CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I changed clothes four times before going to Warren’s house Friday night.
The first dress made me look like I was trying to recreate the divorce party.
The second looked like work. The third required shapewear I had stopped believing in around seven thirty.
I ended up in dark jeans, a cream blouse, gold hoops, and the black lace bra Portia bought me after I filed.
Nobody could see it. That was the point.
It was for me. Portia called while I was putting on lipstick.
“What are you wearing?”
“Clothes.”
“Specific.”
“No.”
“You’re rude when you’re nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You sent me a picture of two earrings and asked which one says grown but approachable.”
“They were different sizes.”
“They were the same hoop.”
“One was thicker.”
“Are you sleeping with him tonight?”
I put the lipstick down. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No. I know I want to. That isn’t the same as deciding before I get there.”
Portia went quiet. I waited for the joke. It did not come.
“Good,” she said. “Decide when you’re in your body, not while you’re standing in front of a mirror trying to predict it.”
I stared at the phone.
“Who are you?”
“Somebody who has made decisions in mirrors.”
“That sounds like a story.”
“Not tonight. Take your charger. Do not fake an orgasm to protect a grown man’s confidence. And send me the address again.”
“You have the address.”
“I need it near the top of the thread in case you disappear.”
“Goodnight, Portia.”
“Have safe, spectacular—”
I hung up. Warren opened the door before I knocked. He wore a black T-shirt and gray pants, barefoot, no watch. The absence of the watch did more to me than it should have.
“You were waiting by the door?” I asked.
“The camera alerted me.”
“Less romantic.”
“You said you wanted honesty.”
“I also want effort.”
He took my coat. “I cooked.”
“That depends on what it is.”
“Not salmon.”
“Then we’re off to a strong start.”
The house smelled like garlic, butter, and something roasting. A record played low in the living room—Donny Hathaway, not a playlist generated by an app. Two glasses sat on the kitchen counter beside an open bottle of red wine. Nothing looked staged. That made it more intimate.
“What did you make?”
“Chicken with lemon and herbs. Potatoes. Green beans.”
“You cook green beans too?”
“I know several foods.”
“Milan was unfair.”
“She usually is when describing me.”
I walked to the stove and lifted one lid.
Warren leaned against the counter. “You don’t trust me?”
“I trust you. I’m inspecting dinner.”
“You learned too much on the project.”
The chicken looked good. The potatoes were crisp at the edges. The green beans had garlic but no visible bacon, which told me he had either asked or remembered I did not eat pork.
“You remembered,” I said.
“Yes.”
The answer was ordinary. The fact was not. Terrence had remembered big things when reminded by a calendar. Anniversaries. Flights. Asha’s tuition deadlines. Small preferences had disappeared over time because I stopped correcting him. Warren noticed my face change.
“What?”
“Nothing bad.”
He did not ask again. We ate at the scratched dining table.
He told me about the first client who refused to pay Mercer Row because she believed the finished basement had made her house too valuable and increased her taxes.
I told him about a donor who asked whether low-income children needed oil paint when crayons were cheaper.
“You laughed?” Warren asked.
“In his face.”
“Good.”
“I was twenty-nine and nearly got fired.”
“Still good.”
We argued over whether people who arrived early were respectful or controlling. I said anybody more than fifteen minutes early was trying to catch you unprepared. Warren said that explained why I had been late to our first date.
“I was seven minutes late.”
“You called before you arrived.”
“That is courtesy.”
“That is advance defense.”
“You were counting.”
“I own clocks.”
After dinner, I helped clear the table even though he told me not to.
“I am not sitting in your living room while you load a dishwasher,” I said.
“You’re a guest.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You were about to.”
“No. I was about to say the dishwasher only fits one person at a time.”
I looked at the machine. “That is a standard dishwasher.”
“Yes.”
“You’re irritating in your own house too.”
“Consistent.”
I put the wineglasses on the counter and felt him step behind me. He did not touch me immediately. My body knew he was there anyway. The room quieted around the distance between us. I turned. Warren’s eyes moved over my face.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“That I want to kiss you.”
“You’ve done that before.”
“I want to do more than that.”
Heat spread through me, followed by a sharp, stupid fear. He saw the change.
“Come sit down,” he said.
“I don’t need a meeting.”
“No. But you look like you’re about to negotiate with yourself.”
“That sounds like something you’d recognize.”
“It is.”
We went to the living room. I sat at one end of the sofa. Warren sat beside me, close enough for our knees to touch, far enough that the choice remained visible. I looked at his hands.
“I haven’t done this with anybody else,” I said.
“I assumed.”
“After Terrence.”
“I understood.”
“Don’t say it like it’s nothing.”
“I’m not.”
“It feels like something.”
“It is something to you.”
I studied his face. “And to you?”
“Yes.”
That answer calmed me more than reassurance would have.
I rubbed my palms over my jeans. “I’m not twenty-one.”
“I can see you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“My body changed. I have a scar from having Asha. I gained weight. Lost some. Gained it back in different places. I haven’t been naked in front of a new man since before low-rise jeans became a public crisis.”
Warren’s mouth almost moved.
“Do not laugh.”
“I’m not laughing at you.”
“You want to.”
“At the jeans.”
I looked away.
He touched my hand. “Nadine.”
“What?”
“I’m not expecting the body you had at twenty-one. I did not ask that woman to dinner.”
The sentence was not poetic. It worked. I turned my hand beneath his.
“What are you expecting?”
“You.”
“That is dangerously close to a line.”
“It’s the truth.”
I leaned in and kissed him before he could say anything better and ruin it.
Warren let me start. That mattered. My hand moved to the back of his neck.
His palm settled at my waist, warm through the blouse.
The kiss deepened slowly, then all at once when I shifted closer and felt the hard line of his body against my thigh.
I had wanted him in fragments for weeks.
At the stone yard. Beside the green cabinets.
In a parking garage with my dress sliding open.
Wanting him here, with nowhere else to look, felt different. More honest.
I pulled back long enough to say, “I want this.”
His forehead touched mine. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
I laughed, breathless. “Who else is in the house?”
“Answer.”
The seriousness in his voice steadied me.
“With you.”
He stood and held out his hand. I took it. The stairs seemed louder than they had any right to be. My mind tried to inventory everything at once—my blouse, my stomach, the lace bra, whether I had remembered lotion on my legs. At the bedroom door, I stopped. Warren turned.
“I might change my mind,” I said.
“Then we stop.”
“Even after we start?”
“Especially then.”
I nodded. His bedroom was simple. Dark wood.
White sheets. A photograph of Milan on the dresser.
No framed sayings. No television mounted over the bed.
The room looked used, not displayed. Warren kissed me again near the foot of the bed.
This time, I reached for the hem of his shirt.
He lifted his arms and let me pull it over his head.
I had seen his shoulders beneath sweaters and work shirts. Bare skin changed the information. He was solid through his chest, softer at the waist than the hard lines of his clothes suggested, scarred near one shoulder by something old enough not to be a story he told quickly. I touched the scar.
“Work?”
“Car accident. Twenty-six.”
“Later,” I said.
“Later.”
His fingers moved to the first button of my blouse and stopped.
“Can I?”
“Yes.”
He opened the buttons one at a time. I nearly told him to hurry.
Then I understood the pace was for me. When the blouse slipped from my shoulders, Warren looked at me without pretending not to.
His attention moved from the lace to my stomach, my hips, the skin I had spent the afternoon trying to disguise beneath the right outfit. I fought the urge to fold my arms.
“Say something,” I whispered.
“You’re beautiful.”
“Too easy.”
“You want a detailed report?”
A laugh broke through my nerves.
Warren touched the curve of my waist. “I like this.”
His hand moved lower. “And this.”
Then over the faded scar beneath my stomach. His thumb did not avoid it.
“And this is part of you.”
My eyes burned.
“Don’t make me cry before sex,” I said.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Then kiss me.”
He did. The rest came without performance.
We undressed each other in uneven pieces.
I caught my earring in the blouse and had to stop while Warren freed it.
He nearly tripped over his own pants because he was watching me instead of the floor.
I laughed until he put his mouth against my neck and made the sound disappear.
His hands were patient without being timid.
He listened to the way my breathing changed.
When I guided him, he followed instead of turning it into a challenge.
I had forgotten sex could include laughter.
I had forgotten my body could answer before my mind approved every movement. When he lowered me onto the bed, I pulled him with me. The first stretch of him inside me made my breath catch. Warren stopped.
“Wait,” I said.
He held still. I adjusted beneath him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other pressed against his chest.
“Okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Slow.”
He moved carefully until my body softened around him.
The fear did not vanish. It changed into sensation.
Pressure. Heat. The weight of a man who was paying attention instead of performing certainty.
I wrapped one leg around him and set the rhythm I needed.
Warren followed. No speech. No demand that I prove how good it felt.
His mouth stayed near mine, his breath breaking when I pulled him deeper.
Pleasure built slowly, then sharpened when his hand moved between us.
I whispered his name. He answered with mine, rough enough to sound unfamiliar.
When I came, the sound that left me embarrassed me for half a second.
Then Warren kissed me through it, and embarrassment became one more thing I did not have to carry alone.
He finished afterward with his face against my neck and one hand locked around mine.
For a while, neither of us moved. My heart beat too fast beneath his chest. The room smelled like sweat, wine, and the lemon soap he used.
I should have felt victorious. Free. Sexy.
Some clean emotion I could name and tell Portia later. Instead, tears slid into my hair.
Warren lifted his head immediately. “Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He moved off me but did not leave the bed. He reached for the sheet and pulled it over us.
“What the hell happened?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
It was not entirely true. I knew enough. Twenty-two years of one body beside mine. Twenty-two years of believing that body would be the last. The marriage had ended before this room, before this man, before the first button came loose. Still, my body had crossed a line my mind had only discussed.
“I feel stupid,” I said.
“Don’t.”
“Helpful.”
“I’m not good at this part.”
“What part?”
“Knowing whether you want comfort or space.”
I looked at him. He looked almost worried. That made me smile through the tears.
“Stay,” I said.
Warren lay beside me and put one arm across my waist. I turned into him.
“I’m not crying because it was bad,” I said.
“I was hoping.”
“It was very good.”
His mouth curved. “Okay.”
“Don’t get arrogant.”
“I’m trying to respect the moment.”
“You sound like Portia.”
“That is insulting.”
I laughed against his chest. The tears stopped without either of us fixing them.
Later, he brought water and a warm towel.
He did not act like aftercare was a performance or payment.
He changed the sheets because he said he slept better in a clean bed and did not make me stand naked while he did it.
When we got back beneath the covers, I traced the scar on his shoulder.
“What the hell happened at twenty-six?”
“Truck rolled on black ice. My father was driving.”
“Was he hurt?”
“He died.”
The answer emptied the room.
I touched his face. “Warren.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“That does not mean it stopped mattering.”
“No.”
He did not give me the full story. I did not ask for it that night. Trust was not taking every door because it opened. At seven the next morning, my phone rang on the nightstand. Asha. I sat up too fast and pulled the sheet to my chest.
Warren opened one eye. “You can answer.”
“I can.”
The words came out sharper than necessary.
I looked at the screen, then at the man beside me.
For the first time in twenty-two years, I was answering my daughter’s morning call from another man’s bed.
The fact carried shame for half a second. Then I let it go.
I answered. “Hey, baby.”
Asha’s voice was tight. “Dad moved the date up. The truck is coming next Saturday.”
I looked toward the window as morning light spread across Warren’s room.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll handle what needs handling.”
Warren reached for my hand beneath the sheet. I let him hold it while I listened.