20. Dominic
TWENTY
Dominic
I’m feeling very, very twitchy when I pick Frankie up this week and Lina somehow looks even worse than she did last week.
It’s a mild worry, though, nothing compared to the sheer fucking panic I felt when I walked into Lina’s room on Friday evening. She hadn’t been answering her phone, so I decided to go over there early to make sure she was okay. She didn’t answer her buzzer, and that’s when I really started to lose it. I buzzed her mom on the first floor, trying to tame my facial features into something resembling calm and responsible and charming, and it apparently worked, because she handed me a key to Lina’s apartment, saying “I don’t think Lina’s home yet but you can wait for her upstairs because I’m busy watching K-drama.”
None of Lina’s lights were on. I walked into her bedroom and saw a lump under her comforter, lifted it up and saw a soggy-looking Lina curled up in a ball, still in her work clothes and shoes, pale and motionless, and that split second… Fuck. I swear it was one of the most intensely terrifying moments of my life, up there with the time I heard Frankie gasping for air in her sleep (RSV) or the time Frankie cracked her head on the sidewalk while trying to roller skate and passed out (concussion).
I was terrified like Lina was mine, like Lina belonged to me, just like Frankie does. Because she does, because she’s carved herself a fierce and bright and bold Lina-shaped spot in my heart, because I think I’m in love with her, and this scares me even more.
But even if a small part of me thinks that this is way too much, too fast, and what about Frankie? , all I need to do is remember the moments in which Lina has loudly and proudly let the two of us into her life and claimed Frankie as her own and forced me to become a happier, better dad.
So fine. I love Lina, yet I’m not sure I’m quite ready to verbally share that with her, because the space she’s carved for herself still feels a little funny, like something I still need to get used to, like wearing contacts after a lifetime of wearing glasses.
But I’m still going to show her loudly and proudly with my actions.
So I keep my mouth shut for now about her overworking herself and plan the most epic date night on Saturday (so she can dedicate Friday night to sleeping).
Meet me at the 1 Hotel Brooklyn Bridge at 5 on Saturday
what are you, rich????
I don’t answer that one.
should I show up naked underneath a trench coat
You can. But also bring an overnight bag and a hot outfit for a nice dinner and an event that will require a hot outfit
which vibrators
All
* * *
The date begins unexpectedly—with a stunning view. Of Lina’s naked body, bent over our hotel room desk, her hair gripped in my hand and her head wrenched back as I fuck into her from behind, a sprawling view of the Brooklyn Bridge and Lower Manhattan in the window in front of her.
This was an unplanned yet very pleasant addendum.
True to her word, Lina showed up to our room wearing only a long coat and a pair of stilettos. She dropped the coat as soon as the door closed, and I had her up against it within seconds, stiletto clad legs wrapped around my waist, then bent over the desk within minutes. I didn’t even manage to get any of my clothes off.
We’re loud when we’re not at home , I think vaguely, through the banging of the desk against the wall and the jangling of my belt and her moaning half-screams and my guttural caveman grunts punctuated with the disrespectful filth she begs me to mutter into her ear.
Half out of my mind, I grip her hair tighter and yank her head back even further and take in the view one more time, as the tight silk of her pussy squeezes around me as she comes, and I empty into her body.
I carry both our corpses over to the bed, tossing the condom to the ground, and try to catch my breath, as if I’m not a totally out of shape middle aged man who only has time to run once or twice a week.
Lina is grinning, stretching like a cat, the one that ate the cream. Except she didn’t (not this time). It’s all in the condom on the floor this time. “Was that okay for you?” she asks.
I pointedly look down at my dick, which is quite happily still half-hard yet flopped over onto my thigh.
She laughs. “I mean, everything we’re trying. The hair pulling and the dirty talking and the roughness. I just want to check in.”
I shove my sweaty hair away from my face. “I’m so fucking into it, it’s insane. I can’t tell you how worked up I get when I tell you to choke on it. Or when you actually do,” I say with a grin. “But if I feel uncomfortable with something, I won’t do it.”
“Wow. Tell me you love me without telling me you love me.”
I pull her close and celebrate the win.
* * *
It is an exercise in self-restraint once I see her all dolled up for dinner. She’s wearing this red, form-fitting, strapless dress that goes down to her shins and leaves nothing to the imagination, because it’s practically pasted onto every single curve of her body. This, with the makeup and the hair and the heels?
“We’re going to be late for dinner,” Lina tells me with that devious grin on her face, and I realize I’ve been staring at her for the span of several seconds, raking my hand over my open mouth. “We have all night.”
We can be a little late, right?
No, because I had to pull a bunch of strings tonight to get tonight to work. Every single bit of it.
Although, knowing Lauryn Hill, she’ll probably come on one to three hours late, anyway. Which means that maybe I could push dinner a little later…
No, considering the game of telephone I had to play to get in touch with the owner of this place.
I sigh very dramatically, like this is the biggest hardship. “Let’s go,” I say, forlorn.
It turns out to be worth it.
Dinner’s at this newish restaurant in Brooklyn Heights that was practically handed two Michelin stars at opening. It’s been open for just over a year, and it’s still impossible to get reservations. That is, unless you know that the owner is the sister-in-law of a friend of the CEO of my manufacturing company.
The food is fucking fantastic, well deserving of its stars, actually, and the wine list is impeccable. The company—flawless. That feeling arises again, that one from the beach, of pure, unadulterated, unencumbered joy. Of youth, of freedom, of unfettered laughter with a fierce, intelligent, beautiful woman. A little bit tipsy, talking about everything and giggling about nothing. Flirting, little touches, holding hands, stroking fingers. Being in love.
Continuing in the cab, continuing all the way to the Barclay’s Center.
Lina turns to me, eyes wide and glowing under the bright lights of the entrance. “No,” she says.
“Yes,” I respond, before she leaps into my arms. Well, as best she can in that dress and in those heels, at least.
Lauryn Hill is only an hour late, and she clearly didn’t participate in any sort of soundcheck, but the floating feeling is still there, especially when Lina’s in my arms, her back to my front, her arms reaching up to wrap around the back of my neck, giving me unlimited access to the curves of her sides. My chin against her temple, her hair in my mouth as we belt out every word to every one of Lauryn Hill’s songs, whispering love songs to one another, ‘can’t take my eyes off of you’ and ‘I love you, baby’. And then The Fugees show up, making a surprise appearance, and I’m pretty sure Lina cries tears of happiness, and we forget all about the fact that you can’t quite hear Lauryn’s voice over her band.
It’s all an impenetrable force of perfection, this feeling.
“You’re just too good to be true,” I murmur in her ear. “I need you, baby.”
* * *
We get to play with all of Lina’s toys when we get back to the hotel. And some of my own.
* * *
I think we wake up an hour or two later. I look up and am grateful I had the forethought to untie her before we passed out, but that courtesy didn’t extend to myself because the condom is still on my dick. I wrench it off and throw it on the ground before pulling a half-asleep Lina into my arms and getting us under the covers.
“I think that was the best I’ve ever had,” she mutters sleepily into my chest. “You literally fucked me into oblivion.” She still manages to wiggle her body around and wrap her leg around my waist so that my (surprisingly) half-hard dick is between her legs. “But can we have lazy sex now?”
So we do, and it’s a different sort of religious experience, one full of meaningful eye contact and checking in and laughter and languishing and love, and I’m almost overwhelmed, suffocated with feelings.
Afterwards, I trace the dark circles under her eyes. “We should sleep,” I tell her. “We need it. You need it.”
She purrs like a sated lioness.
Is this the time to bring it up? “I’ve been worried about you,” I blurt out. I guess it is.
Lina makes a noncommittal noise.
“You’ve managed to look even more exhausted this week than last week.”
“I was recovering from the flu, Dom.”
“Yeah, at work,” I say gently. “If you’d hired an AP or two, you could’ve taken a day or the week to recover at home without worrying about the school.”
“I’m gonna get to it. This week was just crazy,” she says, irritated now.
I barrel on because I can’t help it, because I love her and genuinely care about her well-being. “You’re overworking yourself, Lina.”
She sighs, exasperated, pulling away and onto her back, dramatically flinging a hand over her head.
“I hate seeing you exhausted and sick like this. We said we were going to learn to delegate.”
“I’m going to get to it.”
“Do you still think that you need to do everything? I thought we talked through this together.”
She doesn’t answer, so I fill the space.
“I feel like with all the pressure you put on yourself from your job, combined with taking on a… well, like a whole new family, it might be too much. You might be losing yourself in the way that you’ve said you were afraid to.”
Her body stiffens.
“I just think you give up so much of yourself. You’re making us happy, but are you making yourself happy?” I quickly backpedal, but this is the wrong thing to say.
“Well, you’re welcome,” she snaps, and just like that, I’m on the receiving end of boss-ass bitch Lina, who eats nonsense for breakfast. Except this doesn’t seem like nonsense to me.
“I mean, of course I’m nothing but grateful, Lina, and I feel so incredibly lucky that we found you?—”
“You should be,” she grates out, “and you are, considering overworking myself benefits you the most.”
I sit up now, trying to sort out this sudden feeling of whiplash. “What?”
She takes a deep breath, shaking her head. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, it’s too late for that,” I tell her, heart beginning to beat out of my chest. “I know it’s a lot, Lina, but what the fuck? This is exactly what I was afraid of, and now you’re holding it against me? I was talking about work, not us, but nice to know you’re keeping score.”
She flips and turns away from me, giving me her back. “I’m not holding against you, Dom, but you won’t get off my case about doing too much ,” she says into the space of the room, “when you are the one who hadn’t been on vacation or let Frankie out of your sight for five whole fucking years .”
I blink down at her. “What in the actual fuck?”
She shakes her head again, totally closed off now. “Can we drop it and just go to bed? I’m exhausted ,” she says with a bite of sarcasm, “and I need to go to bed. Let me have this one thing for myself.”
I can’t read her tone. “We’re not going to bed angry like this?—”
“I’m not angry, Dom,” she says with finality. “I just want to go to sleep.”
I stare at her back, but she says nothing else. “I’m not comfortable with this, but fine. We’re talking about this in the morning.”
She gives me a grunt in return.
Fine, then. I get up and turn the lights off, climb into bed, and lay on my side. We’re only inches apart, but it’s a huge, yawning gap.
* * *
I sense something is wrong before I open my eyes.
I reach over and feel a cold bed. An empty bed.
I sit up and look towards the bathroom. The door is open, the lights are off.
I look around, and all of Lina’s things are gone. All of Lina is gone.
I sit there like an idiot for a few minutes, frozen and completely blindsided, staring at the door. Expecting her to just walk back through.
Because Lina isn’t dramatic like this. She doesn’t storm out of a room without having a mature conversation, like this is reality television. She doesn’t leave. She doesn’t bail.
Maybe she just needs some time.
So I get up, shower. Take my time. Keep my phone on the sink, on loud. I pick up the room a little bit, stretch the fitted sheet back over the corner of the mattress. I untie the soft fabric from the headboard, wondering if her wrists are okay and thinking I should have checked them.
After an hour or so, after compulsively checking my phone for the umpteenth time, I get up.
This anxiety and hurt, this hopelessness, feel familiar. Because I’ve done this before. Twice, in fact. And because I consider myself to be an expert, I know what needs to be done. I get my shit together, and I press forward. I do it for my daughter.