CHAPTER 9 – AN INTIMATE WEEKEND #4
Time accelerates when you’re living on borrowed hours.
The weekend vanishes in a series of vivid instants—sex, food, laughter, long, lazy stretches of skin and sweat and hands in hair.
By Sunday evening, my overnight bag is a disaster, half my clothes lost somewhere in Jack’s house, and my body aches in places I didn’t know could ache.
I’m packing in the bedroom, rolling up the black slip dress I never got to wear because I’ve literally been wearing his clothes all weekend.
A smile crosses my face, and that’s when Jack comes in, towel around his waist, damp hair curling at his neck.
He leans in the doorway, arms crossed. “You leaving already?”
“It’s almost seven,” I smile, folding my jeans into a tight square. “My parents will be home tonight.”
He nods, but the set of his mouth is slightly grim, like he wants to talk about something. Instead, he just watches as I stuff my bag, his blue eyes dark and unreadable.
Now, with the sky turning purple outside his window, it feels like the end of something.
After a weekend of hedonism in this man’s arms, it’s all coming to a halt and it’s because my dad has no idea that I’ve been sleeping with his best friend.
A man twice my age. I zip my bag and look at Jack, searching his face for regret, or anger, or anything but his expression is neutral as he watches my every move.
Then, Jack crosses the room and takes my hands, fingers threading through mine.
“When can I see you again?” he asks in a soft tone.
I smile, trembling a little. “Soon, I hope. As long as my parents don’t notice.”
He laughs, but it’s a little hollow. “I’ll call you, sweetheart. Or text. Or show up at your work and drag you out by your hair if I have to.”
The image makes me giggle despite myself. “Please don’t get me fired. I need the money.”
He smiles, then sobers. “You know I care about you, right?”
I nod, the words a hot stone in my chest. “Me too.”
There’s a silence, heavy and tight, like a plane holding its breath before the dive.
Then, almost shyly, Jack says, “I’m falling in love with you, Eliza.”
Wait, what? But it’s not a joke, or a line. It’s real, and it hits me like a punch because I had no idea we were declaring ourselves.
My whole body flushes. For a second, I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t even look at him. But I do. I look him in the eye, and I see it there—the fear, the hope, the naked need to believe in something bigger than himself. Immediately, I know what I have to do.
I step forward, cup his face in my hands, and kiss him, slow and deep. When I pull back, my own voice shakes.
“I love you too, Jack. I really do.”
It’s true. I adore this man despite our age difference, despite the fact that we’re sneaking around like two teenagers.
I love him despite the fact that I have a secret job that I love, but am also growing to hate.
Not because of what I do but because of the deception.
The lies are growing heavy on my heart, and I want to tell him.
I want to spill it all and see if he can love me anyway.
But the words stick, cold and barbed, in my throat.
Instead, I cling to the huge man, memorizing the feel of his skin, the way he smells, the sound of his heart pounding under my cheek. I want to keep this moment, freeze it, live inside it forever.
But life doesn’t work that way.
Eventually, we pull away and Jack walks me to my car, carrying my bag and making sure I have my phone, my wallet, my keys. He kisses me once more, under the porch light, and I taste salt and longing and the promise of more.
“Drive safe,” he says in a soft tone, stroking a blonde lock off my cheek.
“Always,” I whisper before balancing on my tippy-toes to kiss him one last time.
The drive home is a blur of headlights and highway. I replay the whole weekend in my head, each scene sharper and sweeter than the last. The sex, the jokes, the confessions. The way he held my hand at breakfast, like he was afraid I’d disappear.
I’m halfway home when the panic sets in. My chest tightens, my throat closes, and I have to pull over on a side street to breathe.
I should tell him. I should just do it, rip the Band-Aid off and see what happens.
But I’m afraid. Afraid he’ll see me differently, that I’ll ruin the one thing that feels real. I think of my customers—the faceless men, distant, irrelevant—and how none of them ever mattered. Only Jack does.
I practice the words in my head. “I have a secret.” “There’s something you should know.” “I do cam shows sometimes, for money, for attention, for something I can’t even name.” I imagine his reaction—shock, disgust, maybe even laughter. I can’t predict it, and that terrifies me.
By the time I enter our neighborhood, my hands are shaking. Then, I turn onto our street and see, with horror, that my parents’ car is already there. They’re home early. Oh shit shit shit! What do I do?
There’s only one thing to do. I check my face in the rearview. Lips swollen, hair a mess, makeup smeared under my eyes. I look exactly like what I am: a girl who spent the weekend getting ruined by a man twice her age.
I try to fix it, but there’s only so much repair that can occur in a cramped car with very few tools. Taking a deep breath, I grab my bag, square my shoulders, and march up to the front door, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear myself think.