Page 9 of Forked (Frenched 2)
We were late that night. We were late a lot.
Desire surged through me, and I cleared my throat and my head. Stop it. None of that. I eyed my reflection suspiciously. You want one thing only from him, and it doesn’t involv
e an erection so just keep focused on the task at hand.
Breath? I exhaled into my hand and sniffed fast, feeling a little like a seventh grader at a dance but satisfied with the outcome.
Now for the outfit review. I was wearing a dress since it was July and I have a strict no-pants policy between the months of June and September. Not only do dresses keep my legs cooler, but I’ve always felt they’re more flattering to my hourglass figure.
Today’s choice was one of my favorites—a curve- hugger with cap sleeves, a gathered bust, and a slim pencil skirt. The print was tiny red roses on a cream- colored background, and the material was stretchy and starchy at the same time, some miracle of modern engineering. I love vintage looks, but I will be the first to admit that my closet is full of contemporary knockoffs, which are sturdier, easier to clean, and just as pretty.
I locked my office door and took the wide central staircase down to the foyer of the renovated Victorian mansion in Brush Park that housed the Devine Events offices. Mia and I each had offices on the second floor that used to be bedrooms, and we shared a room between them which might have been a dressing room at one time but now served a dual purpose as a small conference room and lobby. There was a powder room and bathroom at the end of the hall, which we shared with the interior designers who rented the rooms on the other side of the stairs, but at this hour on a Friday, the entire house was empty.
The dark, shiny wood of the banister and beautifully refinished plasterwork on the ceiling reminded me of my dream house in Indian Village. I ran my hand along its satiny finish and refocused my
attention on what mattered—getting the house. If all went well in the next few days, it could be mine within in the next few months. My insides danced with excitement. All I had to do was get Nick to do me this one favor. And he owed me, didn’t he? He so owed me.
So what if I’d ignored all his attempts at apologizing after the fact? So what if I’d divorced him without speaking to him? So what if I’d refused to acknowledge his existence on the planet for seven years? After what he did, that was my right.
But I still had no idea how to approach him. Should I be friendly? A how-are-you-old-buddy-old- pal kind of thing? After all, we’d had some good times together. Some very good times. Times that involved midnight drives and blankets under the moon and pants around knees and a skirt around my waist and the stars falling from the sky beyond his head like sugar into my mouth while he whispered in my ear, You know how I love you…don’t ever leave me… and his body rocked into mine with deep, steady strokes.
When I came to, I was standing with my feet on two different stairs, my fingers clenching the banister, my toes curling in my shoes.
Nick, you bastard. You did love me. I know you did. And I loved you. But it wasn’t enough. Why wasn’t it enough?
Swallowing against the lump in my throat— which surprised me, I hadn’t cried over Nick in years, nor any man since—I exited the building, locking the front door behind me. On shaky legs I walked to my car, a red Volkswagon Beetle, and slid carefully into the driver’s seat. Pretty much everything had to be done carefully in this dress. Careful, that’s a good word for tonight too. I’d be careful not to rip my dress, careful not to let my emotions get the best of me, and careful not to let the past impose itself on the present.
Or his hand impose itself on my ass.
The thought popped into my head before I could help it, the kind of dirty little joke Nick would have made himself if he could read my mind, which I often thought he could. He got my mostly-classy-yet- secretly filthy sense of humor perfectly, and I’d missed the way he could make me laugh.
What? No. N-O. I’m over him, and I can handle this.
But the danger in approaching Nick Lupo without a game plan was apparent, and I could see myself falling back under his spell if I wasn’t prepared.
A script, I thought as I made my way to Corktown, where The Burger Bar was located. That’s what I needed, a script. Nothing left to chance, no awkward silence upon meeting again into which one of us might be tempted to insert an inside joke, a remember-when, a penis.
Oh my God. Stop. It.
After some hard thought, I came up with five different opening approaches.
First, there was Coy, which would be delivered with fingers steepled over the heart: Oh, is this your place? I didn’t realize!
Then there was Chummy, served best with an elbow to the gut: Hey, you! Congrats on all your success! I’ve been wanting to come in here, but I’ve been so busy!
Perhaps Nostalgic would work, accompanied by a little eyelash batting: Gee, remember that night I gave you my virginity out in your family’s orchard? Yeah, that was sweet. Is it too late to ask you for something in return?
Then there was Honesty, which would come with foot shuffling and a wry smile on top: Look, I know we fucked things up really badly between us but Tony Whack’s daughter wants you to cater midnight snacks at her engagement party and if you say no I’m dead.
Finally, I had Desperate: I need you. I’ll do anything you want if you’ll do this for me. This would most likely be accompanied by a panty-drop and a side of 69.
God help me.
Despite the heat of the night, and the fact that my windows were down—I’m not a big fan of AC—I shivered. In all honesty, I wasn’t even sure what Nick’s reply would be to something like that. Did he still think about me that way? Once upon a time, he couldn’t keep his hands off me, but that was B.V. Before Vegas. I couldn’t even guess what he’d been thinking that weekend, let alone how he’d feel now.
I locked the car and dropped my keys into my purse, my shoulders stiff with tension. Thinking about the past had me all worked up—I’m the kind of person who remembers things vividly, with every sense. For me, memories are visceral, evocative things, full of tastes and smells and sounds, and for years I’d been careful to keep certain ones sewn up inside me. But today I felt my memories of Nick Lupo pushing at the seams, their contents threatening to burst—the sound of his voice, the smell of his skin, the taste of his kiss, the feeling of him inside me.
My stomach went momentarily weightless, and for the millionth time I wondered if Nick really had been that good at sex or if I only thought so because he was my first and I had no one to compare him to at the time. I mean, how good could a twenty-one-year-old guy actually be? Probably my memory was just doing that thing where the farther back in time something is, the rosier it seems in your mind. I bet there were plenty of times where he put his own pleasure first and ignored my needs.
