He had those eyes, those Hugh Grant eyes. Eyes that crinkled at the corners, mischievous, but with a touch of pain.
Tormented was how Lydia would describe them. Lydia said that was her type. She’d given her a hard time about that since they were in college. Sure, Dylan had eyes like that. And so had Sam and Keith. But what about Brian? His eyes almost bulged with wonder all the time. “An anomaly,” she dismissed, “Besides, that lasted what? Seven minutes?” Seven months. And it admittedly was never very serious. She and Brian had never taken down their profiles, never completely stopped going out on first dates.
She needed to look away, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t and he wouldn’t and finally she forced herself to, but she couldn’t make herself look entirely away, so she looked at his hands. His hands were strong. Not like Dylan’s. Dylan’s were sinuous, delicate. These hands were muscled. Could hands be muscled? These were. Veins stood out from the backs, diving beneath the surface where they crossed the valleys between the knuckles.
“Nick,” he said, holding out one of those hands. She reached without hesitating. His hand was warm, firm. Just the right size to fix the switch on a coffee maker that kept crapping out. Or cup her breast.
She found her way to his eyes again. She remembered this feeling, realized how much she’d missed having it. How long had it been since she’d done the dance?
So long.
What was this? Longing. Desire. Excitement.
Hope.
When she was 17, it led to frustration. She’d want to act, he’d want to act, but one of them always screwed it up. By blurting. Running. Freezing. By the time she was 27, she’d rush headlong and it led to fun and passion, but then ultimately disappointment. Somebody always had to move back to Chicago. Or lost interest. Or turned out to be a psycho. Or died. Dying would be best because it’s out of your hands, not your fault. Dying doesn’t happen often enough.
But what if you’re 37? What if you’re 37 and in a relationship? In a relationship with someone you truly love?
What if you’re 37 and you can’t remember the last time you felt that surge, that tractor beam?
When you’re 37, she decided, you’re still 17 and 27 and all the ages before and after and in between as well. You don’t shed one year when you move on to the next. Too bad that’s not the way it works to the rest of the world. To the rest of the world, when you’re 37 you become invisible. Bartenders don’t ask you to try out a new drink recipe. Middle aged men don’t let you cut in front of them in the line at the grocery store.
“Call me El,” she replied. “Everyone does. Well, everyone except my husband.”
There. It was out in the open. She’d established a no-fly zone. Whew. Something she’d heard Dylan say to Lydia’s kids more than once: “You can’t help what you feel. But you can help what you do.” She didn’t remove her hand from his.
“What does he call you?” he asked.
“Peanut,” she answered, blushing. He smiled. Smiled like he’d been given a gift. And he had. This was their little secret, one of their little secrets. He called her Peanut and she called him Butter. Why did she give that up so easily?
“Come into my office, El,” he said, still holding her hand and gesturing with the other. He finally let go to turn the knob.
He closed the door behind them, then indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk for her to sit in and instead of going around to his office chair, turned the one next to her to face her, sat. She pivoted the chair she was in to face him and when she did their knees almost touched. She could feel a heat throbbing from his knees on hers.
“Never done this kind of thing before?” His voice sounded conspiratorial.
“No.”
“And you don’t want to mess anything up.”
“Exactly.” She barely heard her voice over the beating of her heart.
He smiled at that. He understood. He was doing it again, staring into her eyes. She couldn’t look away.
“Okay,” he said gently. “I’ll take good care of you. Wouldn’t want anybody to get hurt.” He was talking about the estate, wasn’t he? Sure. Yes. That’s what she’d come here for.
He gave her another smile, like they’d agreed on a plan. Then his manner shifted, became more businesslike. Just a little. “So, you weren’t aware that Mister…”
“Solomon.”
“Right. You weren’t aware that Mister Solomon had bequeathed his entire estate to the college?”
“No.”
“Nice surprise.”
“He was a lovely man. I’ll miss him.”
Nick nodded. Right. That. That hadn’t occurred to him. “Do you have a copy of the will?”
“Yes,” she said, taking it out of her bag. A single sheet of paper, very simple, notarized and witnessed. He scrutinized it more carefully than seemed necessary. With those eyes.
“Good,” he pronounced, handing it back. “Death certificates?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, that’s the first step. Get ten copies to start. Once you have those, we’ll petition the court to grant you authority. After that, you make arrangements for the deceased, pay off bills, dispose of possessions, move assets into your accounts.” He stopped, raised an eyebrow. “Not your accounts.”
“Of course,” she rushed to agree, flushing. That would be wrong.
He nodded. “Then you sell whatever property there is. I can give you some names of good realtors.”
“Sounds pretty straightforward.”
“As long as you’re careful. We’ll be careful.”
Careful. She stood. Carefully. He rose with her, reached out his hand again and took hers.
“My assistant will send over the paperwork for us to get started.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t let go. She didn’t either. “Meet me for a drink?”
“I… can’t. Not today.”
“Tomorrow.” She shouldn’t. She would.
“Okay.”
Dylan wasn’t home when she got there, which wasn’t unusual lately. Ever since Megan went on maternity leave, he’d often had to stay late, covering some of her responsibilities.
What was she going to tell him? Was she going to tell him anything? There wasn’t anything to tell, not really. She’d met the lawyer, he’d taken her through the basics, they were going to grab drinks.
Why were they going to grab drinks? To discuss the process in more detail, of course.
No they weren’t.
She and Dylan had never had the conversation, the one where they defined the limits of their relationship, where they talked about expectations and boundaries and monogamy and fidelity. It had never seemed necessary. Never been necessary. Everything had been so easy.
They met at an art opening, in front of a painting they both liked. They got a glass of wine afterward and had a nice conversation, covered the usual first date things: where did you grow up and what do you do now and where would you like to go on vacation and then when he walked her to her car he’d asked if he could kiss her. Why not, she thought. He was definitely worth getting to know better. But then that kiss. That kiss felt so personal, so intimate, that as soon as he walked away, she got into her car and called Brian, told him she’d have to stop seeing him. It never crossed her mind that it wouldn’t work, that Dylan might feel otherwise, either now or ever.
One kiss. What could you know from one kiss? If these past nine years were any indication, you could know a lot. Coming across Dylan was like looking in the cupboard and realizing that your favorite cup had a saucer. He was the butter to her peanut.
There was nothing wrong with their relationship. It was solid. They might disagree, but they never fought. They talked deeply. They made love, sometimes, not as often as they used to, and the exploration, the discovery, had long gone, but when they did have sex, it was comfort. And reassurance. And intimacy. Dylan said that he valued the intimacy more than the sex. When he had to go out of town for work, he told her how much he hated sleeping without her. She loved him. She liked him.
She should say something. She would say something.
What would she say?
She could tell Dylan anything. She knew that. “I met a man I’m attracted to?” What would Dylan say?
He wouldn’t say. He would ask. “What do you want?”
“I want to sleep with him,” she’d reply, if she had the guts. Did she have the guts?
“What are you going to do?” would be his follow up question.
What are you going to do?
“I’m going to meet him for a drink.” That would be the right answer, the best answer, the honest answer.
But then the door opened and Dylan came in, flustered. “Raccoons got into the coop again. They got Maggie,” he said.
She wrapped him in a hug. His body spasmed with emotion. “I took her to the vet, but…”
She held him for a long time, as long as he needed. Of course he took her to the vet. He took a chicken to the vet. She loved that about him. She loved so much about him. She led him to the couch and huddled with him. Maggie was the goofy one, the one who would come up to you and demand lettuce or earthworms or whatever you had in your hand. If you showed her your empty palm, she’d double check, tilting her head left, then right, to look up close, first with one eye, then the other.
She clasped his hands in hers. “Oh, Butter! I’m sorry,” she said. About the chicken.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Lose the ones I love.”
“Oh, Sweetie… You know going in, sooner or later it’s going to happen.”
His face contorted at that and she pulled him in close.
“How was the lawyer?” he whispered into her neck, after his breathing had settled. Why was he asking that? Why now? She pulled herself back, stared into his eyes.
“Good.” If there were a time to say something, this would be it, but she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she deflected. “What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Chicken?” he asked.
She laughed, nodding vigorously, a tear squeezing its way out of her eye. Yes she was. Or was he asking about dinner? He didn’t press. She didn’t offer.
They ordered pizza.
Nick had chosen the bar in the lobby of the Q Hotel downtown. She found him in a comfortable chair by the fireplace, two flutes of champagne on the table in front of him. He handed her one as she sat. With that hand. Her fingers brushed his as she took it and she felt a surge of desire course through her body.
“Are we celebrating?” she asked.
“You strike me as the kind of person who deserves to celebrate every day.”
She took a sip, a bigger sip than she’d intended, but her hand shook as she raised the glass to her lips. It was delicious and she knew her wine. Obviously, Nick did, too. That was one of the things about Dylan. He could drink a glass of corked Mondavi and not notice.
She finished the rest of the champagne in one swallow, placed the glass on the table. A waiter materialized, refilled her glass.
“So, what about you?” she asked.
“What about me?”
“Wife? Kids?”
“Yes. And yes.”
“And…?”
“And that’s all.”
In case it wasn’t clear before.
Which made small talk irrelevant. She picked up her flute. What would Lydia say? Lydia would tell her to be careful. That this was to be expected. That when you see 40 looming, you cast about for better. You level up if you can, before the cement hardens. Lydia was speaking from bitter experience. She and Don got divorced after 11 years because she’d been swept off of her feet by a man who drove a fancy car, wore fancy clothes, took fancy vacations. He was also completely disinterested in her kids and after a year, after the disemboweled carcass of her marriage had bled out, he’d gone and found someone younger, hotter, and unencumbered.
She held her glass with both hands on her lap while Nick held his delicately, twirling the stem slightly, absentmindedly, between his finger and his thumb. The original champagne flute, she remembered reading, was cast from the breast of Katherine the Great, who was regarded as having perfect breasts. Was he aware that his finger and thumb, where the stem met the bottom of the glass, were teasing her nipple, making her own harden to the consistency of crystal in sympathy? To look at him, you’d think he was completely unaware of what his thumb and finger were up to.
There was no repairing Lydia and Don. Acting on an instinct to “protect herself,” she’d hired the sharkiest divorce attorney she could find, someone who yes, managed to liberate Don from almost all of their assets, including the house and everything he’d had before they met, but also managed to keep most of those assets from falling into her hands. The lawyer’s kids could afford to go to Harvard, thanks to her. Her kids would be lucky to have enough tuition for a community college. Certainly not a private art college, like the one Em worked for.
But that’s not what this was. There was no better, no better than Dylan. She wasn’t casting about, looking to trade up. And even if she were, Nick was not someone you trade up to. He’d made that clear. He’d made everything clear.
She downed the champagne, put the glass down, and waved off the waiter before he could refill it. Then she leaned over, placing her hand on the inside of his thigh, as close to his crotch as she dared. She moved in slowly and kissed him.
This kiss. It wasn’t at all like the kiss, that first kiss, with Dylan. She tasted desire. Temptation. Lust. She could feel the fabric of his pants tighten near her fingertips. Where Dylan’s kiss was personal, this was animal. It was all she could do to keep from straddling him.
What could you tell from one kiss?
“Let’s get a room,” he said, placing his muscular hand on hers.
They got a room.
It was over quickly, as it usually is the first time.
The first time. Meaning there’d be a second time. She wondered how soon he’d be ready.
Not soon enough. He lay sleeping on his stomach, one leg sticking out from under the covers, his bare ass exposed, drooling lightly into the crook of his arm. She pulled herself quietly out of the bed and went into the bathroom, closing the door before turning on the light. She examined her body in the mirror. The flush of orgasm bloomed from her chest up her throat. It would fade. It would fade by the time she got home.
She wet a washcloth and wiped his smell off of her, out of her. Then she turned off the light and stepped back into the room. How easy it would be to slip back into bed. It wasn’t late. Not too late.
Yes it was.
She dressed quietly, drinking the glass of champagne that had sat untouched from the moment he’d opened the door and put it down. She hadn’t given him time to pour the other glass.
It was still cold.
She drove home carefully. After three glasses of champagne, she knew she shouldn’t be driving, but among the transgressions she’d committed, this one seemed relatively minor.
No matter how hard it would be, she decided, she would talk to Dylan. If she didn’t tell him, she’d be keeping a secret from him, a secret she’d be sharing with Nick. That small act, sharing a secret with a man she just met that she withheld from the man she loved, would utterly and irredeemably upend their relationship. It would put Nick closer than Dylan. That’s what had doomed Lydia and Don. Not the infidelity, but the hiding of the infidelity. At least that’s the way Lydia told it.
But what would she say? “I slept with someone else?” “I cheated on you?” “I had an affair?” No. All of those were past tense. This was present tense. And future.
She had to say something.
Or did she?
Would it be so terrible if he never knew? Their life could continue on as it had before. It was just a thing she did. It’s not as if she told him about every lunch she ate. Even after nine years, they always closed the bathroom door before they used the toilet.
“I met the lawyer for a drink,” she could say. If he asked. He might not even ask. “I feel like I’m in good hands.” Could she say those words without blushing? Without giving everything away? She practiced the line to herself as she drove, repeating it over and over until the words sounded neutral, professional.
Dylan was at the dining room table when she came in, the coffee maker in pieces in front of him. He had the frustrated look on his face of a man who desperately wanted to fix something, but simply didn’t have the ability.
“Yeah,” he lied. He lied, but it wasn’t a lie that contained a truth he’d shared with someone else. After nine years, you know. She sat at the table, not next to him, but in the chair opposite, directly across from him.
She looked into his eyes. He knew. Of course he knew. There was no mischief in his eyes, not now. Just pain.
“Well, let’s have it,” she said, as gently as she could, bracing herself.
He took a deep breath, looked away from her eyes, looked at his hands. At his sinuous, delicate hands, palms up on the table in front of him. “So… Megan’s replacement started on Monday…”.