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“Before she married your friend.”
“James was not my friend.”
From the get-go, Dr. Jones has been impeccable with her jabs. Her disdain for me was made obvious straightaway by a twitch in her right eye. “But you knew him.”
“Not really, no.”
“Did you sleep together before her marriage? Given that you knew each other?”
“No.”
“Not even a flirtation? A kiss? Nothing.”
“It never crossed my mind.”
“Why not?”
I almost said, because she wasn’t my type. This was the truth; Laurel wasn’t my usual type of lover. She was a wisp of a woman, tall and lean—nearly supermodel thin, too thin— with pale, milky skin and dirty blonde hair. While her body was firm, especially her breasts, I prefer my women curvy and, preferably, with dark hair. My fraternity brothers back in college sometimes teased me about it. If asked, and I’m sure they will be, they would go so far as to say I have a type.
It is a fair assessment. I’ve always done okay with women. Having, or working toward having an M.D. behind your name, doesn’t hurt. Charming co-eds with your medical knowledge and future salary can be quite the aphrodisiac. From college onward, there’s a downward trend in happiness for the average female. Women only seem to become all the more disillusioned with life when hit with the reality of life. So, sex, at least for me has never been too hard to come by.
And yet, of all of the women I’ve known, none have ever given me as much pleasure as she did. I remember the way she laughed, and thinking what a relief it was to hear a woman laugh again. She had a face that proclaimed her sensuality, li
ghtning in her eyes, an avid mouth, a provocative glance. She was both hard and soft, eager and wise. Above all, she was interested. She was like a million bucks tax-free. She was an escape, an opportunity. It shouldn’t have been this way, but it was. Being with her was not like being with my wife. It gave me a worthwhile feeling, untainted afterward by disgust or regret.
What was there to regret, anyhow? We hardly had time for that. Quite the contrary, actually. After an hour or so of seeking maximum pleasure from each other’s bodies, we would dress quickly and get the hell out of there before one of us said or did something we'd regret. We honored it like a ritual.
I remember thinking: Where had this woman been all of my life? How had I gotten so lucky? Laurel with her pouty lips, and her tight ass, and her incessant hunger for more. I had never felt more satisfaction than I had then, not only with her, but with everything. Everything counted. Everything had its place in the vibrant universe, including the red welts that often colored her skin afterward. Was it love? Probably not.
But I loved the look in her eyes as she surveyed those welts with a satisfied smile. She always looked as if she had just come from meeting with a lover. She had dark circles under her eyes and she carried with her a great restlessness, an impatient energy emanating from her whole body.
How could I relay this, in a way that made sense to Dr. Jones, without making me look guiltier than I already did?
I haven’t yet figured this out. She repeats her question. “Before you were married, before Mrs. Dunaway was married, you’ve stated there were never any sexual relations between the two of you. Why?”
I couldn’t think of another reason, so I offered the closest truth I could find. “I can’t say.”
“You can’t—or won’t, Dr. Hastings?”
“I can’t.”
She shook her head slowly as she jotted something down on paper. I didn’t bother trying to read what exactly. When she looked up, she switched gears. “Fine. Then tell me what happened when you ran into her at the care home. Perhaps we should come at this from another place.”
Chapter Six
Laurel Dunaway
Journal Entry
It started out a shit day. A terrible, relentless, shit day. Probably on account that I was up with James half the night. But that was before the real shit part. I’m hardly surprised. November really is the worst month.
Today, he thought I was my mother. He kept saying Debra this and Debra that. The last thing a girl should want to be is her mother. I know. Debra used to tell me that all the time.
Dad spoke of their honeymoon. It was like a horror movie I couldn’t turn off. The kind where you very well know what’s coming, and you know it won’t be good. Yet you can’t look away.
I snapped at him. Then I felt terrible. I vowed to do better. Not that it’s an option; I know I must. I have to dig deep. Deeper than I’ve ever dug. I’m just tired.
Tomorrow might be better. But probably it won’t.
