Third Life Read online

  “What?” That’s me. Always completely incoherent at the very worst times.

  He gives a huff and slides his hands down to my throat, holding my head gently. Like it’s precious to him. “Gillian, baby, why do you think I’m here? If I wanted to keep it no strings, I’d never have shown up here like this. I know it’s inappropriate. I know it’s not fair to you. But I can’t help it. I was there in Vermont, waiting for you. More and more crushed when you didn’t show up. I spent all night thinking about it. Thinking about you. Realizing what I’ve been doing.”

  “You... you did?”

  “Yes. I did. I understand why you didn’t come. And I understand why you went out with that guy, even though seeing him kiss you made me want to rip his head right off his body.”

  My lips part at that. My mind is buzzing so intensely I’m genuinely afraid my brain might explode.

  “I understand, Gillian. I haven’t been fair to you. I’ve been playing it safe. Trying to control it. The way I’ve done everything for years and years and... years. And I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to lose you because I’m afraid to offer you more. So I’m here.” He clears his throat and drops his eyes. It takes a few seconds before I realize that he’s actually self-conscious. Maybe even nervous. “What we’ve had is amazing. It’s honestly been the best thing in my life. The very best thing. But it’s no longer enough for me either. And I’d like to offer you more.”

  I gape at him in astonishment. Now my heart is swelling as much as my head.

  “If... if that’s what you want,” he adds, searching my face urgently.

  I make a sound. Halfway between a laugh and a sob.

  He frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

  The sound comes out again, longer and more sustained. I throw myself against his chest and hold on.

  He lets out a long exhale that’s more of a soft groan, and he wraps his arms around me fiercely.

  We stand like that for a long time on the sidewalk. Me shaking against him. Him holding me in a tight hug.

  I’m not being silly about this. I know he isn’t proposing marriage or declaring his undying love to me here. He hasn’t done real relationships in a really long time, and I’ve never had one at all. Ever. Neither of us really knows what we’re doing here. There are still a lot of things he’s never told me, and I don’t know if he’ll tell me even now.

  But he wants more. And obviously I do too.

  So I’m not going to say no to this, as long as it has the potential to make me happy.

  When I finally pull away from him, I’m smiling like a fool. “Do you... do you want to come up? To my place?”

  He brushes some hair back from my flushed face. “Yes. I’d like that a lot.”

  Seven

  I LIVE IN A ONE-BEDROOM apartment on the top floor of a converted brownstone in an established residential area. It’s quiet, there’s a park down the block, and it’s close to public transportation. In other words, it doesn’t come cheap.

  It’s not a very large place, but it’s more than enough space for one person. I’ve taken the time to fix it up in a pleasant, cozy manner. I keep it basically picked up, and I have a woman who comes in once a week to do the heavy cleaning, so I never mind showing it off to other people.

  When I let us in, I see Richard’s gaze moving around from the small, clean kitchen to the connecting living and dining area. “I like it,” he says at last. “It looks like you.”

  That’s the best kind of compliment I could get on my place, so I smile at him.

  He stands in my entryway, looking way too sophisticated for my little apartment in his Italian shoes and perfectly fitted shirt. His eyes drop from my face to the floor. He shifts his weight very slightly from one foot to the other.

  I suddenly wonder if he’s nervous. Or maybe just the slightest bit self-conscious.

  The possibility comforts me. Gives me the insight to see the shadows under his eyes, the slight paleness of his skin. So I ask, “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Are you sure? Because I’m a little hungry myself.”

  “Really? Didn’t you just have dinner with that guy?” His mouth turns up again in another of those faint scowls.

  The expression really shouldn’t make me happy, but it does. “Yes, but I just did some date nibbling.”

  “Date nibbling?” He’s relaxing. His eyes are softening to their normal leisurely warmth.

  “Yes. Date nibbling. I never eat much on dates. It’s not that I’m worried about the guy seeing me eat. It’s that I can’t really relax when I’m on dates, so I can’t enjoy anything. So I normally just nibble. So to tell you the truth, I’m pretty hungry right now. I can make something for us if you want.”

  “I’ll eat if you’re eating.”

  I nod, pleased that food preparations will give me something concrete to do. I open my refrigerator and see that I only have basics, so I pull out eggs and pancetta. “Pasta okay?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at Richard, who followed me into the kitchen and is leaning against the counter.

  “Sure. Anything.”

  I put pasta on to boil and then start chopping up some pancetta and browning it in a pan. Richard helps by opening a bottle of wine and chopping some parsley.

  When the pasta’s cooked, I add it the pan, put in the eggs, and flip it in the pan a few times to mix it. This is one thing I know how to make without incident.

  “Carbonara,” Richard says, standing at my shoulder and watching. “Yum. And I like how you handle that pan.”

  I laugh softly as I plate the pasta up and sprinkle it with the parsley Richard chopped. “Bacon and egg pasta. That’s what my mom always called it. Not much that’s quicker and easier to make than this.”

  “Either way, it looks great. I’m starving.”

  We take our plates and glasses of white wine and go to sit at my little dining table. “I thought you said you were okay when I asked if you wanted any food. Now you say you’re starving.”

  “Well, I was okay. But now I’m better than okay.”

  I snort as I take my first bite. It tastes exactly as it always does—warm and rich and just a little salty. Perfectly comforting. “Didn’t you eat dinner?”

  “Dinner? I haven’t eaten anything all day.”

  “What? Why not?”

  Richard is definitely hungry, if the way he’s eating is any proof. He occasionally makes a little moan of pleasure that gives me gratified flutters. He has to swallow a bite before he replies, “Why do you think? You didn’t show up. The whole world was falling apart.”

  I snort again. (I really have to stop doing that.) “That seems a little melodramatic.”

  “Maybe. But that’s how it felt.” He gives me a small, sardonic smile that’s exactly like him. “Pretty pathetic, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No. I wouldn’t say that. I felt the same way.”

  “Which was why you went out on a date with some other guy.”

  “I made the date before I got the package from you. Was I supposed to just wait around and hope you’d deign to contact me again?”

  “No. You weren’t. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You lived your life. I’m the one moping around, unable to move on or get anything done because I can’t get a girl out of my head.”

  I’d just brought my glass of wine up to my lips, and I make the stupidest little giggle over the rim.

  He cocks an eyebrow. “You’re laughing at me now?”

  “Not laughing at. Just... laughing.”

  “Okay.” He reaches over and tucks some hair behind my ear in that way he always does when it falls into my face.

  He never lets me hide behind my hair. He always wants to see me.

  And, despite all my wise advice to myself about playing it safe, about how a man like Richard isn’t likely to fall for an invisible person like me, his feelings are evidently real. They seem to be anyway.

  Af
ter a moment, he goes back to eating. “So how was your date?”

  “Richard.”

  “What? It’s just a question.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “So it was a bad date then? The guy couldn’t hold a candle to me?”

  I roll my eyes in response to his teasing tone, but I tell him the truth. “It wasn’t bad. He’s a good guy. And...”

  “And what?”

  “And on a different day, in a different situation, I’d probably be excited about him.”

  “You would?” He almost—almost—sounds jealous.

  “Yes. I would.” I shake my head and give his arm a little nudge. “But it’s not a different day. It’s not a different situation. And I mostly wanted the date to be over.”

  He smiles, relaxed again. “Then why did you go on the date to begin with?”

  “You know why. You just said it. I was trying to live my life rather than waiting around for you to make a move when you’d done nothing but keep me at arm’s length.”

  “I was trying to keep you at arm’s length,” he corrects. “I just wasn’t doing a very good job of it. You must have picked up on it. You must have sensed how I was feeling.”

  “Maybe. But you forget I don’t have a lot of experience with men, and girls fool themselves about guys all the time. I didn’t want to do that. I was trying to be smart. And since you’d never said anything—or even given me your phone number—I wasn’t going to presume.”

  He chuckles, finishing his serving of pasta. Every last bite. Then he picks up his wine and takes a sip. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are very warm and soft as he watches me over the top of his glass.

  “What?” I demand, when it’s clear he’s not going to speak.

  “Nothing. Just can’t really believe this is happening.”

  I almost choke as I realize he must be feeling exactly what I am right now. “Me either,” I admit. Then, in an attempt to stop myself from melting into a puddle of sappy emotion, I nod toward the stove. “You want anymore? I’ve had all I’m going to eat. You might as well finish what’s in the pan.”

  He does. We eat in contented silence for a few minutes until our plates and glasses are empty.

  I’m sitting at my kitchen table when it happens.

  Sometimes memory hits you out of the blue, brought on by a scent or a taste or a stray snippet of melody or a few words lifted out of the past, echoing into the present. Maybe it’s the carbonara. The familiar scent and taste of it. Or maybe it’s the way Richard scrapes his fork against his plate to capture the last bit of pancetta. Or maybe it’s the big candle I lit in the middle of the table, set on a handmade mosaic holder that used to be my mom’s.

  Whatever prompts it, the memory swallows me up without warning. It swells from my heart to fill my chest. It rises into my throat. It burns in my eyes. Until, before I know it, tears are streaming down my cheeks.

  “Gillian.” Richard’s voice is soft and urgent. “Gillian, what the hell?”

  “Sorry.” I sniff and smile at him while I try to mop up my tears with my napkin. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

  “You are not fine. You’re crying. What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, giving in to a few sobs. When I’ve wiped my face and mostly controlled the emotion, I add, “I have no idea. I just... I just started thinking about my mom.”

  “Your mom?” He reaches over to lay a hand over mine, which is closed around the damp, wadded napkin.

  “Yes. I really don’t know what happened. I was just sitting here, enjoying myself. Happy.” My throat starts to close up again, so I breathe through it until I can continue. “It’s probably the pasta. My mom always used to make it for me when I was upset about something. When my dad was mean or yelled at me, she’d wait until he went to bed, and then she’d make us pasta and let me talk about it.”

  Tears are falling again. There’s no way I can stop them.

  “You told me she died recently, didn’t you?” Richard murmurs gently.

  I nod. “Less than a year. I’ve done my grieving for her. I really have. When someone goes the way she did—so slowly—you do a lot of your grieving before they even... even...”

  “I understand.”

  “I don’t cry much about her anymore, but every once in a while it just hits you. Usually out of the blue like this.”

  “I know it does.”

  “I wish she could have known...” I don’t finish the sentence. Can’t. I might start bawling and never stop. “She always worried about me. She was afraid my view of men was messed up because of my dad. She always thought she should have done better to keep him from...” I mop up some more tears. “I don’t know if her life was as happy as it should have been. I wish she could have seen that at least I’m happy now. I wish... I wish she wasn’t dead today.”

  Richard stands up and steps over to where I’m sitting. Then he reaches down to pull me to my feet so he can wrap his arms around me. I shake against him for a few minutes until the last of the tears are gone.

  I’m a little embarrassed when I finally pull away. “Sorry. I’m not usually such a crybaby.”

  “I know you aren’t. But you don’t think I care about that, do you?” He brushes my cheek with his knuckles, the touch as soft as a feather.

  I sniff and shrug and lean against him for a few more moments before I’m composed enough to move out of his arms.

  “Okay,” I say, collecting our dirty dishes and bringing them to the sink. “If you pour us more wine, we can move this to the couch. I’m exhausted all of a sudden.”

  “Me too.”

  We take our wine into the living room, and once we’re settled on the sofa, Richard draws me toward him so he can kiss me. Slow and gentle and passionate. I melt against him. There’s no other word for it. My body flushes and softens and pulses as his hands start to slide over my back, my bottom, my breasts.

  I can tell he’s tired. He’s not nearly as skillful or intentional as he normally is. Slowly I feel him harden against me, and he moans softly when I rub him over his trousers.

  We never actually discuss it. We take each other’s clothes off as we kiss until he’s pulled me onto his lap. We keep kissing as I straddle him, and he moves his erection into position. Then he’s inside me, and I’m rocking over him, gasping and whimpering into his mouth as pleasure rises and releases inside me quickly.

  I don’t have the control to make it last. Neither does he. He’s already working up to release. I can tell from the way his muscles are tensing and his hips are bucking up into my weight.

  Pleasure—and something deeper, something so much stronger—consumes me as I tuck my face in the crook between his neck and shoulder and sob, my body jiggling shamelessly as the sensations spasm through me.

  Richard makes a choking sound as he comes. He holds my hips down against him as he gives a lot of hard, jerky pushes. He’s murmuring my name hoarsely as he wraps his arms around me afterward.

  I collapse on top of him. Completely naked. Completely limp. I lift my head just enough to find his lips so we can kiss again.

  It’s a long time before either one of us can move, despite the wetness we’ve made between us. I finally find the energy to get up, collect my clothes and Richard’s shirt (since I want to wear it), and go to the bathroom to clean up a little.

  When I return, Richard has pulled on his underwear and stretched out on the couch. I join him, grabbing a big, soft throw blanket to cover us with. I settle against him, tucked between his body and the back of the couch.

  Maybe we should talk. Maybe there are things we should discuss and sort out. I think about what I want to say. What I want to hear from him.

  As I’m thinking, my body is relaxing even more. I’m warm and safe and content and sated. Richard is feeling the same way. I know he is. He occasionally releases long sighs of pure satisfaction.

  There’s really nothing else right now I need to be different than it is, so I let myself go to sleep.
>
  WE BOTH SLEEP ON THE couch for a couple of hours until I’m roused by Richard’s pulling away from me so he can sit up.

  “Sorry,” he murmurs, reaching down to stroke some hair off my face in that particularly gentle way he has. “My back is killing me.”

  I giggle sleepily. “Let’s move to the bed then. Not sure why we couldn’t make it there earlier.”

  So we go to my bedroom, climb into my bed, and fall asleep almost immediately.

  The next morning, I wake up earlier than I would have expected. At just after eight. Richard is still asleep. I watch him for a few minutes, and he makes no sign of opening his eyes. Smiling with a fondness I hadn’t realized was part of me before, I carefully get out of bed so as not to wake him.

  I’m wide awake and don’t feel like sitting around, so I make coffee in my small french press and then mix up some cranberry-and-orange muffins. While they’re baking, I do some light housework—things I let slide during the week because I was feeling so down about Richard. I’m more of a morning person than a late-night person, but I’m not usually so active on Saturday mornings.

  But I feel far more alive than normal. More than happy. Energized. Last night feels like a miracle to me, but it wasn’t. Richard’s still sleeping there in my bed. I didn’t imagine it or make it up or misunderstand what happened.

  He wants a relationship with me, and that’s obviously what I want too.

  Nothing is guaranteed, of course, but maybe we can make it work.

  It’s a possibility now when it never was before.

  I’m leaning over to sweep a little pile of dust and debris into my dustpan when I hear Richard’s voice from the bedroom door. “It smells good in here.”

  Straightening up, I turn around and smile at him. “Cranberry-and-orange muffins. If you don’t like them, you’re out of luck because that’s the only kind of muffin I had the ingredients for.”

  “Sounds great to me.” He comes into the kitchen, looking rumpled, slightly debauched, and sexy as hell in nothing but his underwear and mussed hair. “How long have you been up?”