by Harper Bliss
But they’re not blind and Muriel has an inclination to latch on to other people’s drama, so she swept us up and the four of us ended up in one of those trendy places in the Meat Packing District.
Muriel, one of Jodie’s closest friends and someone she sees at work every day, apparently couldn’t help but look at me disapprovingly, as if to say, “You’ve moved on quick enough.” But she didn’t know that I hadn’t moved on at all. That leaving Jodie was far and away the hardest thing I’d done in my life, and that I doubted the validity of my decision every single day. Especially, too, during those long dark nights, when Sonja lay purring beside me, and I would drift off into slumber only to wake up again and again to find that the person next to me was not the one I wanted it to be.
“Please excuse me,” I said. “I’m going to find the washroom.”
“I’ll go with you,” Muriel cooed, right on cue.
As soon as we reached the bathroom, fitted out in nothing but ostentatious black marble, I cornered her. “It’s not what you think.”
“No matter what I think,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “But let me tell you this.” She brought her hands to her sides matron-like. “Jodie is in pieces and it’s a good thing she has Troy because he’s the only one getting her through this. So, if you’re in any mind to reconsider, please do.”
I knew she was forward, but I had never realized quite how much until then. “It’s complicated,” was all I could say.
“Hm-mm.” Muriel shook her head dramatically. “Not in my eyes, it’s not. She loves you and you love her. What’s the problem?”
“Really?” I narrowed my eyes, gearing up for a fight. It had been a while since I’d had a good one in court. Maybe in her naiveté Muriel was trying to help, but she wasn’t doing a very good job of it, and I could do without the lecture. “That’s the line you’re spinning me? How long did it take you to come up with that?” Muriel was at least two heads shorter than me and I used my height to my advantage by towering over her. “You’re her best friend. You should know better.”
“Listen, Miss Fancy Lawyer who has it all figured out.” She didn’t back down an inch. “Have you perhaps considered—you know, with that academic brain of yours—that what was valid six months ago may have changed? A break-up changes people. Shifts their perspective. Makes them see things differently and rethink their goals.”
“Wh—what are you saying?” Suddenly, my heart was thumping wildly. “Has Jodie said anything?”
“It’s really not for me to put words in her mouth, just… get in touch.” With that, she turned on her heel and headed toward a stall.
“Muriel,” I called after her. “Please don’t tell her about Sonja. It’s really nothing. We’re colleagues and I’ve been staying with her, that’s all.”
“Oh, I know all about Sonja.” She pushed open the door of the stall and disappeared.
I steadied myself against the wash basin, peering at my reflection in the mirror. Outwardly, our break-up had definitely changed me. My cheekbones were as sharp as in my teens, my eyes sunken deep into my face from lack of decent sleep, my skin grayish from too much booze. Looking back at me was a wreck of a woman. And then there were Muriel’s words. Should I get in touch? Did Muriel mean that Jodie’s wish to add another member to her family of two had waned?
I contemplated calling her every day after that washroom conversation with Muriel, but a week later the offer for San Francisco came in. It was not that I didn’t love Jodie enough to check in with her and the status of her wishes—it was that I loved her too much. And I couldn’t do it again. Couldn’t give in to what might turn out to be false hope. My heart hadn’t yet mended from when it was torn out of my chest after our first break-up. What if we ended up on her living room floor again, and I had to walk away all over again?
Muriel might be her best friend, but yet that didn’t mean she knew Jodie better than I did. I knew the dark cavities of Jodie’s psyche. I knew what she craved and what she could and couldn’t say. I could read her, and, even though a part of me wished it hadn’t, the past year had happened. That year in which we’d danced around the subject, playfully at first, until there was no more room for play, nor joy, because I couldn’t picture myself walking, living, and waking up next to a heavily pregnant woman, not even if that woman was Jodie Whitehouse. A woman with a teenage son, a newborn on the way—both equally important to her—and me, trailing behind.
It wasn’t only the absence of maternal instinct, nor the focus I put on my career—although they were the main reasons—that drove us apart in the end. For me, Jodie always came first. She had done from that evening in the bar around the corner from the courthouse in 1996. I even passed up on a faster track to my career goal to spend time with Troy when the babysitter bailed or something else came up, because I always enjoyed my time with him—even when it didn’t fit my schedule. But I had to draw the line somewhere because if I didn’t, where would that leave me in Jodie’s life?
I witnessed first-hand, and on more than one occasion, how motherhood so fundamentally changed the lives of women whose ambition equalled mine during law school—former peers who, because of time constraints and shifted focus, are no longer a part of my life. It was as if they’d had a personality transplant. As if a switch in their brain had been flicked as soon as they gave birth, and all their previous, often loudly vocalized goals and dreams took an immediate and permanent backseat to their new role as a mother. A sudden transformation my logical brain can fully grasp, even though it was never something I wanted for myself. Not even with Jodie.
So here I am, on the first of many flights from New York to San Francisco. My boss, Steve, told me I’d most likely be flying over there every other week, until I move permanently by the end of the year. Perhaps it could be seen as another cowardly move on my part—as running away—but I know that only distance can heal that hole in my heart. Bumping into Muriel made that perfectly clear. Because what if I had run into Jodie? Or Troy? What would that have done to my heart? New York City is a huge city, but it’s not big enough for my pain.
Sonja knew she had to let me go when I told her. At first, I was afraid she’d convince someone at the firm to let her relocate as well, but as it turns out she’s not that besotted with me, after all. And New York is threaded through the fabric of her being too much. She can’t leave it, not even for me. Not that I want her to.
The first night I allowed her to slip into my makeshift bed in her spare room, all I did was throw my arms around her and cry on her shoulder, cry until I believed I was empty, until the next night, the tears came again. That’s what Sonja did for me. She let me cry, my tears gathering on her skin, wrinkling it, until I ran out. Until I was dry. Then we had sex a few times, but to me, it felt like encountering a trickle of water in the desert when all I was used to with Jodie were shattering, uncompromising waves of the wildest ocean.
When the plane touches down, I inhale deeply. I’m ready for my new life. The arm of the passenger next to me bumps into mine as she finally relaxes. Clearly, this woman is no fan of flying, just like Jodie, who always held on to me for dear life when we flew somewhere. I’d try to distract her by whispering silly things in her ear, making her laugh, or playing one of our favorite games.
Our last trip together was to Hawaii. We had an early morning flight back to New York and had gone on a massive bender the night before. I usually don’t break a sweat while flying, but lots of turbulence and a martini hangover made even me shaky. Jodie, the sweetest person I’ve ever known in my life, took my hand in hers on that flight, brought her mouth to my ear, and whispered, “Tell me what you’re thinking right now.” The memory of that moment sparks another. Of the very first time I asked her that question.
“Tell me what you’re thinking right now,” I asked. We’d gone for a quick dinner at a restaurant around the corner from her apartment after dropping off Troy at Gerald’s. I was cradling a glass of wine in my hands and Jodie kept staring at it.
“Don’t think about it. Just say it,” I urged. “Just blurt out whatever’s going through your mind.”
“Those hands of yours.” Her voice had dropped into a lower register I could barely hear over the restaurant murmurs around us. “I wonder what else they can do.”
I know she didn’t mean spanking. We’d successfully graduated to that not long after I had pushed her against her apartment door on our seventh date. This was our tenth. I knew what she meant. “I’ll show you.” I swallowed a lump in my throat and called the waiter for the check. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. On our way to York Avenue, her shorter legs could barely keep up with me. But a fire in my belly had been stoked. I had considered it before, of course, as a natural progression of the sexual dynamic that was unfolding between us, and it was on the schedule, so to speak, but I definitely hadn’t had any plans toward it on that particular night. In my mind, it was still much too soon. In the beginning of our relationship, reading Jodie, gauging her desires, was still very much a careful balancing act, even though I made it out as anything but.
“I want it all,” Jodie said, as soon as we fell through the door of her apartment, and she pulled me close.
“You’ve got it.” I injected a shot of bravado into my voice I didn’t really feel. The prospect was exciting—almost unbearably so—but when someone asks that of you, it always comes with a burden of responsibility. Also, by then, Jodie was not just someone to me. The fire that crackled between us every time we met left me with more than growing desires and that ever-present wish to push boundaries. I was in love with her. We stood at the beginning of our journey together—a long and rewarding one, I hoped—and I didn’t want to screw that up by making a false move.
Our kiss grew frantic in no time, our teeth breaking skin, until I pulled away and stared at her, until the silence around us became too loud. “Take off all your clothes,” I commanded.
She did as she was told. It was a Saturday so she was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. The way she stepped out of them indicated that she’d been waiting for this moment much longer than I could have suspected. The enthusiasm in her demeanor soon exterminated my nerves, because that was the thing with me and Jodie. We fed off each other’s energy all the time. It was all cause and consequence. Sometimes it felt like a perfectly choreographed ballet of movements, intentions, and desires. It was the way it always clicked for us in the bedroom, the way we erased each other’s doubts and got to the essence so effortlessly.
“On the bed.” I stripped off my own clothes and followed her to the bedroom. There could be no disparity in the state of undress between us for this. We had to meet on a level playing field. The beauty of our give-and-take was always the equality in it. I never made her do things, I merely unearthed them from her psyche and then we did them together.
“Spread your legs,” I said.
I moved onto the bed and sat between her legs, looking at what lay in front of me, mesmerized by the sight. I doubled-down in front of her and licked her wet pussy lips until she almost came. I could easily tell by the rapidly increasing twitches in her legs, which she pressed against my ears when I went down on her—unless I told her not to.
Then I stopped and pushed myself up so that I could see her eyes. She didn’t say anything, but I felt electricity zing in the air between us. She let her knees fall open, spreading herself wide for me again, her breath coming in labored gusts. Clearly, she was on the edge of climax, and I was right there with her. Only, this time, we would go about it a bit differently.
I only looked away from her briefly to bring my hand in position, and my eyes were back on hers when I let the first three fingers slip in. By then, three fingers was our standard. Nothing less, nothing more.
“Oh christ,” Jodie murmured after the first stroke, her head falling back a bit, but not breaking eye-contact. I could still see it in her eyes. She was begging for more.
Adding the fourth finger was a mere matter of transition. She took it easily, as if she was used to it. Her pelvis gyrated, her pussy swallowed, enveloping my fingers in exquisite warmth.
“Yeah,” she started saying then. “Oh yeah.” Her hands had curled into fists, clenching the sheets between tight fingers.
I eased back and inched my thumb closer to the tips of my other fingers and spread her wider. I didn’t go deep at first, let her get used to the changed shape of my hand, caused by only the slightest of alteration on my part, but making a world of difference for her.
“I want it all.” She repeated what she’d said before, but now her voice was drenched in lust, and low with animalistic want.
Slowly, slowly, I let my knuckles touch the rim of her pussy, seeking entrance. It was the most I’d asked of her. I had to avert my gaze from her face and examine what my hand was doing. I watched as my knuckles slid over the entrance, and then all the way inside.
Jodie lay completely still, the movements of her pelvis having ground to a complete halt. It was all me now. I kept my hand immobile for a few seconds and reveled in this moment of complete surrender. I felt it burn throughout my flesh, underneath my skin, like the biggest, most immersive present anyone had ever given me. It was.
Then I started fucking her, the knuckle of my thumb sliding in as well, and to have someone spread so wide for you feels more like a spiritual experience than anything else. My clit swelled between my legs and I could feel moisture gather on my inner thighs, that’s how wet I was.
I scanned Jodie’s face. Her eyes were shut, her features a mask of concentration and utter bliss. And it had all started with a simple question: Tell me what you’re thinking right now. Then her lips parted, but no sound came from her mouth. All the while, I shifted my hand inside of her with minute movements. This wasn’t about motion so much as it was about being inside of her to such an extent it made both of our hearts explode.
Even though my task at hand wasn’t strenuous, beads of sweat pearled on my forehead. This was a meeting of the emotional and the physical, and it was taking all I had.
“Oh Leigh,” she said then, breaking the silence around us, and how she said my name chased a chill of pleasure up my spine. “Oh… Oh… Oooh.”
Her entire body contracted around my fist. Jodie threw her head into the pillows and her fists uncurled, then curled back up again. That was the first time I witnessed someone totally surrender, to the moment, the action, the intimacy, and the feelings that blossomed between us. A new bar was set.
Ever so gently, I slid my hand out of her. I looked at it incredulously for an instant, as if I could hardly believe what it had just done, but then Jodie called for me, and I clearly remember the single salty line that a tear tracked down my cheek as I folded over her to kiss her.
CHAPTER SIX
From the moment my ob-gyn confirms I’m pregnant with a girl, I know I want to call her Rosie. Not Rose, or Rosamund, or Rosalyn, but just Rosie. Rosie Whitehouse. My dream come true.
My friends, Ginny and Susan, who had put me in touch with their fertility specialist and accompanied me on my first appointment, had warned me about the path of hope and disappointment artificial insemination would take me on. They’d had to try—and pay for—four inseminations before Ginny had gotten pregnant and successfully carried the baby to term. But, as if the universe knew I was more than ready—and that I had already sacrificed greatly—my very first insemination took, despite the odds being small. Dr. Barkin confirmed my pregnancy, monitored me closely, behaved moderately optimistic but always with an edge of caution to her words and demeanor, until I was in the second trimester and she gave me the go-ahead to start telling people.
Gerald is not necessarily the first person I want to impart the news to, but I’m so elated, so completely over the moon and buzzing with excitement, that I just blurt it out when I go to fetch Troy.
I see my beautiful boy who’s growing up so fast and I’m so overwhelmed by love and hormones and joy, that I crouch down next to him, pull him to me, a
nd say, “Guess what, handsome? You’re going to be someone’s big brother in six months’ time.” Gerald stands behind him and almost shrieks.
“For real?” he asks. “Oh, Jodie.” From where I’m kneeling, his voice sounds teary. Gerald is a tall, broad, dark-haired man. Our marriage suffered from many more issues than my growing attraction to women and, to his credit, he never felt the need to blame it all on me. Always a cordial, well-mannered guy, he was the one to make sure we made it through the divorce as something akin to friends, for our son’s sake.
“Yep.” I stand and face him, my hand on Troy’s shoulders because I can’t let go of him.
“That’s such great news.” I can tell from his smile that he’s genuinely happy for me.
Troy shows his excitement by leaning against me. He barely asks after Leigh these days. He’s too preoccupied with starting High School and balancing on the edge of puberty.
And it is great news. And Gerald is Troy’s dad and still a good friend. We’ve successfully co-parented our son for almost seven years now, so why not tell him first? For a fraction of a second, it takes me back to when I found out I was pregnant with Troy. I was only twenty-five. Barely out of college. We’d only been married a few months. This pregnancy couldn’t be more different from my first. The biggest difference will be that there will be no one to rub my feet after a rough day at work, when carrying a baby may weigh on me, and have me sink into the sofa with pure exhaustion. If something were to go wrong, or I need emergency help, I’ll need to actually think about who to call first, as opposed to having the automatic reaction of calling a husband or partner.