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God, I hope so.
I shrug. ‘She seems happy when we’re together. She wants to be with me.’
‘Am I detecting a but?’
Yes: but there are things she holds back from me. Some kind of barrier I can’t penetrate.
All I say is, ‘No buts. We’re keeping it casual.’
The conversation sticks with me through dinner. Instead of having my mind on Ben’s case, I’m focused on keeping the sick feeling in my gut at bay. Does Becky like me as much as I like her? She still hasn’t said she would consider a relationship. And, yeah, I want one. I mean, we’re having one. Aren’t we? Are we?
By the end of dinner, I accept that I’m afraid. I’m no longer afraid of wanting more from her. I’m afraid that I need more, I’m craving more, and she isn’t in this with me.
I say goodbye to Marty outside the grill house and we flag separate cabs. I take out my phone and see nothing. No missed calls, no texts. I’m not supposed to be seeing Becky tonight, but the panic that’s set into my chest is making me desperate to be with her. When we’re together, I don’t worry about how she feels. She soothes my worries with every look and every touch.
I consider sending her a text message asking her to come to my place. My thumb rolls over the letters on my cell. But I decide against it. I said we’d do what comes naturally, that’s what I agreed to, only I don’t know if what feels natural is the same for both of us anymore.
I make my way to my apartment and let myself inside. The place actually smells of Becky: her perfume, the general sweet scent that isn’t anything other than her own skin. I consider texting her again, then head to the living room without doing so. I need to get a handle on these feelings before I ruin everything.
As I’m placing my briefcase and phone on the kitchen counter, I notice the electric hearth flickering. My heart starts to beat harder in my chest. I pad through the living room to my bedroom and see the door ajar. The anxiousness in the pit of my stomach turns to excitement.
I push open the door to find Becky lying on her side in my bed in only black lace underwear. One leg bent. Her head propped up on her hand. The lights are dimmed low and cast a soft glow across her skin.
My first thought is,She’s beautiful. My second is what I would like to do with that body. The third, as I slip out of my jacket and shoes and step closer to the bed, is that she came to me. She wants to be with me too. That thought forms a lump in my throat that stops me from being able to speak. I can only look, completely captivated by her, as I take her hands and bring her to sit on the edge of my bed.
She eyes me as she unbuttons my vest, then pulls my shirt from my slacks and unbuttons that too, pushing both to the ground. I run my hand through her long, silk waves, and watch her slowly unfasten my pants.
I don’t just like her a lot. I’m in love with her. I love everything about her. I hold her face in my hands and press my mouth to hers. I kiss her slowly, tenderly, because that’s how I feel. I don’t want to ravage her. I want her to understand how I feel. I want her to know the things I can’t say. And I want her to make love back to me.
When we’re done, I fall to her chest, my breathing more erratic than if I’d gone at her hell for leather. I lie against her heart, listening to it pound as hard as mine. She strokes my hair as I drop kisses to her chest. I will her to say something. I want her to tell me how she feels. More than that, I want her to tell me what I want to hear. I want her to tell me she’s in love with me.
She says nothing.
With each second of silence, I feel weaker, more broken, shattered.
20
BECKY
10 months ago
‘Becky, what’s going on tonight? Is everything okay?’
I glance up from the service station where I am putting the finishing touches on a dessert and see Edmond. With unsteady fingers, I place the sugar nest over the last of four plates.
‘They’re ready,’ I tell the lingering waitress. I force a smile when I stand, facing Edmond. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re not fine. You’ve messed up two plates tonight. That’s two more plates than you’ve messed up the entire time you’ve worked in my restaurant.’
I tuck my towel into the belt of my white coat and rub a hand across my clammy temple. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Listen, I can finish up tonight. There are only a few tables left. Why don’t you take yourself home? It’s been a busy night.’
‘No, really, Edmond, I’m fine. I can finish here.’
‘You look tired, Becky. Stop being a martyr. Go home.’
I’m not being a martyr. Going home to Mike is the last place I want to be.
