Tom takes his shot and exhales sharply.
“Yeah. That little asshole had run away from rehab, and gone back to some old lover. It all started again – the drugs, the drinking, the parties. His money ran out, and then he called me.”
“What did you do?” I was holding my breath.
“Stupidly enough, I gave him what he wanted. I thought he would love me again. Wrong. I’m just like my father: I’m made to love one person only. When my mom left, my dad never recovered from the blow. He started drinking, way too much, and he’s still a drunk. It’s hard to even talk with him. I thought I meant more to him than that. Once he lost her, though, he lost interest in everything, including me.”
“What about Antoine?”
“What about him? You saw us,” Tom says, laughing ruefully. “We keep in touch, and we’re even sort of on good terms. When he asked me to come to his rehearsal, that was him throwing me a bone. He knows how I feel about him. I never could resist him. I’m not giving him any more money, though.”
Good thing, too. That bastard would have bled Tom dry without breaking a sweat.
“You know what kind of person he is…” I start, but I don’t finish my sentence.
“Right!” Tom nods. “I know he’s a wreck of a man, a man who doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love anyone except himself. Still...” Tom sighs loudly, looking down at his feet. “I just can’t seem to help myself. There really are no rational reasons or explanations for love. Or lust, for that matter.”
The next day, Tom helps me pack up my paintings. He’s flying home that evening, now that he’s decided to skip the Romeo and Juliet rehearsal. Tom really is just an extraordinary guy. A logical and pragmatic art dealer, and at the same time a romantic with a broken heart. I give him a big hug as we say goodbye.
I feel like saying something nice to him. It must be difficult for him to leave Vancouver. “You’re my first real friend,” I declare.
“How many unreal friends did you have, before me?” Tom waggles an eyebrow at me again in fun.
“Well, I never had any friends at all, either real or unreal. Just acquaintances, actually, and Paul.” I can’t quite believe I’m being so honest.
“Good answer, Emmy. I am one of a kind! Come on, give me a nice big kiss. Right here.” Tom taps his finger to one cheek, then the other. “I’ll see you soon back in our gallery.”
Chapter 33. Returning to Los Angeles
Once Tom leaves, I make arrangements with Lorna for the coming weekend and my trip to Los Angeles. What if Paul doesn’t want to talk to me? Maybe he’s already left. Then where would I spend the weekend? Would Tom take me in? This is too much to think about right now… The best thing to do would be to text Paul.
Me: When will you be home Friday?
The answer comes a couple hours later.
Paul: This Friday? 7 PM. Why?
Me: I want to visit you.
Paul: Why do you ask? Nothing else to do?
Me: Already bought a ticket. Plenty to do.
I keep an eye on the phone for a long time, but no message arrives from Paul. What’s wrong with him? Is he trying to figure out how to tell me not to come? Panicking, I text him again.
Me: Should I cancel?
Paul: No, definitely not. When are you getting in? I’ll pick you up.
Me: Need to stop by the gallery to see Rachel first.
Paul: Why?
Me: To talk about some paintings.
Paul: Fuck the paintings. Fuck Rachel.
Me: OK, fuck them, but I’m getting in early anyway. You’ll be at work.
Paul: What time? What flight?
I send him the flight number.
Paul: I’ll be waiting.
I live through the rest of the week in a feverish state of excitement, on pins and needles, waiting to see Paul. There’s so much I need to say to him, and so many things to explain and confess. How stubborn and thickheaded I’ve been, for example. Paul had figured out right away that nothing John and Rachel had done to us ought to force us apart. It’s taken me all this time and distance to reach the same conclusion. My body feels famished for Paul, and it’s incomprehensible how I’ve held on this long without him. I remember that I still need to find a way to stop by the gallery and talk with Rachel, but I’ve forgotten why that is.
When Lorna notices how nervous and anxious I’m acting, she starts to worry that something awful has happened. I finally have to tell her that my husband is in Los Angeles, and that I miss him terribly and can’t wait to see him.
“Emmy, look how mysterious you’ve turned out to be! Who would have thought that you’re married?” Lorna doesn’t hide her surprise, or her annoyance. I’ve lived under her roof for almost a month now without divulging such an important thing. “Did something happen between you two? Are you separated?”
“Something did happen,” I answer, not very enthusiastic to explain. “We’re not separated. We just decided to live apart for a while. That turned out not to be my smartest decision. I’m going there to find out what he thinks about all this.”
“You’re trying to make up?” Lorna asks, intrigued. She’s wonderful, and I like her, but telling her the whole story, even if she might understand and refrain from judging me, is out of question. I just don’t want anyone else to know about John, Rachel and us. It’s too personal, and the memories are still all too fresh and painful.
“We didn’t actually fight. Things just worked out this way: first I had the job in Seattle, then there was the job here. I’ve always wanted to work in a gallery, rather than teach school. It was important for me to try living on my own.”
“Haven’t you liked it?” Lorna’s face wears a troubled expression. Strange as it sounds, that troubled look makes me happy, because it means that she doesn’t want to lose me. I don’t want to get lost, either.
“I love working here, Lorna! Vancouver is great, and so are your friends. I hope that Paul – that’s my husband – will like it here, too.”
I can see the wrinkles fade from her forehead as she relaxes. Now I’ll be able to go, without losing my job and without explaining the whole complicated story.
Thursday night I hardly sleep, trying to put my thoughts in order. What will I tell him? How? I envision Paul as he was the first time we spoke, when he walked over to me in class to pick up my test, with those blue eyes and that scarlet flush on his cheeks. Then I see him as he was the last time we met: exhausted, disheveled, and tormented. I want to touch him so badly it hurts. It’s as if he holds some sort of life force that I can’t live without.
In the morning, I put on my nicest new dress. It’s dark blue with long sleeves, little buttons down the front and a full skirt that just reaches my knees. It makes my eyes look the same shade of blue. I pull on my favorite boots, the ones with a wide, sturdy heel. Wearing them I look taller and feel more confident. After a shower, I take my time doing my hair. For Paul, I desperately want to look beautiful, the single most gorgeous woman in the world. The book I bring with me for the airport and the plane turns out to be completely unreadable. I spend two hours on a single page. Don’t even ask me what I read that whole time, because I have no idea.
The plane lands, and the ten minutes it takes before they finally let us off feel like an eternity. I physically itch all over with impatience. Finally, I walk off the plane and away from the gate, and catch sight of Paul.
What did I say to Eric when he asked me about love? A punch in the stomach? Yes. Right to the solar plexus. It hurts to breathe. I walk over to him as if through a fog. Paul has combed his hair and shaved, and his eyes aren’t as red as they were last time I saw him. He still looks just as thin and disheveled, though. He stares at me as if he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing. Yes. Yes, I’m back. I don’t know if I whisper those words out loud or only pronounce them in my own head. I step up to Paul and hug him tight. He wraps both his arms around me and presses me to his chest. I breathe in his scent (fresh and clean, with no trace of nicotin
e or alcohol) and hear his heart beating loudly. I can’t live without him. For Paul’s sake I’d slit Rachel’s throat, or anyone’s, if that’s what it took. I am never leaving him again.
Finally, we release our grip, and look each other in the eye.
“I really didn’t think you’d be here. Why aren’t you at work?” I ask.
“I quit,” says Paul, his voice somehow distant and dispassionate.
“When? Why?”
Paul raises one hand as if to ward off my questions.
“Just wait a minute, Emmy. I’ll tell you the whole story. Now that you’re here, we can finally have a decent conversation. Let’s get home first, though, okay?”
Yes. It can wait until we get home. We find the car, and Paul ushers me into the passenger seat. Instead of closing the door, he leans down and kisses me firmly on the mouth. I wrap both arms around his neck and pull him close. Our first kiss leads straight to our second, and then our third. We can’t tear ourselves away from one another. Paul takes my face in his hands and just looks at me. There is joy and tenderness in that gaze. He seems younger.
“I want you so much my legs are buckling under me. I don’t think I can make it home. It’s been such a long wait. I’ve been seeing you everywhere, thinking about you, going crazy.” Paul sighs and buries his face in my hair, and then he runs his hands over my neck and down to my chest. “I want all of you. I want to undress you and kiss you all over. I’m burning up, Emmy.”
His words cut right to my heart. I squeeze my knees tight. I’m having a hard time controlling my body because I want him, too, desperately. We can’t do it in the car, though, can we? Or can we? I really can’t wait another second. Paul gives me a quick kiss on the nose and finally shuts the door. He drives us home in record time.
We hold hands and race up the stairs to our apartment, and go inside. The instant the door closes behind us, I’m in Paul’s arms. I kick off my boots, and he kisses me, unbuttoning my dress as fast as he can. My hands grab at every place on his body I can possibly reach. I try to pull his shirt off, but can’t, because Paul’s hands are in my way. He is holding my face again and kissing me so hard and so deeply I run out of air. We pull apart just to catch our breath. I ache with desire for him.
Paul yanks my dress off my shoulders and together we push it down to the floor. Everywhere he touches me, my skin burns hot. Moaning, he sucks at my mouth, and I cry back in response. We are both trembling in anticipation. I fumble with the fastener on his jeans, but then he puts his hands over mine.
“Hold on, be patient, or everything will be finished before it’s begun. I’ve waited for you for so long. At least give me a chance to look at you.” Paul stands still. His gaze sweeps hungrily over every part of my body, now covered only by my bra and panties. Paul slides one bra strap off my shoulder, then lower, and he touches my breast. I start to moan. I’m gone blind and deaf to the world, completely submerged in sensation now, and all I can hear is the beating of my heart, which is nearly ready to burst out of my chest.
Paul moves his hand lower until it is clamped over my pussy.
“You’re all wet, Emmy,” he whispers, moving the thin strip of fabric aside and slipping one finger inside of me. My climax is so close already that if I don’t stop him, I’m going to come before he does. I don’t want to do it alone. I’ve been doing it alone for way too long. This time I want to find my pleasure right along with him.
“Paul. I need you to fuck me. I need you, now,” I beg him. He doesn’t need much convincing. Paul pulls down both his jeans and his boxers in one smooth movement, and then he picks me up, pulls my underwear farther to the side, and settles me down right on his cock. Now my back is against the wall, and he is moving, slowly. I wrap my legs around his back. His lips kiss and caress my neck and shoulder.
“I don’t think I’m going to last long, sorry,” Paul whispers, penetrating deeper and deeper into me with every thrust. I mean to tell him not to worry, that I’m almost there, too, but it’s too hard to speak with the world swimming before my eyes. Paul withdraws from me almost completely, and the sense of loss makes me groan out loud. Then he drives back in and fills me up again. I’m no longer breathing. He is moving faster now, and even deeper than before, deeper inside me all the time. The blood pounds in my ears. When the pleasure finally explodes inside me, I scream. Paul comes almost simultaneously. I hear him moan. Then he is still, his face buried in my hair, panting hard. I can feel his heart beating. Or is that my heart?
Gradually, our breathing evens out, and Paul sets me down on the floor. I take off the rest of my clothes and head for the shower, and Paul joins me there.
“I couldn’t wait any more,” Paul says, as if apologizing, and he kisses me on the forehead.
“Me neither,” I answer. “I really wanted us to come together.”
“Your wish is my command,” Paul smiles. It’s that same, carefree smile I remember seeing before my trip to Seattle. “Next time, we should do it more slowly. I want to enjoy the whole process.”
“Oh yeah?” I whisper into his shoulder. “Ready for the next time already?”
“Yeah, I planned it all out. I want lots of next times. All in a row. Have you had enough of a rest?”
I giggle and finish toweling off quickly. Paul grabs me up again and carries me to our bed. I feel like clay in his hands. He can have his way with me.
“You’ve lost weight,” I murmur, running my hands over his back a few times.
“Yeah, not much appetite lately.” Paul is already kissing my left breast and caressing it. “Not much appetite, not much sleep. That’s all your fault.” Paul moves over to my right breast. “Look how nice and tasty you are, Emmy! I was starting to think I had just dreamed all of this, but now here you are, with me!” Paul is kissing my stomach now. He flicks his tongue into my navel, then heads lower and lower. “And what do we have here?” He separates my thighs and slowly runs his tongue through the folds between my legs. “Was I too rough with you, last time? Do you forgive me?”
Everything inside me swoons a little when I hear how gentle his voice sounds. Why oh why did I torture us both for so long?
“No, no! It was great, it was wonderful! I even liked that last time.” I’m nearly sobbing, overwhelmed with sensation. “I’m so sorry, Paul. I’m sick of living without you.”
“Silly girl. I forgave you for everything a long time ago. You were the one who couldn’t forgive me. Actually, I couldn’t forgive myself,” says Paul, lifting his head to look at me. “Now do you understand that we are meant to be together? No matter what happens?”
I gaze back at him happily without taking my hands off his body – his neck, his shoulders, his face. He is so strong, muscular, and smooth to the touch. On top of all that, he’s fully erect again, ready for battle. Later we can talk and I’ll tell him everything, but right now we have more important things to do!
I pull Paul toward me and then roll him over so he’s lying on his back. I kiss him hungrily, dozens of little kisses, tracing downward along his body. Those familiar red splotches are coloring his cheeks and he is breathing hard. There is so much naked passion in his eyes that I shiver in anticipation. Paul’s hands glide over my shoulders, my back, and my spine. The feeling of his rough hands caressing me is incredibly arousing. I lean forward to kiss his lips, then sit myself down on him and tense all the muscles inside me.
Paul groans, and complains, “Fuck, Emmy, it’s going to be over too quickly again!”
“We’ll keep doing it till we’re able to do it slowly,” I tell him reassuringly. Then I start to move. His eyes gleam with desire and delight. His hands are covering my breasts. Now I can’t control myself. The tension in that place below my stomach grows stronger, I squeeze again, and I shatter into a thousand pieces. Seconds later I feel Paul quake with his own orgasm. I collapse onto his chest. That kind of climax demands some recovery time. Paul whispers something and strokes my head. I can’t quite make out his words. My eyes close of t
heir own accord, and I fall asleep.
When I wake up, Paul is not next to me, but there are delicious bacon-and-egg smells drifting through the bedroom. I pull on one of Paul’s t-shirts and wander into the kitchen. Paul turns to me. “My appetite is back, with a vengeance.” He laughs happily and points to a plate overflowing with an enormous king-sized omelet.
“Mine is, too!” I take an empty plate and reach it out to him expectantly. He shares like a gentleman. For a while, we just chow down without talking.
Finally I can’t delay my questions any longer. “Why did you quit your job?”
“Because I found a new one,” Paul answers, “in Vancouver.” He says those words completely matter-of-factly and casts a serious look my way. “I already have a plane ticket, one way. If you hadn’t come down today, we would have seen each other a week from now.”
I’m dumbfounded at his news. Then Paul goes on. “I’m going to be teaching there, too, but only part time, because they also want me to write for a television series that’s just been accepted for production.” Paul laughs again when he sees the astonishment on my face. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to jinx it, for one thing. They only approved the pilot last week and everything is really still being negotiated. The other reason is that I wasn’t sure you’d think it was all that important or interesting.”
Once I come back to my senses, I run off to find my purse.
“I have a surprise for you, too.” I take out the tiny box and bring it back to Paul. “Here. I want you to wear this from now on. This way all your students will know that you’re mine. Nobody else’s. I am never going to give you up. I love you.”
Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage Page 16