“You’re worried. Your hands are shaking,” I said.
“Honestly. That’s from being around you.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Even if they’re true?”
“Shouldn’t you go to the police?” I said, looking to change the subject.
“To say what?”
“That your wife is having you followed?”
“I have no proof. It’s just a feeling.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. But seeing you, I realize I have to do something. I don’t want to go on like this.”
His hazel eyes were so near that I saw my reflection in them. I loved the line of his mouth, so strong and yet so vulnerable. I wanted to kiss him, badly. But he was married, and troubled, and dangerous for me.
“Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I’d married you instead,” he said.
I’d been waiting years to hear him say that. Now that it was happening, I wasn’t sure I could handle it.
“Don’t play with my feelings.”
“I’m not. I really mean it. I should have come back here a long time ago. What we had was so pure. Those were the happiest days of my life. I’d give anything to feel that way again. Please, can I just—”
“No. It’s not a good idea.”
“Please. Let me.”
He raised his hands and undid my hair. It came cascading down. He buried his face in it.
“I remember this,” he said.
“We should stop, before it’s too late,” I whispered.
“It’s already too late.”
He leaned in to kiss me, and my lips parted like they remembered him. His mouth was the same, his taste as sweet as ever. My hands found their way to his shirt. The cotton was finer than what he’d worn in my memory, his body underneath my fingers subtly changed. I undid the buttons. Then he took off my shirt. We paused, taking each other in with our eyes, our hands moving over each other. He was sturdier, more solid, more defined than I remembered, but the texture of his skin under my fingers, the hollow at his collarbone, I remembered vividly. When he touched me, every man I’d been with in the intervening years disappeared. They’d all been wrong. Every one. He knew how to touch me like nobody else did. My breath came in gasps. Our clothes were in piles on the floor. He was on top of me, his skin silken against mine, his body moving against me, his face filling my vision. He was all that I could see. All I ever wanted to see. Please, I thought, let him stay with me this time. Let him never leave. I know this is wrong. But it feels so right. And I don’t want it to end.
8
Delicate morning light streamed through the tall windows of the ski house, illuminating Connor’s face as he slept. We lay on the sofa, naked and tangled in one another’s arms, partially covered by a cashmere throw. I was cold and stiff, and I needed to pee. But I held perfectly still, fearing that, the moment he woke, my time with him would come to an end.
He stirred, opening his eyes.
“Hi,” he said, and kissed me lightly on the lips.
“Hi.”
This was pretend. There was someplace else he ought to be, another woman he belonged to. He knew that better than I did. Anxiety flared in his eyes as reality set in. He sat up abruptly and grabbed his phone from the coffee table. The screen as he unlocked it was covered with the bubbles of multiple text messages. I watched him scroll through hurriedly, watched his shoulders slump, watched as rushed to pull on his underwear. And I knew what it meant: He’d leave, and I wouldn’t see him again.
“Was that your wife?”
He didn’t reply.
“It’s okay. I understand,” I said, reaching for my clothes.
“No. Just—there are some things I should deal with.”
“Sure.”
“I wish it were different,” he said.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
I couldn’t look him in the eye for fear I’d choke up and beg to stay. Or else, get angry, which I had no right to do, since I’d known what this was, and did it anyway.
We got dressed in silence.
Outside, the air was fresh and cool, smelling of pine and green leaves. I took a breath to banish my sadness, but the beauty of the day only magnified it. The house had lost its air of menace and looked like the glamorous millionaire’s ski retreat it was, the kind of place I’d normally never get inside, unless I was catering a party. I wished we could stay longer, that we had the right to be there together. But we didn’t. Our night together had been stolen from its rightful owner, Connor’s wife. She was the one who belonged with him in places like this. He must feel that, too. He fell into a troubled silence that hung over us like a cloud all the way back to the Baldwin Grill, where I’d left my car.
The restaurant didn’t open for hours, and the parking lot was empty. In the light of day, the restaurant looked shabby, in need of paint, the parking lot riddled with potholes from spring rains. This was my life, not that ski chalet. Connor pulled up next to my dented ten-year-old Corolla, the only car in the lot. I was fond of that car. She even had a name—Corrie. Yet the contrast between her and the sleek Lamborghini brought home a hard truth. He was rich. I wasn’t. We were about to part ways, presumably forever. He’d return to his glamorous existence, his glamorous wife. I’d head back to the daily grind—alone.
I reached for the door handle. “I hope things get better for you. Goodbye, Connor.”
“Wait. Don’t go. This can’t be the end.”
I turned back, shrugging hopelessly. “What else can it be?”
“I have meetings all day today. But afterwards, the rest of the weekend, I’m free. Can I see you?”
There was nothing I wanted more in life than to see him again. But where would it lead?
“Connor, this isn’t good for us. And it’s not right.”
He laid his hand against my cheek and looked deep into my eyes.
“Last night with you was the first time in years that I felt like myself. The world made sense again. I know I have nothing to offer, no right to ask anything of you. But if you’d let me see you—if it’s just a few hours, minutes, even—anything you’ll give me, I’ll take.”
“Say we spend another night together. What happens then? You go back to your wife, right?”
“I won’t lie to you. The answer to that is yes, for now. I want to leave her. But it’s complicated, and I can’t put a time frame on it.”
“Thank you for being honest. I love you, Connor. I really do, I always have. But this—I just can’t. I should go.”
His face fell as I flung the door open.
I ran to my car, got in, turned on the engine. The Lamborghini hadn’t budged. Connor sat there, staring at me through the glass, looking as devastated as I felt. I wanted to run back into his arms. I couldn’t. I don’t know how I managed, but I put the car in gear and drove away, second-guessing myself all the way home.
I was such a mess at work that night that everybody noticed. Not just Matt, the bartender, but my manager Liz, whom I’d worked with at another restaurant before following her here. And the hostess, Hayley, who was a ditz, but a sweetheart. They all saw that something was wrong from the expression on my face and kept asking if I was okay. I said I was fine. But after I screwed up a couple of orders, Liz pulled me aside.