Third Life Page 12

  “It is. But still. I wish you had parents who loved you. My dad was always a jerk, but my mom loved me. I wish you had that too.”

  “I did. For five years I did.” He gives me a very faint smile that makes me choke on emotion.

  I can’t stop myself. I scoot over so I can hug him.

  He hugs me back with an unexpectedly hard embrace, like he needs to hold on as much as I do. I shake against him, still on the edge of tears, but I’m in control of myself when I finally pull away.

  I smile at him, and he smiles back. Then we both lie back down on the bed by mutual agreement.

  “Okay,” he murmurs, rolling over and kissing my neck. “Enough soul-searching for the afternoon.”

  I let him kiss me for a while since it feels like he needs something to distract him from the intense intimacy of before. But when he moves lower than my neck, I stop him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “I’m not really in the mood right now,” I say. “There’s only so much sex a girl can take.”

  He chuckles and turns over onto his back, pulling me against his side again. “No problem.”

  The truth is I wouldn’t have minded sex if it was in a different mood, a different moment. But it felt just now like he was exerting effort to make up for his vulnerability before. And I didn’t want that. I didn’t want sex between us to be something he uses as a way of deserving.

  So instead of having sex, we lie tangled up together in silence. Neither one of us sleeps. He caresses my hair and back occasionally. I rub his chest and belly.

  And I feel closer to Richard than I’ve ever felt to another person in my entire life.

  There are still a lot of secrets he’s keeping. He’s still holding our relationship at arm’s length. I know it’s not safe to invest in this.

  Not for real.

  But for right now I’m not sure how I can help it. Right now I want to give everything to whatever exists between us.

  Maybe I’ll be stronger tomorrow.

  Six

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Richard and I sleep in as long as we can. We’re on the same flight off the island—leaving at just after one in the afternoon. So we don’t have to rush to get going and packed.

  We have breakfast in bed. Then we have sex one more time. It’s not as creative or purposeful as normal. It’s missionary under the covers. He’s kissing me the whole time. When I come, it’s quick and pleasurable but it doesn’t make me scream. It feels like Richard is really with me the whole time. Our gazes hold a lot, and he feels naked. Real. More vulnerable than I usually feel him.

  We hug each other afterward until I finally have to get up to pee.

  I’m wearing one of his shirts—an Oxford that I’ve half buttoned up. When I return to the bedroom, he’s sitting up on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor.

  Something about his posture makes my chest hurt. I go over to sit beside him, wrapping one arm around him.

  He buries his face in the side of my neck for a moment before he straightens up, and every cell in my body wants to keep him, hold him, never let him go.

  And that’s it. That’s the moment.

  I know for sure what’s been creeping up for a while now.

  I want too much. I need too much. An occasional hot weekend isn’t going to be enough for me anymore.

  My feelings for Richard have become a lot more than simple lust and companionship, and I’d be a fool to deny it.

  I’m not a fool. I’ve never been a fool. And I’m not going to start now.

  If he doesn’t say something, if he doesn’t make a real gesture, if he doesn’t start to change the nature of our relationship—right now in this very moment—then I’m going to have to make a hard decision.

  He’s done nothing wrong. He’s been honest from the beginning. I knew from the start that we could never have more than we have now. He’s not wrong or thoughtless to keep it that way. He’s under no obligation to exchange phone numbers so we can talk between our weekends or tell me for sure that he wants to see me again or even admit that I mean a lot to him. He doesn’t have to do any of that. He’s not an asshole not trying to protect me from feelings he doesn’t know I have.

  But I know I have them now. And I need to protect myself.

  As a tense silence stretches out in the room—a bleak recognition that our weekend is ending with no promise of another one to come—a hard weight in my stomach tightens and drops.

  He’s not going to say anything.

  He’s not going to change things.

  Despite what happened between us this weekend and the three weekends before, he’s not ready to be something other than the man he’s made himself over all these years.

  And that’s fine. He needs to take care of himself, and I can understand that.

  But I’ve got to take care of me.

  So when we dress and pack and ride to the airport together and get on the plane and fly to New York and then part with a hug and a kiss, I know one thing with increasing awareness.

  His hands are gentle. His eyes are knowing and clever. Faintly weary. His voice is soft and husky. His posture is upright, and his manner is perfectly polished. He’s Richard in every way he’s always been, and I love everything about him, including the wounded depths of the soul he tries to hide.

  I don’t have a choice about this anymore. The decision has been made for me.

  So this time we’re not just saying goodbye for the weekend.

  We’re saying goodbye for good.

  THE NEXT TWO WEEKS aren’t good for me. At all.

  I’m in this weird tangle of nerves and grief. I’ve made a decision. It doesn’t make me happy, but I know it’s the right one. I’m still anxious all the time, however, waiting to see if Richard will send me another package. Want to meet again.

  I’m sure he will. He seems to enjoy our weekends as much as I do. The only reason he wouldn’t is if he got scared the way I did after our last time together. Maybe he’ll realize we’re becoming too intimate. Maybe he’ll decide to back off. Maybe he’ll want to wait a lot longer before he invites me somewhere new. Or maybe he won’t contact me again at all.

  For days I stew about it. I go through the motions of my job and social life. I pretend that everything is normal, hoping that soon I’ll feel that way again. I even agree to a date with George, the guy Ashley and Sean want to fix me up with.

  Before I went to Saint Thomas, I had dinner with the three of them at Ashley and Sean’s place. It was casual and friendly, and there was nothing about George I didn’t like. He’s cute but in a regular-guy way. He seems very smart. He has a sense of humor. He has a good job as a software designer. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with him.

  Except he’s not Richard.

  That’s the roadblock I keep slamming into.

  I promised I wouldn’t let my weekends with Richard interfere with my regular life, and I’m holding myself to that vow. So I agree when Ashley suggests a double date to the movies with Sean and George the weekend after I return from the Caribbean. We have a good time, and as he walks me to my door afterward, George asks if I want to have dinner with him the following weekend.

  A real date.

  I say yes.

  I need to say yes. I need to start forgetting about Richard.

  I’m not excited about the date. I feel kind of sick about it. Guilty. Like I’m cheating on Richard.

  Which is ridiculous. He’s no doubt fucking any number of other women in between our times together and probably not thinking twice about it. At least that’s what I tell myself. Over and over again. I even try to visualize it—imagine him in bed with a variety of other women—as a way of shaking off these emotional fetters that Richard has somehow managed to chain me in.

  The day after George asks me out on the date, I get a package from Richard. A champagne flute from the resort in Saint Thomas. A brochure for a fancy mountain lodge in Vermont.

  It’s not very far from me. I could even drive there.
>
  He wants to meet again next weekend. Six days from now.

  Which would cover the Saturday when I just made the date to go out with George.

  I stand frozen for a long time, staring down at the open box. The pretty crystal stem of the glass. The cozy photo on the lodge brochure.

  I want to go there to meet him. So badly. I want to see him again next weekend. I like George, but I don’t want to date him.

  With a shuddering breath, I pick up the glass and set it on the same shelf where I’ve kept the other three. I’ll keep them. As a reminder of something good in my life.

  But they can’t be anything else to me than that. Not anymore. Nothing but a remembrance. I collect all four and carefully pack them up in a box. Put the box on a high shelf in my linen closet with the note cards and brochures that came with them. Including the latest ones.

  I don’t make arrangements to go to Vermont. I don’t start to buy any new outfits or lingerie. I don’t cancel my plans with George.

  This is my life. It’s important to me. I’m not going to sabotage it by daydreaming of something that will never happen, and I’m not going to make choices I know will end up hurting me.

  I’ve made the right decision. It doesn’t make me happy, but I know it for sure. I try to put Richard out of my mind for the next week. I work hard. I buy a new outfit for my date with George. Whenever I feel my thoughts slipping in Richard’s direction, I ruthlessly yank them back to something else.

  So it ends up Friday before I know it. The day I should be heading to Vermont to meet Richard. By the afternoon, I’m sick to my stomach, wondering what he’ll do when I don’t show up. How he’ll feel. I hate, hate, hate the thought of him in the hotel room by himself, waiting for someone to show up who never will.

  I hate that I’m the one who’s done it to him.

  But I don’t have a choice. He’s never given me his phone number or email address or any way to contact him. What does he expect? How long does he realistically think a woman is going to put her life on hold to have random weekends with him?

  This situation—as awkward as it is—is because of decisions he made, so I refuse to feel guilty about it.

  I don’t sleep much on Friday night. I toss and turn and jerk dramatically at every stray sound I hear. On Saturday, in a desperate attempt to distract myself, I have brunch and go shopping with a couple of friends. Then I go to a spa in the afternoon for a massage and pedicure. I stop at home briefly to get ready for my date, but otherwise I’m hardly home all day. It’s better that way. I don’t need any downtime to think.

  George takes me to dinner at a trendy restaurant and then to a cute place in my neighborhood for dessert. I do my best. I put on a good show. I act fun and engaged and interested. I do a lot of smiling and laughing. None of it feels like me, but it’s the best I can manage right now.

  Ashley was right about George. He’s a really good guy and would be a good match for me. I don’t want to blow this. I don’t want to lose the possibility of finding a guy I might actually have a future with.

  The evening is exhausting, but at least it passes quickly. I’m still smiling and laughing and clinging to George’s arm as we walk the few blocks from the dessert place to my building.

  I should invite him upstairs, but I don’t know that I’m ready for that.

  That would feel like a betrayal. Maybe of Richard. But definitely a betrayal of myself.

  As we’re approaching my building, I notice a fancy black sedan parked at the curb. The kind of vehicle used by car services. I glance over at it quickly, but I’m absorbed in trying desperately to flirt with George so my gaze doesn’t linger.

  It’s another minute—almost a full minute—before I process what I saw by the car.

  A man. A handsome, sophisticated, mature man in expensive clothes and silvering hair. Leaning against the car. Right in front of my building.

  Waiting for me.

  Richard.

  My heart freezes inside my chest as I come to this realization. George and I are standing in front of the exterior door of my building. He’s smiling down at me. He seems to like me pretty well. It seems strange because so few men have been interested in me in the past, but he seems to be.

  I’m trapped. Paralyzed. I have absolutely no idea what to do.

  George is gazing down at me with a warm question in his eyes.

  And Richard is over there by the car.

  One little sliver of me wants to invite George upstairs with me, just so Richard sees me doing it. Just to prove to him that he doesn’t own me.

  That’s not a part of myself I like to indulge though. Richard has been good to me—other than not offering me what I really want. And showing up here right now where he doesn’t belong and when I don’t know what to do with him.

  I swallow hard and manage to say with a casual lightness that hopefully doesn’t shut down a possible second date with George. “I had an amazing time tonight.”

  “Me too.” He seems to understand he’s not going up with me. He doesn’t look annoyed or more than an edge of disappointed. He’s still smiling. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

  “Definitely.”

  He leans over and kisses me on the mouth. Gently. Briefly. Nothing intrusive or inappropriate for a public sidewalk. “Have a good night.”

  “You too.” I rub his chest before I drop my hand. I really don’t want to blow my chances with him when Richard is nothing but drama and potential pain for me. “Talk to you later.”

  I stand where I am in front of the exterior door of the building as he walks away. Once, he turns around and glances back, and I wave at him. He waves back before he turns a corner and disappears.

  Facing the door, I take a deep breath. Square my shoulders. Try to mentally prepare myself.

  Then I finally turn around and walk over to Richard.

  He’s wearing tailored trousers and a gray Oxford, collar open, neatly tucked in. His expression is quiet. Unrevealing. If he’s angry about my not showing up in Vermont or if he’s jealous about what he just saw or if he doesn’t give a damn about me at all, I have no way of knowing. Not from his expression anyway.

  When I reach him, I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

  We stare at each other for a long time in silence. We’re surrounded by the sound of traffic. The blue of his eyes is very dark in the low evening light. The night air is brisk.

  Finally, since he doesn’t appear to be about to speak, I manage a few words. “What are you doing here?”

  He moistens his lips. His voice is more gravelly than normal as he says softly, “I waited in Vermont for you.”

  “I know you did. But we had no commitments, and I made the choice not to go. No strings. No expectations. Isn’t that what you always said? I would have let you know, but you’ve never given me a way to get in touch with you. I need to do what’s best for me.”

  For some reason the last sentence seems to have snapped whatever has been holding Richard’s feelings in check. His features twist briefly, and he reaches out to take my face in one hand, his palm warm and dry against my cheek. “I’m what’s best for you.” He glances over in the direction George left with a look that’s almost a snarl. “That guy, whoever he is, is not the man for you. I’m what’s best for you.”

  My heart is jumping—leaping in my chest, over and over again—at the words and at the passionate possessiveness in the tone. It’s what I want to see and hear in him. No way to deny it. But at the same time, the words make me angry. I jerk away from his hand and snap, “Who the hell do you think you are? You think a few weekends together, as great as they were, entitles you to any weekend you want to take from me? You think I belong to you now, when you’ve never given me your phone number or your real last name?”

  His scowl turns into a frown. “No, I don’t think you belong to—”

  “How dare you just show up like this?” My voice is louder. Angrier. I’m fully processing the situation now
and how unfair it is to me—even if seeing him here, like this, is exactly what I secretly wanted to happen. “You think you can keep a relationship solely on your terms and then have me at your disposal for whenever you feel like indulging?”

  “No, Gillian, that’s not—”

  “Screw you, Richard Steele. Or whatever your real name is. Screw you and all your secrets and your detachment and your insistence on playing it safe. You think this is good for me? To be strung along by a man who offers me nothing but sex and champagne flutes? You think this is what I really want? Yes, I agreed to it. Yes, it was fun at the beginning. But I want more than this in my life, and I know I’m never going to get it from you. So I made the decision not to show up this weekend. So you should respect that.” I’m on a roll now. Really letting him have it.

  His face is twisting with some sort of strong emotion. “Gillian, wait just a second. Let me—”

  “I don’t need to let you do anything.” I don’t know why I’m not allowing him to speak. Maybe it’s because I’m terrified of what he’s about to say. What it might mean for me. “I’m trying to live my life. The life I want. And you don’t get to show up here and blow it all out of the water for me, just because you’re pissy that you’re not getting the sex you expected. Maybe you don’t realize this, but I want more than sex from a man. So I’m going to keep living my life and seeing if I can find a man who wants to give it to me. Who doesn’t need to control everything because he’s too scared to invest for real. That’s what I want. I want to invest. And—”

  “Gillian!” The word is sharp and punctuated by his bringing both hands up to frame my face. “Gillian, listen to me for a minute.”

  I blink, taken aback by the look in his eyes. He’s not angry like I am. He’s not even guilty. He looks almost—almost—excited. Fond and warm and excited.

  “What?” I ask. Rather stupidly. “I was trying to say something.”

  “I know you were. And you were absolutely right to say it. But if you listen to me for a minute, you might find some of it is unnecessary. Why the hell do you think I’m here?”