Diana Says Yes (Dirty Diana #3)

Chapter One

Chapter One

Oliver and I used to sit as far apart as possible on the love seat in our therapist’s office.

We were careful never to touch each other as we excavated our marriage.

Week after week, we showed up to see Miriam, dutifully, sometimes passively, never quite happily.

It’s strange to be back now, sitting so close to my husband that I feel his thigh against mine.

When one of us shifts, an electricity passes between us.

We’re like lovers wishing to be alone, like maybe then we’d tear our clothes off and make love right here beneath Miriam’s shelves of purple geodes and self-improvement books, to the tinkling sound of her zen fountain that drifts in from the waiting room.

“What about dating?” Miriam’s pencil hovers above her notebook.

Her hair is styled so differently than the last time we were here.

It now reaches her shoulders in wavy layers, just like her clothing—layers upon layers of purposefully rumpled linen.

There’s new jewelry, too, an unfamiliar pink beaded necklace and another stack of silver rings.

“Dating?” I steal a glance at Oliver, hoping he might take this one, but his eyes are on the ceiling, his mouth twisted in deep thought.

“I reconnected with an old friend. Jasper.” Old friend?

“And we dated.” I don’t know how to describe Jasper—or our relationship—in this room.

Or maybe in any room. And saying his name out loud in front of Oliver still feels cruel, even though he’s been seeing someone too.

“And Oliver was in a relationship with a woman named Katherine.” After a too-long beat I feel compelled to add, “She’s very nice. A really wonderful person.”

“But those relationships are over. For both of us.” Oliver lays his hand on mine.

A warm tingle runs up my arm. Miriam jots something in her notebook.

Should I explain that I had given Oliver plenty of space to end things with Katherine?

And that once they’d broken up, Oliver and I kept things perfectly polite for weeks?

Even in my head it sounds too much like I’m trying to impress my therapist. So I don’t explain how November rolled into the holidays, loaded with expectations and family traditions, which felt like way too precarious of a time to dip a toe in and risk confusing things for our daughter, Emmy.

And if we weren’t back together, there was no reason to tell Oliver about Dirty Diana—even though the website is growing and steadily building a fan base, with my business partner, Petra, constantly coming up with new ways to expand.

So instead, Oliver and I kept things the way they’d been for months—living apart, shuttling Emmy back and forth between us.

Only recently, our hugs have lasted too long. And a kiss meant for my cheek had brushed against my lips. Last weekend, as we tucked Emmy into bed, my hand found Oliver’s, and while she drifted off to sleep, my heart pounded in my chest so loudly I thought for sure he could hear it.

“I see.” Miriam flips back a page in her notebook, then back again. Her expression is stunningly, annoyingly neutral. “But what I meant is, what about dating each other?”

A nervous guffaw escapes us both, startled and weirdly synced.

“Oliver and me?”

“Date? Like strangers?”

“We’re way beyond the dating stage,” I say with a laugh.

“It’s been a million years,” Oliver adds. “And a wedding. And a baby.”

“Who’s not even a baby anymore.”

“Right. Exactly.”

As Oliver and I list all the reasons the two of us can’t date, Miriam leans back in her chair, hands folded in her lap.

Everything about her body language suggests she now realizes she must zoom way out and explain things more slowly to the dummies on her couch.

I should find this condescending, but it’s oddly comforting.

Maybe it’s her easy smile or the way her loose linen pants make you feel as if she’s waiting patiently for a summer breeze.

“Why don’t you take me back to that day. What happened after Oliver came to you and said”—she glances at her notes—“I want to handcuff you to the sink.”

It was early November then. Unseasonably hot, even for Texas, but there Oliver was, planting zinnias for me in our front yard.

“Diana?” Miriam asks. “What was your response? To Oliver?”

Heat rises up my neck and flushes my cheeks, the same way it did that day. And just like then, here I am now, searching for the right words and floundering. “I was…surprised.”

“Okay. What else?”

“I liked the idea. In theory.” I cringe at my robotic answer. “The problem was it all just felt so far away. From where we were at the time. Like the idea could occur to us but didn’t belong to us. Does that make sense?” Of course it doesn’t. It’s a load of mismatched socks tumbling from my tongue.

“Did you accept Oliver’s invitation?”

“No.”

“Did you reject it?”

“I invited him in. For iced tea.” My face burns a deeper shade of pink. “It was such a hot day.”

“And Oliver? How did it feel for you? In the moment?”

“Unbelievable. To say those words out loud. I’d been thinking about Diana and missing her so much.” His tone is light but careful. We can both feel it—the way just talking about our sex lives is like a new entity has come into the room.

“I also liked hearing that he wanted us to be so adventurous. I wanted the handcuffs.” I laugh again. “Sorry. It just sounds so funny, out of context.” No one else is smiling along. I clear my throat. “But I was also very aware of what happened last time.”

“Last time?” Miriam asks.

“When we had sex just after Oliver had moved out, I wanted it then too. But it wasn’t right.

” Oliver flinches at the memory of us at his parents’ party, sneaking upstairs to have sex and thinking it would be okay, fun even.

It was awful, both of us reeling from the pain of our separation, Oliver’s angry voice in my ear, harsh and unfamiliar.

Instead of bringing us closer, the sex had left us lonely and far apart.

“I’m sorry.” Oliver squeezes my hand.

“What was it, you think, that made it not right then?”

“We hadn’t done the work,” Oliver says. “It was a temporary fix.”

“And now we’re hoping…”

We’re hoping you’ll tell us this is a good idea.

Like two eager teenagers who have barely passed their driving tests, we’ve come asking to borrow your expensive car.

Can you tell us getting back together is the right thing to do?

Can I please let my husband tie me to the sink?

Can we put all the ugliness behind us and move ahead? What do you say, Miriam?

“We’re hoping to try again,” Oliver says.

“It’s a big decision. And one I can see excites the both of you.

” Oliver and I have scooted so far forward we’ve adopted the cartoonish posture of audience members on the edge of our seats.

“The marriage fantasy—your reconciliation—will always be on the table, so to speak. Don’t be afraid to leave it there. While we do the work in here.”

We have! We’ve left it there for months! Isn’t it time to dust it off?

But what if it’s not? What if this is just a passing moment? A fondness that has grown since we’ve been apart, that will be suffocated once we’re back together. Suffocated by little digs, tiny annoyances, swallowed feelings, and waning desires.

As if reading my mind, Miriam adds, “I would like to see the both of you date first.”

“You mean take it slow?” I think of all our recent lingering looks, the once casual hug goodbye now loaded with want.

“Yes. Take your time. Date.”

“No sex?” Oliver asks.

Miriam holds our gaze. “Would you let someone tie you to a sink on the first date?”

I smile. Finally, someone else in the room cracking a joke—it’s like I can breathe again.

Oliver’s laugh is less relaxed. “I don’t think I would ask.”

“You two are turning over a new leaf in your relationship. And you need to create a safe foundation. Court each other. Rebuild that trust. Foreplay,” she says, looking from me to Oliver and back again. “Emotional foreplay.”

“For how much longer?” Oliver asks. “If you could be specific.”

Miriam smiles at her A student. “There’s no set schedule. But take it slow. You’ll know when the time is right. Just like both of you know that now is not the right time.”

“Right,” we agree, while at the same time silently willing ourselves to be as wise as Miriam.

—

Oliver walks me to my car, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. It’s a gray, late-February day, cool with an almost imperceptible drizzle. I wrap my thin cotton jacket closed.

There are only three cars in the parking lot today: Oliver’s, a new baby-blue Ford pickup truck that comfortably sits two people not three; mine, a champagne-colored minivan he and I bought when Emmy was a baby, and when the possibility of us having a second child still lingered—never spoken about but always hanging around us, like a necklace you try on with every outfit but never leave the house in.

By process of elimination, then, the sensible gray sedan is Miriam’s.

Often, in our therapy sessions last year, I tried to picture Miriam outside of work.

A respite from all the heated arguments in that room, with all their yawning, resentment-filled pauses.

Mostly, imagining Miriam’s life was a cool washcloth against my fevered forehead.

But sometimes, when I let myself really slip underwater and into despair, picturing Miriam’s personal life wasn’t comforting.

It was terrifying. What if she’s a real person and not a superhero who can save our sinking marriage?

In the end, she didn’t save it. Oliver moved out and we’ve spent the last several months living apart.

We gathered divorce attorney referrals like hot new restaurants recommendations.

We dropped Emmy off at the other’s place without small talk or eye contact because some days meeting Oliver’s gaze was too painful, like staring directly into the sun.

But here we are now, hopeful and curious on a rainy February day.

I sneak a glance at Oliver and catch a smirk.

When he notices me looking, his smile blossoms. He gently knocks his shoulder into mine, and a jolt of electricity runs through me.

The brush of his arm against mine. The excitement of having him close.

I can’t keep my own smile from spreading.

Maybe Miriam didn’t fail after all. Maybe she is a superhero genius. Maybe that’s not even her sedan.

The rain falls more steadily, in colder, fatter drops. “Well”—Oliver waits while I search for my keys instead of ducking into his truck—“Miriam was direct and perfectly clear.” He tips his chin up to the gray sky. “Sounds to me like a hard yes re sex.”

“Oh, definitely. She practically reached behind her back and produced the handcuffs.”

I open my car door as Oliver touches my shoulder. “Diana. I really want to do this right. Even if it means slowly.”

I lace my fingers through his. Neither of us moves an inch, despite the rain. “Me too.”

“It’s better for all of us. Especially for Emmy.”

“Right.”

Oliver rocks back on his heels and smiles. “Diana, would you like to go on a date with me?”

I smooth a wet curl from his forehead. I study his eyes, his full, rosy lips. For months, I’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss him again. And now I can think of nothing else. “I would like to go on a date with you. Yes.”

Oliver quickly closes the distance between us. “Diana?” His lips nearly brush against mine. “I’m nervous. You’re my beautiful wife.”

His confession is both heartbreaking and exhilarating.

I run my fingers through his wet hair and pull him closer.

I press against the softness of his lips, tasting the rain and the salt on his skin.

Our kiss is slow and tentative. And then the floodgates crash open and we kiss until I feel dizzy with this welcome, confusing sensation of kissing a man I know better than anyone, but who somehow feels totally unfamiliar.

Oliver steps back and smiles sheepishly. We’re soaked by the rain but a warm shiver runs through me. “I have an hour before I have to meet with an electrician. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

—

We sit at the counter of a nearby diner.

My breath is steady, and the flush has left Oliver’s cheeks.

We order coffee and share a day-old chocolate donut, and, outside, the rain never lets up.

Our wet clothes drip onto the linoleum floor and Oliver keeps trying to mop up the rain with napkins so no one gets mad, which makes me laugh because it’s so sweet and adorable and futile.

And because laughing is like releasing the valve on the tension between us.

I’m late for work but there is nowhere else I want to be.

Whoever sat at the counter before us has left behind their copy of The New York Times and we read it together, open before us, always in sync and ready to flip the page at the same time. It reminds me of us before Emmy, when we’d spend entire days reading together for hours.

We study the headlines, linger an extra beat on the real estate section, skim the sports pages, then pore over a piece on the continuing mystery of a missing tech mogul. We flip to the arts section and on the second page, I freeze.

Who Is Dirty Diana?

The headline runs beneath one of my paintings from the site.

It’s Andrea, who shared her fantasy months ago.

She sits at a train window, a blurred landscape behind her.

There is a short paragraph with a few hundred words describing Dirty Diana as an online space for erotic stories, run by a mysterious artist who interviews the women who share their fantasies on the site.

I hurriedly turn the page, nearly choking on my panic.

This couldn’t be me. There is no way The New York Times is talking about me. I hurry to my feet. “I should really get going.”

I expect Oliver to shoot me a confused look but he only glances at a missed call and sighs. “Yeah, me too.”

“Mind?” I ask, and before he can answer I fold up the Times and tuck it beneath my arm.