Chapter 15 Stay
STAY
Jack
When Michelle hung up the phone after taking a quick call from her brother, I pulled the beautiful woman who’d spent Friday and Saturday nights with me back onto the couch.
“Why is ‘Ode to Joy’ your ringtone?” I asked, as I tugged her against me.
She’d come home with me on Friday, but then left after midnight.
She’d returned on Saturday, but left late that night too.
Maybe it was self-protection; maybe my mattress wasn’t her favorite.
But I hoped to convince her soon enough to stay the night.
I liked having access to her. Being near her eased the ache of guilt that surrounded me.
Hell, it did more than ease it. It erased it.
It blotted it out. With Michelle, I felt strangely free of that clawing sense of self-condemnation that usually surrounded me like a bad cologne. The scent of regret.
“Because it’s a happy piece of music,” she answered as I ran my fingertips along her waist. It was Sunday evening now, and I planned to have her one more time before she left. But for now, I wanted to talk.
“So’s ‘Walking On Sunshine.’ But that’s not your ringtone,” I countered.
“Are you saying this cigar isn’t just a cigar?”
I laughed. “Therapist humor?”
“Of course.”
“And yes, what I’m saying is most people don’t pick something like Beethoven’s Ninth unless it means something to them.
I want to know what it means to you,” I said, running my hand along the fabric of her skirt as it fell on her hip.
She’d worn nothing but skirts whenever I’d seen her, and I was ready to build an altar to the absence of those pesky wardrobe items like pants and jeans.
She pressed a hand against my chest. “I thought this was just sex,” she said, and her tone was playful, but I sensed she was covering something up.
I brought her hand to my lips and pressed a soft kiss. “Forgive me for asking a question that doesn’t involve your magnificent ability to climax multiple times with me.”
She swatted me playfully. “You’re a cocky bastard. Trying to use all those orgasms against me.”
“I would never use an orgasm against you. I only use orgasms for good. In fact, I think more orgasms could bring about world peace.”
“The more you come, the less you fight.”
“Exactly. Anyway,” I said, returning undeterred to the topic, “your ringtone. What’s the story? Is it because of that guy you liked? Is that why you’re avoiding answering the question?”
Her eyes widened.
Perhaps I was right. Perhaps she was still in love with him. A kernel of jealousy rooted into my chest. I hadn’t expected to feel that so soon. I’d have to fuck the in-love-with-another-man problem right out of her too.
“No.” She shook her head. “I swear, it’s not because of him.” She sighed, and ran her hand through her hair, still messy from sex. “My parents liked classical music.”
Just like that, I felt like a jackass.
“Ah. I’m sorry I suggested it was something else,” I said softly, brushing my fingertips gently across her cheek. “I didn’t mean to bring up something that might be hard for you.”
“It’s okay. You didn’t know. We don’t know each other, so we’re just guessing at things. It’s better to ask. And it’s not that hard anymore. It was thirteen years ago.”
“Was ‘Ode to Joy’ special to them?”
“That was the song they got married to,” she said softly. But her voice wasn’t sad. Maybe wistful. Or perhaps it was the tone of someone who was simply used to missing. Used to longing.
“That’s beautiful. Was it their favorite song?
” There was something refreshing about her frankness.
Maybe it was refreshing too, because I’d kept so much of the truth about my last relationship bottled up.
Even Nate didn’t know the full truth. Sure, he knew I hadn’t been in love with Aubrey; Nate and I had even talked about the possibility of calling off the wedding, but he was traveling for business a lot that fateful year, so he didn’t know the finer details of that weekend in Colorado beyond what everyone else knew.
Michelle nodded. “They used to play it a lot. My dad would turn up the CD player—back in the day—and pull her in close, and they’d dance.
Funny, because it’s not typical dancing music, you know?
” she said, her gaze hooking into mine and I nodded.
“But even so, they’d laugh and dance, and I always felt as if they were remembering their wedding.
He’d twirl her around, and they were like some postcard, like a happy black-and-white postcard of two people still in love.
And who were still happy about it years later. ”
I smiled against the back of her neck. My parents weren’t like that at all.
My memories were of snippy comments, bitter moments, barbs and cut-downs.
No happy times. No dancing. I wasn’t envious though.
How could I be? Hers were gone. Mine were simply miserable when I was younger, and happily divorced now.
They’d filed for divorce two days after Casey graduated from high school. “And you love it now? The music?”
“I do,” she said, her lips curving up. “I think it’s beautiful. I could see why they’d get married to it. It is a joyful piece of music. It makes you want to celebrate.” She placed her phone on the coffee table and relaxed back into me. “What about you? Why is a Ravel sonata your ringtone?”
Here we were, curled up on my couch, the view of Central Park and its lush green trees greeting us through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and we were discussing our phones. But we also weren’t discussing our phones. We were talking about something that seemed to matter.
“I’ve always listened to classical music a lot when I review reports.”
“You have?” she asked, quirking her eyebrows in curiosity. “Why?”
“It helps me focus. It brings beauty to everything, even the binary. Even numbers. Whenever I read reports or analysis of the market, I like to listen to Ravel or Brahms or Mozart. It helps me sort it out. I find it…calming.”
“Beauty,” she said thoughtfully, and this time she reached out, running her hand down my arm. “I can see how that would help.”
I liked that we both had reasons for our ringtones that were deeper than just the randomness of the universe. That it was about music, and the way music mattered to us both. It mattered differently, but it was equally important. A cigar wasn’t always a cigar.
“Stay the night,” I said, trying again with her. I wanted more of her. I liked myself better when she was near.
She shook her head.
“Please. I like the way you feel next to me, even just like this.”
“No. I need to be in my own bed.”
“But you look so good on mine.”
“I feel good in it. But I need to go home.”
“First things first,” I said, then dropped my mouth to hers and kissed her deeply, the way she liked, the way that made her wriggle underneath me in seconds, and wrap her legs around my waist. The way that turned her on in a heartbeat.
Made her wet and hot and needy. I’d learned her body quickly, studied her cues, and knew how to turn her on in record time.
It was as if I alone possessed the secret code to unlock her desire.
I pulled off her panties, rolled on a condom and entered her.
Within seconds she was moaning, her head back, her arms wrapped around me, her legs pulling me in tighter.
It was a quick fuck, a goodbye-and-see-you-tomorrow one.
It was a promise that this wasn’t the last time, that there would be many more.
And that we both just needed one more moment of connection before she left without staying the night.