his eyes, and I can see he’s upset. Finally…I’m not the only one who feels something.

  He turns his gaze away. “Next time I’d like to lie beside you for five minutes or so.”

  I snort. “Oh…is that the acceptable post-coital resting time?” I can’t believe him. I want to give him a lesson is social decorum. “Is that listed in your manual?”

  He sighs and pulls away. “Please, don’t mock me, Mirella,” he says, his tone serious. “These kinds of situations are not easy for me. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly full of social graces.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “It’s the way I am. I can’t change it. I’m not myself around others. I don’t quite know how to behave.”

  His armor has been stripped. He gets to me—his words, the expression on his face.

  “I’m sorry,” I relent, my words soft. “My tone was harsh.”

  “And I didn’t want to lead you astray. I’m walking a slippery slope with you, Mirella.”

  I’m not sure what he’s saying.

  “You’ve done this before. Haven’t you walked this slippery slope before?”

  “No,” he says, not quite looking at me. “I never have.”

  I want him to make eye contact. I want to see those stunning eyes of his. I want to understand what he’s telling me.

  He finally ventures a look at me. “I need to be careful with you. The last thing I would ever want to do is hurt you.”

  The server comes back with our drinks, so friendly, so cheerful, and so obviously oblivious to the drama between us.

  I lean in and take a sip of my cranberry soda…my mouth is so dry.

  “I like your dress,” he offers. I think he’s trying to lighten the conversation.

  I look down at my sleek sheath black dress and stiletto heels. “Thanks,” I say, finally smiling at him. “I was going for sexy.”

  He takes a drink of his scotch, his eyes not leaving me. “Well, you’ve certainly succeeded.” He’s doing it again—practically undressing me with his stare.

  My heart pounds. Damn him…it’s so easy for him to completely undo me.

  He reaches into his leather satchel. “I have something for you.” He pulls out a small silver box and hands it to me.

  My mouth hangs open. I wasn’t expecting this.

  I hesitate and finally take it. “But isn’t this against the rules, Weston?” I ask, confused. “You specifically said…no gifts.”

  “It’s something very small,” he explains. “I was shopping with Lizzie when I saw it. It made me think of you,” he explains, an adorable smile plastered on his face. “Please think of it as a peace-offering for my clumsy behavior.”

  I open the box and a smile stretches across my face as I stare d
own at the fun bejeweled turtle brooch nestled in the white cotton pad.

  “I love it.”

  “You said the turtles were your favorite.”

  “I did.”

  “And I know you like brooches.”

  I take the brooch gently out of the box and pin it on my dress, an inch above my heart. Damn, now I can’t be mad at him.

  “It suits you.” He’s still looking at me with that unnerving, intense stare.

  He leaves me speechless.

  I don’t know if it’s the restaurant, or the sexy way his hair refuses to be tamed—that one unruly lock sticking out at an odd angle. Maybe it’s the five o’clock shadow, the brilliant green of his eyes, but I want him.

  Or maybe it’s the fact that his suite is just a quick elevator ride up. I know I’ve told myself I would end it, but…

  “I still have your panties in my pocket.”

  His words arouse me. “Have you had your nose buried in them?” I tease, realizing I’ve been defeated.

  “Here and there,” he says with a wicked grin.

  “Such a dirty boy,” I say, a smile on my face. I don’t care if it makes me feel like a whore again…I still want him. As much as I wanted to end this, I’m still willing to put everything on the line—my sanity, my marriage, my heart.

  I lean in close, my hand buried in my loose curls. “Take me to your room.”

  He swallows and puts his drink down. “You’re not hungry?”

  I brush my finger along my neck, feeling suddenly hot. “No.” I am so turned on—I’m just about to short-circuit.

  “Neither am I,” he confesses, his words soft.

  He gets the server’s attention, tells her an emergency has called us away, and leaves a hundred dollar bill on the table.

  He holds my hand as we walk to the elevators. Two older couples are standing, waiting. They seem to be friends, chatting about a local restaurant. They smile at us sweetly.

  The elevator chimes, and we follow the couples in.

  “Which floor?” one of the ladies asks.

  “Forty-two,” Weston tells her. His hand rests on my waist. This slight touch lights me up, and I close my eyes imagining what is to come.

  My hand is in his as he leads me to his suite. I realize that despite how he might make me feel, or whatever happens, I can’t free myself from him. I’ve had a taste, and now I can’t do without.