Chapter One
Chapter One
L’Wren pulls up to the valet outside the Hunt Gallery and we take in the chic crowd. “Who is this guy again?”
Well-dressed partygoers have spilled out onto the sidewalk. They don’t look the way I had imagined they would—they’re older, and if not dripping with wealth, definitely sturdy with it. “Thanks for being here.”
“Of course. What are best friends for? But really, who is this guy?”
“An old friend from New Mexico,” I say. “He wasn’t quite this popular when we knew each other.”
I fix my lipstick one last time in the mirror, my pulse quickening at the idea of seeing Jasper again. I think about all the ways I’ll play it cool—Inhale: This was a good idea. Exhale: This was a terrible idea.
—
Jasper, the first love of my life, whom I had not seen in almost fifteen years, got in touch last week. He was in town. We met for a coffee. And it’s had me rattled all week. I wasn’t prepared to see him, for one thing. I thought I was meeting a business contact, a sort of blind setup arranged by my friend Alicia. When I looked up and saw Jasper, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
He was taller than I remembered, with longer legs and broader shoulders. When he sat across from me, the table and everything on it seemed to shrink. My mind raced, trying to figure out how and why he was there, right in front of me—but all my brain could conjure in that moment was a memory, from over a decade ago: the two of us lying in bed, Jasper asking if I liked the way the afternoon light fell across our naked bodies.
“Diana.” Jasper’s smile was warm and unhurried. “Thanks for taking the meeting.” He rested his elbows on the table, his face in his hands. “Alicia and I thought it would be a fun surprise. And it seemed like a really clever idea until about a minute ago when I was standing outside and saw you through the window.”
At the thought of him watching me, the tips of my ears burned. I wished I had brushed my hair this morning instead of pulling it into a messy topknot. I wished I was wearing something sexier than an old blue T-shirt of Oliver’s.
“Well.” I smiled. I could only laugh. There he was: deep brown eyes, dark hair, rosy lips. “It is a surprise.”
I’d pictured Jasper so many times over the years, but always resisted the urge to look him up. Now that he was in front of me, I realized how uninspired my imagination had been—I’d left out all his familiar dimensions and I’d forgotten how exciting it is, the feeling, exactly, of being near a body that holds all its energy right at the surface. Mr. Art Throb. Those playful eyes. The smooth skin and rugged good looks.
He tipped back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head, charisma fully intact. “I tried to call you, you know. When I got back from that first London trip. But your number was disconnected.”
That was so long ago that, sitting across from him, I honestly couldn’t remember if I had purposefully—while in the throes of a broken heart—changed my number when I moved from Santa Fe to Dallas, or if I was just so young and broke that I couldn’t pay the bill and went without a phone for a while.
“I figured you had moved on,” he said.
I noticed people noticing Jasper. A few lingering glances from other diners. He’s so attractive it’s comic. Sad-comic, he likes to remind you, with those sometimes-doleful eyes. “It was a million years ago.”
“Fourteen. Fifteen?” he asked.
But I didn’t want to go back in time. I was too excited to be with him here. Now. “How long will you be in Dallas?”
“A week, probably. I don’t know.” He looked up from his hands and then found my eyes. My pulse quickened. “It’s nice here.”
Watching him across the table, I remembered one freezing night we’d camped out in West Texas and it rained for hours. We didn’t sleep at all. In the morning, groggy and shivering, I expected him to be more than ready to pack up. But he just looked at me in our cold, leaking tent and smiled. “One more night?” He could always make a terrible idea sound good. He was looking at me like that now.
We stayed like that—watching each other across the table—for what felt like several minutes, blood rushing to my cheeks, a familiar stir between my legs. The heat between us had not cooled after all these years.
“When I asked Alicia what you’ve been up to, she forwarded a link to the site you’ve been working on. Diana, as soon as I saw all your new paintings and heard your voice on those recordings, I had this swell of pride—” He stopped himself, suddenly embarrassed. “Not that I had anything to do with it, I just—”
“It’s pretty wild, right?” I let him off the hook. “Sex positive. Sex obsessed? I don’t know what it is yet.”
“It’s all that. Incredibly sexy. Beautiful, raw paintings.” Jasper’s phone rang then, and he excused himself. He took the call outside, pacing in tight circles, while I watched through the window, wondering if he would return anytime soon. It was a familiar feeling, waiting for Jasper. Finally, back at the table, he apologized for having to run.
“Would you come to my show’s opening? It’s Thursday. Here in Dallas.”
My heart sank at the word Thursday. I wanted to see him that night. The next night. And the next. For what exactly, I didn’t know. So I promised I would come to the show, and at the same time I thought, This is not a good move. Not now. Terrible timing. He shattered your heart, remember?
We parted minutes later, agreeing how great it was to be back in touch. We were both very polite, as if niceties could cover up any of the gaping holes we were digging with all our unsaid feelings. What do you say to a near stranger who at one point you loved more than anyone? Then we embraced and the scent of him almost made my legs give out.
—
Of course I spent the entire week thinking about whether or not to go to Jasper’s show. What would it be like to see him now that the surprise was out of the way? And why wouldn’t I go to see his work? Here it was, right in Dallas. I convinced L’Wren to come with me, but I haven’t really told her much. And as we squeeze into the line of people waiting to enter the gallery, she falls uncharacteristically quiet.
“L’Wren?” I let her name hang like a fully formed question. I squint into the late-afternoon sun looming just over her shoulder, then add, “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing. Honestly.” Her eyes dart from me to her sandals and back to me. “I was just thinking…Kevin told me he heard that Oliver wasn’t seeing that lady from the food court anymore.”
I’ve spoken to Oliver very little since he moved out and seen him even less. The last time he dropped off our daughter, Emmy, at my house, a woman was sitting in the front seat of his car. She sat the way I imagine a new girlfriend would—smiling politely, sunglasses still on, a gentle wave in my direction, but nothing to make too big a show of her presence. She had a wide smile with lots of white teeth and pulled off a pixie cut in a way that makes other women believe they, too, could pull off a pixie cut. And while she could very well be an astrophysicist or an Olympic swimmer, because L’Wren had heard a rumor that Oliver met her at the mall, and in allegiance to our friendship, L’Wren refers to her exclusively as “that lady from the food court.”
“And so I just wanted to make sure you had all the facts,” L’Wren insists. “About Oliver being single.”
I study her expression, her mouth turned down in a slight frown. Does she think it’s a good thing or bad thing that Oliver is single? Before I can decide, she changes the subject entirely. “I’ve always wanted to come here.” The line moves forward and she loops her arm in mine, smiling. “Trish’s husband claims he bought a Seok here for over a hundred K. Your mystery guy must be fairly well known.”
“He’s not my guy.”
“Can I make him my guy?” A picture of Jasper in the gallery’s window welcomes partygoers. He looks just like he did at the café — all dimples and easy charm.
As soon as we enter, L’Wren runs into a couple she knows from her club and I slip away, steadily working my way through the gallery, staying alert in case Jasper should suddenly appear. I glance around the room. He should be quick enough to spot, a crowd of admirers buzzing around him.
When he’s nowhere to be seen, I decide to make a slow lap and take in the show. It’s easy to get sucked in. Jasper’s photographs are commanding, making you want to hold their unflinching gaze. A woman alone on what looks like desert sand newly soaked in rain; a young boy’s narrow face in the window of a crumbling villa. The show is more varied than the last one I’d seen, especially with the mix of landscapes and portraits.
When I don’t see Jasper in the crowd, I pull out my phone and send him a text.
Walking through your show right now. It’s gorgeous.
I don’t expect a response—maybe he’s being feted before he arrives fashionably late—but I keep my phone in my hand anyway just in case. I move through the crowd, where it’s deepest near the bar, and there is something comforting about being swallowed up by it. I slip into its stream and we move like a school of fish from one photo to the next—until, near the window, a black-and-white photo catches me by surprise. It’s me, a younger me, sitting at Jasper’s kitchen table, my face angled away from the camera. I’m naked, except for a pair of white socks, holding up a treat for the dog who is leaping into the air.
My feet feel stuck, even as the floor beneath me drops. My heart races and I close my eyes so the room will stop spinning. I pull myself here, back to this gallery and this crowd, and far away from that kitchen. As if on cue, Jasper texts back.
Don’t be mad. No one will know.
I turn, expecting to see him behind me, watching me.
But he’s not here. I scan the crowd again. A short brunette dressed head to toe in cream-colored Chanel and her bored-looking partner. A man with orange-tinted glasses whispering into his cell phone, his hand cupped over his mouth. Three women with matching cocktails chatting, barely looking at the photographs. I keep searching. I look for Jasper’s familiar posture when he’s in conversation, the way he always leans into the person speaking or crosses his arms when he laughs politely. When I don’t see him anywhere, I quickly text: Are you here?
His reply is instant.
Sadly, no. I was needed last minute in Berlin.
I feel the adrenaline leave my body, relieved he can’t see me, blushing in front of my own photo. But after the relief, a wave of disappointment. My phone chimes again:
It’s my favorite in the entire collection. It reminds me of you.
Because it IS me? And so he doesn’t think I’m upset by the photo, I add: Naked in a gallery full of strangers…?
Well. Yes. I suppose I could take another one of you in a turtleneck and slacks? But it won’t be as good.
A heat returns to my cheeks and doesn’t stop there. It travels into my throat and down the length of my body. I feel an overwhelming desire to be in Jasper’s presence, for his arms to wrap around me from behind and for him to hold me like he used to, my head resting against his chest.
I have to know. I’m guessing Dallas isn’t your next stop after Berlin?
London. Then Paris. Back to Berlin. Then maybe?
After a pause he adds: A nice kitchen table somewhere?
I smile. Trying to figure out what to write. Overwhelmed that I’m standing in the middle of his work. It makes me miss him so much.
Germany is cold, he types. I could use your warmth.
I stand in the shadow of his photograph, looking up at the girl in her socks and remembering the boy who broke her heart. The way he left town, left us, just when we were getting started. Sobered by the memory, I reply, It’s a beautiful show, Jasper.
Before I can decide if I should add more, L’Wren is at my side. “Is that you ?”
I take in her eyes, growing wider. “We can get going.”
“I knew it was you! You look insane. Look at your legs.”
“We should go.” I swallow but I can’t seem to catch my breath. The room is suddenly small and way too warm.
“Hey. It’s okay.” L’Wren takes my sweaty palm. “Let’s get you some fresh air.”
She leads me up to the roof where it’s mostly empty, except for a bar with no line and a group of men in tidy suits, deep in conversation. L’Wren offers me water and squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?”
“Jasper’s my ex.”
“I put that together, hon,” she replies with a laugh.
—
When I get home, I listen to a message from Oliver. He’s canceling on me for dinner tomorrow night, a dinner we’ve already rescheduled three times in the weeks since he moved out. I’m just not feeling up to it after all.
I take a shower and get into bed, and then I do what I’ve done every night since Oliver moved out—I lie awake for hours, unable to fall asleep. I replay the exchange with Jasper in my mind, while trying to convince myself that not seeing him tonight was fine. Of course he’s busy, he’s got a full life and so do I. So much time has passed since Santa Fe. We don’t really know each other anymore. Maybe I’ll see him again, maybe not.
—
I do see him again. When I finally drift off, Jasper appears in my dream. We’re in a room with blindingly bright light and I’m asking him if we can close the drapes.
As soon as he does, the room comes into sharp focus. The walls are painted a pale blue and I don’t recognize anything about the place. There’s a bed and a chair and a rug that’s too small for the room, and I hear myself say out loud, “Don’t get too caught up in the details,” even though I meant only to think it, silently, to myself.
Jasper laughs and pulls me close. He’s not wearing a shirt, just jeans, and his bare chest is warm against mine. Otherwise, he looks exactly as he did at the café. And the flush that washed over me when I saw him there returns—this time with a crushing intensity.
I’m not wearing a top, only a black skirt and a bra that’s lacy and pink and unfamiliar. When Jasper unclasps it, I’m relieved to feel it slip from my shoulders and fall onto the floor. I want to feel his hands on my naked breasts.
“Jasper.” I mean it to be a warning, for both of us—we shouldn’t be here, something is telling me it isn’t allowed. But instead, it sounds like exactly what it is: a plea. Asking him to touch me everywhere, all at once.
“Why did you come up to my hotel room?” he asks.
This is his hotel room? There’s nothing on the walls, no paintings, no photographs, even the bed has only one blanket and no pillow.
“Why are you here?” he asks again, this time whispering in my ear.
He runs his fingers down my arms and I shudder. “I don’t know. Maybe it was a mistake?”
“Then why are you still here? Why not leave?”
When I don’t answer, Jasper traces the waist of my skirt until he finds the zipper. His hand stops there, but he steps closer, only inches from me. “You still…” He looks into my eyes. “You still have this hold over me.” He unzips my skirt and it drops to my ankles. I’m completely naked now. He takes a step back and takes me in, sucking in his breath. The floor bends under my feet, a familiar unsteadiness, like the ground may buckle. Then a voice in my head: Keep him here. Hold on to him. I reach for his belt loop and pull him toward me.
“I really should go. I’m so late.” I breathe in the space between us and let it warm my entire body.
“Stay a little longer…”
“No,” I whisper. But I’m still not moving. I can’t.
Jasper tilts my chin up and kisses me, slowly, his lips warm against mine. The floor beneath my feet is carpeted now, soft and plush. “Stay with me,” he whispers. “Don’t go. Please.”
The sound of his pleading sends waves of pleasure through me. I take a small step away so I can unbutton his jeans. He moans with anticipation as I pull them down, then slowly take him in my hand. He grows in my palm. And I feel more alive than I have in months.
“Get down,” I say, pushing him onto the floor.
“Diana,” he moans and does as I say. I watch him lie down, but I stay just out of his reach. “Please,” he says again. I don’t let him touch me. Instead, I circle him, taking in his body while he takes in mine. The room grows even darker, but it feels welcome—it’s just the two of us, alone, and the dimmer the room gets, the smaller it feels, bringing us closer and closer together.
I sit on the edge of the bed and open my legs. He moans again, and I watch as he strokes himself.
“Don’t touch,” I tell him. “Just watch.” He obeys, pulling his hand from his erection. “Good.”
I spread my legs wider so he can see how swollen I am, how much I ache to be touched. He reaches for me again, but I bat his hand away. “Only me.” His hand falls back to the floor beside him. When he settles, I slip two fingers inside me, then close my eyes, pleasure coursing through me. I lie back on the bed, moving my fingers deeper and faster, lifting my hips slightly off the bed, tightening my thighs against my hand. When I open my eyes, Jasper is standing over me. I take his hand and a current passes through us. We both smile at the familiar electricity of our touch.
“I missed you,” he says.
“I’m here.”
“Can I touch you now?” I take both of his hands and pull his body onto mine. “Diana,” he whispers into my mouth, and I respond by kissing him deeply, then pushing him onto his back.
As I straddle his waist, the room spins. All I want to do is fall into him and steady myself. But I’m afraid if I do, he’ll disappear. I stay sitting up and I let him touch me. First I give him permission to squeeze my hips, then my ass. Then I move his hands to my breasts. He props himself on his elbows so he can take my nipple in his mouth. His lips are warm and full and I don’t want him to ever stop kissing me.
I throw my head back and cry, “Oliver.” Fuck. The wrong name hangs heavy and loud in the room. I can’t take it back.
Jasper looks up, surprised, then smiles. “Is that who you want me to be?”
The room grows darker still, so dark that he can’t read my distress. “No. I just want it to be us.” I close my eyes and will the room to remain the same, for us to stay just like we are.
In answer, he lifts me by the hips and glides himself inside of me. I’m flooded with heat and desire and the feeling of him deep inside of me. We move against each other, something building that neither of us wants to end. The closer we get to climax, the lighter the room gets, until we come together, the sun bright and hot.
—
I open my eyes. I recognize the room I’m in. Every detail is overwhelmingly familiar. The walls are painted the exact shade of white that Oliver and I debated for weeks; the shutters are the same ones we hung four years ago, when we had enough extra money saved; the sun streaming through them is at the exact angle of every late-spring sunrise, and the pieces of sky I can see wear their usual wash of yellow and orange.
But most familiar is the sensation, an old one that comes rushing back—the feeling of waking up content and satiated after sex with Jasper.