Chapter Eight
Marty
I study her face to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t seem shocked, appalled, or even that confused. She freezes for a few seconds as her lips press together. Then her eyes soften, and she tilts her head to the side as if she’s just noticed something new about my face.
“So you’re...” I realise she’s asking me to label it.
“Bisexual,” I say. “To be honest, I’ve only had one proper boyfriend and before him, I thought I was straight, so I’ve never really had to label it or talk about it much with a...”
“Hot older divorced woman?” She finishes for me with a wink that is just as comforting as what she says next. “Cool.”
“Cool? That’s it?”
“Sure,” she says, still with that thoughtful look on her face.
“And you’re...”
“Pretty straight, sadly. Now and again, I think I’m possibly bi-curious, because, I mean, have you seen women? They’re beautiful. But when I...” She stops talking abruptly.
“When you what, Jenna?” I lean a little closer.
She gives me a level look. “I don’t want what I’m going to say next to cheapen this conversation. You just shared something vulnerable with me and I want to be respectful of that.”
“Permission to speak freely,” I say.
“Okay.” She clears her throat again. It’s an adorable short huff of a noise.
“Well, I’ve only ever slept with men. And when I.
.. when I touch myself, I mostly only think about men.
And I’m not saying that’s an all-knowing, science-backed indicator of sexuality, because it’s not, and besides, a growing body of research suggests sexuality is inherently fluid, but I feel pretty confident that right now I’m heterosexual.
It feels right, and from what I know about people who do label their sexual identities, that’s enough. ”
Despite her great eloquence and insight, my brain fails me by getting and staying snagged on the way she said, “touch myself”.
So much so I have trouble responding, or even breathing for that matter.
My dick is coming along for the ride too, pushing up against the fly of my jeans.
It’s a brilliantly familiar and yet foreign feeling, all at once.
Welcome back, buddy.
“Sorry, I probably waffled on a bit then,” she says interrupting the silence that stretches out because I’m still unable to form a coherent sentence in my head. “I can go on a bit about these things.”
“No, no, don’t apologise,” I say. “You clearly know what you’re talking about. I’m just a bit stunned that you sort of seem to know more about being queer than me, and well, I am queer.”
She laughs softly and re-crosses her legs. I glance again at the gold chain on her ankle and it does nothing to redistribute the blood flow in my body.
“It’s my job, actually,” she says. “Or it was. I’m a journalist and I used to research and write about things like sexuality.”
My eyebrows lift. “But you don’t anymore?”
Her mouth pulls down. “No, but that's sort of related to my divorce so we veto.”
“Gotcha,” I say, and we each take a sip of our drinks. I can’t help but feel it’s a shame I can’t ask her more questions about her work. It sounds interesting.
“Well, my brother will be disappointed his gaydar isn’t working properly,” she says.
“I believe when it’s for bisexuals, it’s called a Bi-Fi,” I offer and delight again in hearing the husky rumble of her laugh. I don’t think I’d ever get bored of making her laugh.
“I knew you were checking out his arse!”
“Guilty as charged.” I hold my hands up, one of them still gripping my drink. “It's a nice arse.”
“I will pass that on. I’m sorry you and your ex didn’t work out. Break-ups are tough,” she says, and it should sound out of place, but it doesn’t. But that doesn’t stop it from making my lungs cave in a little.
“Same to you, Jenna. I can imagine divorces are rough too,” I say eventually.
“Exes were supposed to be vetoed, weren’t they?”
I nod. “Correct. I guess you should do your dislikes and likes because we're almost running out of things to talk about with all this vetoing.”
She breathes in deep. “Okay, here you go. Likes. Well, I like lifting weights, writing, swimming, hanging out with my brother, seeing friends, researching weird facts and stories about sex, orgasms, long walks, watching the seasons change, any and every kind of noodle soup, more orgasms, going to the theatre, reading smut-filled romance novels, and yep, orgasms.”
“I can’t argue with any of that, apart from maybe the long walks. Unless there’s a dog involved, I’d rather be riding a bike or chasing a ball than just walking.”
She leans closer, eyes alive and sparkling. “But what if there’s the most amazing pub lunch at the other end? Roast beef or lamb? With all the trimmings?”
“With a log fire? Maybe some board games?” I play along.
“Yes, of course. And sticky toffee pudding for dessert.”
“With custard or ice cream?” I give her my most serious stare. “This is a very important question, Jenna.”
Her lips pout as she considers and it sends my blood pumping south again.
“Both,” she says resolutely.
“Correct answer! And your dislikes?”
“Unsolicited dick pics, unwanted advice about investments, overpriced fine dining that isn’t very fine, and men who pose topless with fish,” she says after only a brief hesitation.
“Good job I left my fishing rod at home.”
She narrows her eyes at me.
“I’m kidding,” I say. “And excellent restraint not making a joke about rods.”
Chuckling, she draws her knees up to hug them with her arms.
“Are you cold? I think I’ve got a jumper in my bag,” I say, reaching for it. I should also check my phone for the time again. Missing dinner would not be a good end to the day.
“No, thank you,” she says but she does shiver a little. I look at the goosebumps that cover the skin on her forearms and I want to feel their texture on my tongue.
Jesus, I’m close to going from 0 to 60 with this woman. I need to slow down.
“So, you’re from the UK?” I rush to find a neutral topic of conversation. “Where do you live?”
“Islington, North London,” she rests her head on the top of her knees. “And you live in...”
“Dublin. Born and raised,” I say.
“It's a beautiful city.”
“Yeah, sure, for those three days of the year when it stops raining and the sun comes out.”
“London's not much better.” She shrugs.
“I've never been.”
She opens her mouth as if in shock.
“I have travelled, you know.” I lean over and nudge the side of her arm.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry,” she says, and I can tell she is. “Tell me about your travels, if that’s not still vetoed?”
My travels. Our travels. It’s not an easy topic for me to talk about.
My counsellor, Jill, tells me often that it’s important I try to talk about the happier times with Arnie, so maybe I should try.
Maybe it will be easier with Jenna because she doesn’t know what happened afterwards.
She’s not waiting for my voice to crack or for pain to shadow my words.
“We did about fifteen months in total,” I say.
“Mostly in Asia, Australia and New Zealand, and then on the way home, a few months in South America.”
“Sounds amazing. I sometimes wish I’d done something like that when I was younger.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“If I veto this, we really are going to run out of things to talk about, aren’t we?”
“Possibly, although maybe that was where we went wrong in the beginning. Who says we need to talk?” I say with a wink that feels harder to perform than I expect.
Suddenly my body and my brain are at war.
While the former desperately wants to fuck her, the latter is terrified at the idea because that’s what I used to do.
That’s how I fucked up again and again and again.
“God, yes, talking is so overrated,” she says lowering her legs and sitting up straighter, her hands by her sides. “Do you want to... go somewhere where we can not talk?”
Her implied meaning is as clear as the bright moon I can now see high in the darkening sky, and maybe that's why it takes me by surprise. Even though she made my dick harder than anyone else has in months, just sitting next to her and taking in the briefest glimpses of her tanned skin, the shape of her arms and legs, the curves of her neck and hips, I am still taken aback that she’s telling me she wants it too, that she’s feeling the same kind of heat I feel.
But I don’t want it. Or rather, I don’t want to want it. I suddenly and vehemently don't want to only indulge my dick and newfound libido. I definitely don’t want that today of all days.
“Actually, I’m really sorry,” I say, a slight croak in my voice. “I think I have to go in a few minutes.”
“Go?” Her head pulls back.
“Yeah, I promised my parents I’d join them for dinner, and I shouldn’t be late.” I suddenly despise the sound of my own voice.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Jenna says, glancing at our glasses that are both still quite full.
“I’m sorry,” I rush out. “I’m a fecking eejit and I probably should have told you that sooner. I tend to do this, you know, fuck things up.”
Jenna looks at me, unblinking. “Don’t talk about yourself like that, Marty,” she says after a pause.
A string of seconds long enough that I watch her search my face, looking for something I’m not sure she finds.
“Am I allowed to ask why you're on holiday with your parents... and your smoking hot sister?” I can see what she’s doing.
Trying to make me smile again. I wish I could indulge her and make her think it’s working but I can’t.
I’m fast running out of energy and focus and just any kind of clear-thinking.
“It's a long story...” Feeling guilty, I reach for my phone again and see I now have five minutes to get up to the restaurant. I look at Jenna as I ready myself to go, but her pout, her wide eyes, the constellation of freckles across her face make me stop. I’ll go in five.
I can be ten minutes late. That would be okay.
“So... veto?” Jenna asks.