“Mariah.”
“Mariah,” he repeats. “I appreciate how considerate you’re being. But shouldn’t you see if it even gets to a point where this conversation would take place?”
“Are you fucking serious? I’m not so drunk I just misheard that, am I?”
“You don’t know what will happen.”
I swipe up the glass and down it. It’s not as bad this time. “I know exactly what will happen with her, Peck. Ex-fucking-actly.”
“The fact you can say that when you’re drunk as hell is impressive.”
I let my stomach settle. My language skills while drunk aren’t what’s impressive, but I don’t tell Peck that. I don’t explain it’s the fact I can still think logically and reasonably that’s surprising.
That I want to call her but I don’t.
That I want to drive to her house and feel her skin on mine but I don’t.
That I got the woman I’ve wanted for a long time for a few hours to myself today and it wasn’t nearly enough, yet I back away.
That I have no fucking clue how tomorrow at work is going to go knowing I was buried inside her this afternoon.
All of that? That’s impressive.
“This girl isn’t one I can forget. She’s not another pussy, another screen name, another color hair in a hotel bed that I’m reminded of when looking at a box of crayons.”
“So you love her.”
“Hell no.”
“Sounds like it to me.”
“And you also think you love Molly McCarter. I think your reasoning skills are inept.”
He laughs. “And you’re batting a thousand tonight, buddy.” He heads to the bottle and pours himself a shot. “You can drive a man to drink.” The liquor goes down a lot smoother than it did for me. “What’s your plan?”
“My immediate plan is to go to bed, jack off, and then sleep.”
“I’m thrilled to know that.”
“You asked,” I point out.
“I meant with Mariah.”
Of course, he meant with Mariah. I just don’t want to answer that.
How do I tell him on the heels of telling him I can’t have kids that watching her with Betsy today made me wonder what she would look like holding our baby? I wanted to know what if felt like to be Eric and standing at lunch with my wife and child?
That I never wanted to know what that would feel like until I met Mariah.
There’s an emptiness in my soul, a hollowness I haven’t felt since Britt left me shortly after the accident. When she told me she loved me but couldn’t imagine not being a mother and packed her bags and left for LA.
That hurt. That felt like an ice pick straight in the gut and I didn’t even necessarily want to have kids with her. It was a talking point only. A possibility after two years together. But imaging those words coming out of Mariah’s mouth seems to hold a whole hell of a lot more potential to inflict a pain I couldn’t absorb.
I also couldn’t live knowing she’d never know the sound of a baby’s heartbeat from inside her womb. Or what it was like to buy maternity clothes. Or the feeling of being sick in the mornings from incubating a life inside her because of me.
Sure, there are sperm donors and all kinds of other ways to be a parent and that’s all fine. But I couldn’t give that to her and that kills me. It feels like I’d be lacing my problems onto her and I wouldn’t do that to anyone.
“I need to go to bed,” I mutter, squeezing my temple. “Can you let yourself out?”
“Yeah.”
Shuffling to the doorway, I partially lambaste myself for drinking so much and partially rip my own ass for not going back in the kitchen and finishing off the bottle.
“Lance?” Peck calls out behind me.
“Yeah.”
“I’m really sorry.”
I head off down the hall. “Me too, Peck. Me too.”
Twenty-One
Mariah
“What did you make today?” Tish breezes in the doorway, catching me before I head to the lounge for my lunch. She peers over the tin of desserts. “Lemon and red velvet?”
“It was a long weekend.” I type away at the keyboard to avoid her gaze. “Help yourself.”
I almost called in sick today. The anxiety of seeing Lance almost got to me. I was up all night, until a quarter to four, thinking about this mess.
If I only think about the good parts, a smile graces my lips that I can’t wipe off. If I think about reality, it fades pretty quickly.
“What’s that all about?” Tish asks, pointing my way.
“What’s what?”
“That snarl.”
“It’s not a snarl,” I laugh, giving up the typing ruse and turning to face her. “You’re a pain in my butt.”
“Mhmm,” she says, biting into a lemon bar. “These are good.”
“Thanks.”
She finishes off the piece before dusting her hands over the trash. “Now spill it, sister.”
“I have nothing to spill.”
Her hand settles on her popped-out hip. She gives me her no-nonsense look.
Looking out the door, I don’t see Lance. I’m typically downstairs and back up in about 4 minutes from now and he’s waiting for me. Whether he will come up today or not, I don’t know. But I don’t see him.
“Tish, let me ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“When you were dating around, would you ever have messed around with a man who you knew wasn’t what you wanted?”
“I’m going to need more to go on.”
Sighing, I look out the door again. “Let’s say you wanted to settle down, have a quiet little life somewhere. Raise a family. That kind of thing. And then you met a guy who just … makes you laugh and smile, makes you feel confident in yourself. I don’t know how to explain it. But what if you knew that guy was never going to be the guy in the little house with the little kids.”
“I’d say he was a waste of time then.”
My heart drops. “Exactly.”
“Unless,” she says, pulling her shirt snug over her chest, “he looked like him.”
“Who?”
“Hey, ladies,” Lance calls, stepping inside my office. “Do I not get my two, three minutes of privacy in here before you come in?”
“Yeah, Mariah. Step outside so Lance and I can have our private time,” she coos, ending it with a laugh. “Looking sharp today, Mr. Gibson.” She steps around him, mouthing something I can’t even begin to make out as she leaves the library.
My palms sweat as I take him in. Dark pants and a crisp white shirt with a green tie the same color as his eyes hanging down the center. The tie is loose, like he’s been working it all day.
“Good afternoon,” he says, shutting the door behind him.
“Hello.”
“You look beautiful today. I love that color on you.”
“Stop with the book manners stuff,” I laugh.
He shrugs, heading for the cupcakes. “Ah, you made both.”
“Only because I was bored.”
I watch him select the one he wants, noticing the dark circles under his eyes. His cheeks lack the color they usually have and the greens of his eyes are a little duller than normal.
“Up all night?” He asks, peeling away at a red velvet cupcake. “Thinking of me?”
“Hardly,” I scoff. “I made those and was in bed by eight-thirty.” Lies, lies, all lies.
“Better than me. My cousin came by and I may have had a little too much tequila.”
“I can’t drink that,” I say, frowning. I wonder if what happened yesterday afternoon had anything to do with him drinking so much. I don’t recall seeing him with a hangover ever before. The idea leaves me feeling uneven.
“Does it make your clothes fall off? If so, I have a flask in my car I can go get.” He bites into the cupcake. “Big fan of the cream cheese icing. Not quite as good as the peanut butter, but close.”
I go back to my computer screen, needing a
distraction from the way his mouth works back and forth. Things are too normal, too we-didn’t-fuck-like-monkeys-yesterday.
The room becomes too small for the two of us as I remember the heat of the pantry yesterday as we slipped off our clothes. His cologne reminds me of the taste of his skin when I bit into his shoulder and I wonder if my teeth marks are still there.
All night I wondered how he would react once the orgasm wore off and reality set in. How he couldn’t just not message me back because he would see me every day unless one of us changed jobs. I’m not egotistical enough to think I’m any different than anyone else he sleeps with. Not really. Maybe we know more about each other. Maybe things between us have taken some obtuse turn. But none of that changes the fact that Lance is Lance and I’m me.
“I wasn’t going to come up here today,” he admits. “I was going to stay in my classroom like a responsible professional and work through lunch.” He chomps down on another cupcake. “Yet, here I am.”
“Why?”
“Why what? Why wasn’t I coming up here or why did I decide to?”
“Either,” I offer, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
My hands drop from the keyboard, my attempt at distraction pointless. There’s no way I’m going to be thinking of anything other than him. I haven’t in the last however many hours. I’m certainly not going to pull it off with him standing in front of me.
He takes another bite and considers this. “I thought maybe you wanted space or that I should give it to you. Or, quite possibly, it’s just what I do historically after sex.”
“Fair enough.”
“But,” he adds, almost taking a lemon bar but picking up a third cupcake instead, “I then realized that was ridiculous. We were friends before you came all over me. So why in the hell can’t we have both? We’re very, very good at both.”
“Because your language is horrible, you eat all my cupcakes,” I say, “and your come was still leaking out of my vagina this morning.”
I didn’t mean to say that. But as the cupcake falls out of his hand and lands icing-first on top of book order forms, I’m glad I did. It takes him a full five seconds to regroup.
“See?” he says, his white teeth shining. “I come in here to be friendly and you make it dirty.”
“Yeah, I made it dirty because I’m the one who brought up our interaction yesterday. Try again.”
“No, I brought it up but it’s still your fault.”
“Oh, really,” I laugh, crossing one leg over the other. “And how do you figure that?”
He leans forward, his grin as mischievous as I’ve ever seen it. “You make it impossible not to want to lay you on the top of this desk and see if I can’t fill you up again.”
My thighs burn I’m squeezing them so hard, my mouth watering at the thought of his body on mine. He knows exactly what I’m thinking and, by the look he’s giving me, he’s thinking the same thing.
“Are you wet for me?” he goads, thinking he’s getting the best of me.
Game on.
Holding his gaze, I make a point of slipping my hand under my desk. His pupils widen, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he watches me. My finger glides through my slickness. I hold it in the air, inches from his face. “I’d say so.”
His eyes burn, his temple pulsing, as he watches my finger move in the light.
“The question is, Mr. Gibson, are you hard?” I drag my gaze from his face to his swollen crotch and nod. “Looks like a yes.”
“Why do you do this to me?” he asks, sticking out his bottom lip.
“You asked. You didn’t have to know. I could’ve sat here all day with my thighs stuck together and nobody would know that but me.”
A low rumble escapes his lips. “What are you doing after work?”
“I have plans. You have icing on your lip.”
He ignores the second part of that. “Cancel them.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because I want to take you somewhere.”
“The last time I went out with a boy as friends we went to the arcade,” I sigh.
“Were you twelve?”
“Eleven. That’s not the point.”
“What is the point, Mariah?”
The atmosphere shifts in the room, the question that’s been on my mind all weekend now spoken aloud. What is the point of all this? A good time assuredly, but can I make it just a good time?
How am I going to feel next week when he’s making plans with another girl or stops coming in for cupcakes? Pretty freaking shitty and that’s after sleeping with him one time.
Sex is great. Really, really great. But I can’t break my own heart—because it would be me doing it at this point—just to get off a few times.
“Lance,” I say, “this isn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?”
Turning the tables, I look at him. “You want to know why? Fine. This is why: there’s nothing good that can come out of this.”
“I thought you came just fine.”
I roll my eyes. “We can play word games all day but it doesn’t change reality. We are co-workers.”
“We’re both incredibly good-looking.”
Although I smile, I keep going. “We have a friendship of some sort that doesn’t seem to be impeded by our activities this weekend. Let’s keep it that way.”
“But why? Clearly we can play both sides of the coin and not impact the other. You’re just as argumentative and hard-headed today as you were on Friday.”
“And you’re just as infuriating and difficult, but that’s not what I’m talking about. We want different things, Lance.”
“You don’t want to come?” he grins.
“No. I mean, yes. Ugh.” I lock my jaw and stare at him. “I hate when you do this.”
He plants his hands on my desk. “If you say no, then no. I’ll not ask again.” His eyes darken with resolve. “I’ve struggled with this all night. As long as we’re clear that we’re just having fun, like what you were looking for on that app, then why not? We’re adults. We enjoy being together. Why can’t it just be that simple?”
Because it never is.
I breathe in his cologne, knowing exactly what the scruff of his face feels like against my belly, and consider telling him no. It can’t be that simple. It’s not that simple. In a month’s time I’ll look back and be so head-over-heels for him that I won’t be able see straight. Back-to-back broken hearts isn’t on my agenda.
The thing is, even though I know it’s best for my heart, I can’t do it. Being around him makes me feel alive. Strong. Smart. Sexy. I like who I am when I’m with him.
Before I can make a decision, there’s a knock at the door. Lance gives me a quick look, one that says this isn’t over, and opens the door. Ollie walks in, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized jeans.
“How are you?” I ask, getting situated behind my desk
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Ollie says.
Lance puts a hand on his shoulder. “Ms. Malarkey and I were just having a quick planning session.”
“About the lunch program?” he asks.
“Yup.” Lance looks at me and grins. “What can we do for you, Ollie?”
“I need some help and, um, I didn’t know who else to ask.”
The frivolity of the last few minutes is erased from Lance’s face. In its place is somberness and a compassion for this kid that reduces me to a puddle of goo.
“Sure, buddy,” Lance says. “What do you need?”
Ollie looks at the floor, shuffling his feet back and forth. “Well, I need to pass Family and Consumer Sciences. I missed a midterm test and Ms. Holden said I could do it if I could find someone to supervise me by Friday. She has a Beta thing and can’t do it and I didn’t know if maybe you could stay after school one day to help me out?”
The look on his face is downright pitiful. His hair, in desperate need of a cut, is flopped on his forehead. Eyes that could be full of joy are fille
d with an anxiety no high school student should know. My heart breaks for this kid.
“What’s the test?” Lance asks.
“I have to make a cake.” Ollie shrugs. “It’s that or a casserole but a cake seems easier.”
“Cakes are my thing,” I say, shoving my chair back. “Can I help?”
He looks at me like he’s just seeing me. “You want to help?”
“I mean, I could,” I offer, looking at Lance for relief.
Lance takes a cupcake and hands it to Ollie. “Here. Taste this. Homegirl here can outbake anyone.”
There’s no way not to beam at his compliment.
“Mrs. Holden said it had to be a teacher though,” he notes. “Are you a teacher, Ms. Malarkey?”
“Oh. No,” I reply. “I’m not.”
“Well, this guy is,” Lance says, wrapping an arm around Ollie’s shoulders. “And I’d love to watch you bake a cake. I have to monitor detention tomorrow, so I’ll move those rascals into the Family and Consumer Sciences room and we’ll whip up something to rival these cupcakes.”
The relief is evident. Ollie’s shoulders fall as he peels the paper away from the cupcake. “Mr. Gibson, that would be great.”
“No worries.” Lance is cut off by the bell sounding. “Now get to class and I’ll be down there in a second.”
“Bye, Ms. Malarkey. These are great, by the way,” Ollie says, motioning towards his half-eaten cupcake.
“Thank you, Ollie. Have a good day.”
He’s out the door as the library begins to fill with the sixth period study hall. Lance turns his back on the doorway but before he can speak, a freshman sticks his head in the door about a book rental.
By the time I get the student taken care of, Lance is gone.
I recover the cupcakes and get situated back at my desk. Fingers flexed, ready to type, I mentally remind myself: falling in love is the objective, but not with Lance Gibson.
Long game over short game. Marathon over sprint. Love over lust.
I think.
Twenty-Two
Mariah
The door to Carlson’s swings shut behind me as I step into the late afternoon sunshine. A take-out bag in my hand, I hit the sidewalk for the short walk home.
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