Chapter 9 #2
She glances down at herself. “I didn’t know what to wear.” She scoffs. “What does one wear to a non-traditional sleepover date?” Looking up at me again, her eyes narrow. “Not that this is a date, it’s just . . .”
“I’m nervous, too,” I tell her as if this will reassure her. Maybe settle my own unease.
Our awkwardness is ridiculous. We’ve done this sleeping thing before. It shouldn’t feel so different and on the tip of my tongue is a retraction, where I tell her I’ve made a mistake. But being here doesn’t feel like an error.
Standing here, as tension filled as the moment is, feels strangely right. And now that I’m here, I’d have trouble pulling myself away.
“Why don’t you get more comfortable?” I nod at her outfit. “Unless you are comfortable. Because the last thing I want to do is make you feel uncomfortable.” And now I’m the one being weird.
She laughs, the sound stressed but quiet and sweet. Placing her hand lightly on my forearm, she says, “I’ll change. You get in bed.”
I glance at the large mattress. One difference between then and now is the number of damn throw pillows on the bed.
The other difference is we didn’t climb beneath the sheets that night but remained on top of them.
I hadn’t thought about the logistics of our sleeping arrangement other than being next to her, but somehow crawling underneath the covers feels more intimate.
Still, I carry the pillows to the other bedroom and then return to pull back the duvet.
Glancing toward the ensuite where Vee is changing, I still.
Perhaps she doesn’t realize she didn’t close the door between the bedroom and the bathroom.
With a second glance at the doorframe, I notice there isn’t a closure.
The shower and double vanity sinks are open to the main bathroom while the toilet is inside a closet.
With her naked back to me, I take in this enticing spot on her.
A straight line cascades between her shoulder blades, like a beautiful riverbed, flowing to the swell of her ripe backside.
I recall admiring her back when I helped her unzip her dress that first night.
Her skin looks smooth. Her legs are toned.
Quickly, I glance away. Admiring her back has no place in our arrangement.
I’m not typically a man who sleeps in sweats or a tee but out of respect for Vee I’ll be wearing both tonight. I might experience my own hot flash at some point, but this overnight will be worth the heat.
I can already feel the positive energy buzzing around me.
Slipping beneath the sheet and light blanket, I turn my head when Vee pulls down the coverings on her side of the bed.
She’s wearing a graphic tee and loose shorts after all.
Only a lamp on the nightstand lights the room, and she stretches to turn it off before settling to her back, her head against the long bed pillow. I do the same.
Silence ensues as darkness takes over the room and we both stare at the ceiling.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” Her voice is low, almost a whisper.
Rolling only my head, her profile comes into view. A sliver of light slips through the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass door and I can make out the jut of her chin, the straightness of her nose. What I want to see are her eyes.
“Of course.” I might be opening a can of worms, but any conversation is better than this muted tension.
“When you spend the night with a woman, do you feel like you are cheating on your wife?”
I deeply exhale, feeling like a soft punch hit my gut. “Jumping into the deep end, are we?”
Her head shifts on her pillow, her face angled toward me. “Is that question too much?”
Again, I wish I could see her expressive eyes. Instead, I focus on her face in general. “No, it’s not too much. And yeah, I guess I did feel a little like I was cheating on Patty. At first.”
In the twelve years of my marriage, I hadn’t been with anyone else but my wife. Up until the bitter end, she had been my heart.
“I didn’t date for a long time,” I explain. “Probably more than two years.” However, I’d had sex in the interim. Random, one-night stands. Quicky hookups. Like a devil inside me had been unleashed. The anger and rage consuming me at the loss of my wife.
However, returning to casual sex in my late thirties did not offer the same thrill as the recklessness I’d indulged in during my early twenties.
Instead, I fell in lust with several starlets and models of varying ages, resulting in short-term stints and several months-long situationships like Chandler.
“But at some point, I accepted that Patty wasn’t ever coming back, and I had not cheated on her while we were married. I’d been faithful and loyal.” I’d loved her. Until death parted us.
Silence falls between us for another painfully long minute. I wonder if Vee has fallen asleep on me. Then her head rolls, profile outlined once more. “My husband cheated on me during our marriage.”
Fuck!
“And yet I’m the one who struggled to accept I was not cheating on him once he was gone.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you, Vee.” Some men are such dicks. Women, too, as I’ve witnessed by Ford Sylver’s ex-wife flaunting her affair with his fellow teammate. “But you got through those emotions, right?”
Is she feeling adulterous right now? I roll to my side facing her, wanting to reach out to her, wanting to reassure her that we aren’t doing anything remotely similar to infidelity. But I’m afraid to touch her. Afraid she won’t want my touch.
“Vee,” I whisper. “When you spend the night with a man, you don’t still feel like you’re cheating, do you?”
With her face still aimed toward the ceiling, she brushes at her cheek. Shit. Is she crying? Did I press too hard? Did I push this arrangement too fast without thinking it through? Thinking enough of her?
“Vee.” My voice cracks. I’m fucking this up and taking her down with me.
Slowly, I press up on my elbow, desperately wanting a better glance at her face. The light filtering in from the outside offers only enough illumination to see her cheeks are dry, her eyes not glistening, but she refuses to look directly at me, even knowing I’m staring at her.
She rolls her head back and forth on the pillow once. “I’m okay.”
“But when you spend the night—”
“I don’t spend the night,” she cuts me off. Despite the dim lighting, I see her eyes flash momentarily to me, and then away, as if she’s embarrassed or ashamed. “I’ve never spent a night with a man other than you.”
The shocking reality is like the crack of a bat on a powerful hit.
“And no, I don’t feel guilty. I was just curious.”
Her eyes are still pointed away from my face. Her head even shifts, drawing away from my concerned gaze, but I remain pressed up on my arm, staring down at her. Taking in the line of her cheek, the shape of her nose again, and the roll of her lips.
“Good night, Ross,” she whispers, putting an end to this confession.
I collapse back to my side, still watching her, mentally making out her profile. Her mouth when she smiles. Her eyes when they sparkle. Wishing for that snortle sound she makes to dissolve the tension between us.
I roll to my back, hyperaware of Vee’s closeness and yet sensitive about the distance between us.
Her arms remain on her chest, holding the blanket near her collarbone.
I cup my forehead for a second, stunned by what she’d just admitted.
Her husband’s adultery and the fact she hasn’t slept through the night with any man other than me. I’m honored in the strangest way.
Do I tell her her admission is important to me? Do I explain how I feel special? I don’t speak. Instead, I lower my arm and slowly stretch for her with my fingers.
“Vee,” I whisper, knowing she isn’t sleeping yet. “Give me your hand.”
There’s something about her fingers that brings me comfort, and when she lays her palm against mine, I rub my thumb the length of her pinky. Then, I shift so I’m stroking down each digit, until I sense Vee relaxing beside me.
And while my body settles into the bed, my thoughts continue to race, wanting to know everything there is to know about Vee.