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“I’m close . . .”
To my words, he strokes me quicker, deeper. The pleasure is so intense I squirm and hiss, unraveling at his fingertips, all loose threads.
A knock on the driver’s door brings the moment to a halt.
Oh gosh.
Swiftly, Arsène reaches with his free hand to cover my modesty, draping it across my chest, while he turns his head toward the window. He makes sure to cover most of me, so I can’t see the knocker, and they can’t see me.
“Yes?” he asks, composed and detached. “How can I help you?”
“You can stop knocking boots with your wife in your front seat while there are children watching the movie,” a woman, by the sound of it, huffs in annoyance.
Wait till you hear I’m not his wife, but his dead fiancée’s lover’s widow . . .
“Can I try to bribe you to take your precious children and whatever’s left of their innocence and get the hell out of here?” Arsène asks pleasantly.
“Not on your life!” She raises her voice.
“How about ten K? Number negotiable, of course.”
“I’ll call the police!” I can see from the corner of my eye that she is shaking her fist at him, and a snicker escapes me. Arsène is quick to move his hand, plastering his palm over my mouth to muffle my giggles. The space between my thighs is still throbbing, hot and needy. I can feel my pulse there.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he drawls.
“Get outa here!” she shrieks. “And don’t think I didn’t take your license plate.”
“Oh, I hope you did.” He laughs, rolling the window back up.
When the coast is clear, his gaze drops down to me. We share a quiet moment before bursting into laughter together. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this hard in my entire life.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do the walk of shame with me, seeing as I told the dudebro I got this car from that I’d leave it here.”
“I’m oddly okay with it.” I grin up at him. “And I’m not even sure why.”
“Because then we’ll get the chance to exchange numbers, so I don’t have to chase you again for our business transaction.”
All the air rushes out of my lungs, like he poked a needle in a balloon.
Even when he doesn’t say their names, they hover over us. Drenched in the air. Soaked into our skin.
Grace and Paul. Paul and Grace.
We just shared an intimate moment—our very first sexual encounter since losing our loved ones—and this is what he has in mind.
Not wanting to show him just how hurt I am, I let out a throaty laugh. “Well, then. First things first, do unplaster yourself from me, boss.”
He complies quickly, rolling onto the passenger seat. “Anything for you, employee of the month.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
WINNIE
Two days later, I give Arsène a call. We arrange to meet in the evening at his place. We’re professional and curt, almost clinical, and I wonder how a person can kiss you one way and treat you another in the same exact week.
Since I have the entire day off, it leaves me an abundance of time to overthink. I stay in my jammies, make myself a cup of coffee (three shots. Take that, Paul!), power up my laptop, and Google my condition. It’s stupid, I know. The first thing doctors tell you not to do is go on the internet and self-diagnose. “Every ingrown toenail becomes the c-word,” Ma used to tell us when Georgie, Lizzy, and I crumbled in fits of hysterics whenever we woke up with a blue mark on our skin.
I type in all the symptoms I’ve experienced throughout the last few years. Awful menstrual cramps, paralyzing pains, infertility, random cramps . . .
The same word keeps popping up on the screen over and over again. Endometriosis. I click on the definition, suck in a breath, and brace myself for the worst.
Women who suffer from endometriosis have trouble conceiving and, in fact, may not conceive at all.
It says the condition is incurable. Can be medicated—but never healed. In other words, I may never, ever have biological children of my own.
And just like that, the heartache of Paul’s death and betrayal shrinks into a Post-it Note–size issue, making room for something bigger in my chest. It swells, and rises, suffocating me.
Permanently infertile.
I’m in full-blown meltdown mode, pacing back and forth. And still. And still. I can’t bring myself to cry about it. About the terrible prospect of never birthing children. What’s wrong with me?
I charge toward my bedroom. Pick up Paul’s stupid alarm clock and hurl it across the room. It breaks in two.
Time. You were never on my side.
I grab his newspaper next, rip it, and toss it on the floor. Trudge into the en suite, open a cabinet, and take out all the half-empty pregnancy tests and ovulation kits. I toss them into the trash. They aren’t needed anymore.
