June, this year
I’m aware of being awake even before I open my eyes, as the light beyond my pale-red eyelids is so bright. I squint, opening them slowly, not yet quite sure where I am.
Or, for that matter, which multiverse I’m in.
Industrial ductwork — complete with hard-to-reach cobwebs — high over my head. Exposed brick walls, punctuated by a row of tall arched windows with distressed, peeling paint on their frames. But in a trendy way.
Of course — Rufus’s downtown loft. Well . . . our loft, theoretically, given that I’m apparently his wife.
I’m lying alone in an enormous, super-king-size bed with soft brown linen sheets. This place is a super-hip bachelor pad that bears very little trace of my — or Bonnie’s — decorative influence. It’s as if the me who married Rufus just moved in and got absorbed into his life.
I had found my way to my new home late last night, after recovering from my “sunstroke” at finding Bonnie and her previously dead parents at the Lake Bluff house. After my failed confession to Bonnie, I’d had to get out of there.
Finding the apartment had initially been a challenge, given that I couldn’t figure out the Android phone or whether I had “home” set in the Maps app, but I’d remembered Rufus’s downtown building from years ago, and found through an email search that my “home address” was the same converted warehouse unit.
Letting myself in at nearly midnight, I’d expected to find Rufus here and wondering why I was late home, just like Chris had done in New Buffalo. But the loft had been empty, with no sign of Rufus.
Just a hand-scrawled note on the concrete kitchen island, saying “Back in the morning — R.”
I’d taken the opportunity to poke around, examining the stylish furnishings, the vast black-and-white photographic prints of theatrical productions, and several expensive-looking tabletop sculptures.
Nothing that reflects my own tastes, which lean more cute-rustic.
It doesn’t even look like I live here, aside from my clothes in the closet, some of which I recognize, and my name on some of the mail near the door.
But at least Rufus is someone I already know, so I can anticipate what to expect when — if — he comes home.
And, let’s face it, he was always insanely hot.
I have to admit, there’s a part of me that’s feeling some anticipation at seeing him again.
Sure, he was a deeply flawed man back at Northwestern, given he was sleeping with his much-younger student while living with someone else.
But in this version of reality, he and I are married. The rules are very different now.
If I’m honest with myself, that’s why I decided to go “home” to Rufus, instead of taking the Masons up on their offer of their guest room for the night. I just had to see what this version of life is like.
And although it’s insane to be in this alternate life, it’s not as weird as I initially thought. I mean, I know Rufus. I’ve adored him before. I’ve wanted this life with him.
This version of reality at least feels reasonably safe — not entirely alien.
But what would it be like if I had found myself in a world where I live with someone I don’t recognize? Would I still have to go home with them, in the absence of any reasonable option? Would some kind of intrinsic muscle memory kick in, and make it easier to be with them, like it did with Chris?
I sit up in bed and swing my legs off the side. The concrete floors are cool beneath my bare feet. I pull on a floral silk robe that isn’t my usual style, and pad into the open-concept kitchen-living room, searching for coffee.
As I’m examining the contents of the built-in fridge, a key turns in the front door and it creaks open. I quickly shut the fridge door and pull my robe closed.
Rufus, his hair now considerably more salt than pepper, and sporting an overnight stubble that’s also partially gray, is riffling through the mail on the hallway console.
I haven’t seen him since I graduated eight years ago, and he’s now in his mid-forties.
He’s older, looking tired, but pretty much as handsome as ever.
My stomach performs the same flutter it always did when I was twenty.
“Hi,” he says, not looking up.
“Uh, hi,” I reply. “I’m just making a coffee.”
“Mm-hmm. I ground some of the new beans before I went out yesterday — in the jar.” He finally looks up at me, but doesn’t smile.
I turn away, not wanting my face to betray me as an imposter, as if it might.
Hopefully my instinct will take me to the right cabinets to find a mug, and it won’t look like I’ve never been in this kitchen before.
Although, what I’m trying to achieve by pretending to be Rufus’s real wife, I’m not entirely sure.
A glimpse into the would-have-been, I guess.
I open the cabinet above the coffee machine. Right first time. “Where’d you get to last night?” I ask him, more out of a need to fill the silence than genuine curiosity. I pull out a mug and try to look natural making my coffee.
His voice is low. “Really, Mill? You’re asking me that now?” A pause. “I thought we had an understanding.”
Shit. I’ve messed up already.
I turn to face him, eyebrows raised. His brow is furrowed, dark. I hold up a hand. “Just making conversation. Sorry if I overstepped.”
His expression softens. “That’s okay. I accept the apology. You know how I appreciate it when you apologize.” He puts his mail and black cellphone on the island countertop, and holds out a hand. “Come here.”
I hesitate. What does he want? I’m right in front of him, talking to him.
“Come here,” he repeats, quieter, still holding out his hand.
His slate-gray eyes tunnel into mine, and a flood of memories wash over me.
The greatest sex of my life. My tiny single dorm-room bed, wrapped in white sheets and each other.
Rufus screwing me, that very first time, on the fiberglass set on stage at Northwestern’s theater, late at night.
Him going down on me — the first time anyone had done that — in a downtown hotel room, that one time we spent the whole night together.
How I had screamed out with an orgasm like nothing I’d ever experienced before.
With a pull between my legs, I move around the kitchen island to meet him, and he grabs me by my waist, his arm inside my silk robe. This close, his breath is slightly bitter, and he smells of sex.
He always smelled of sex.
His stormy eyes roam my face, and then he yanks me in for a rough, hard kiss. Despite myself, the tug between my legs pulls harder, and the moisture makes itself known. Dammit, I still can’t resist the dark lure of this man.
But I’m here now. We’re married. And this was what twenty-year-old me had most wanted.
I kiss him back, and a chuckle rumbles through his chest. He knows he has me exactly where he wants me. No matter where he was last night.
He slips a long finger into my sleep shorts, and it meets wetness. He moves his kisses down to my neck as his fingers explore me and I writhe against the countertop. With his other hand, he lifts up my T-shirt and puts his mouth against my small breast, circling his tongue.
Jesus.
He laughs again as I gasp aloud, and stops to suddenly pull down my shorts and panties.
He kneels on the cold concrete floor, lifting one of my feet onto the bar of a stool, exposing me fully.
Then he buries his face between my legs and lets his tongue do the work, one hand still reaching up to my nipple.
As I reach orgasm, crying out, he immediately rises to lift me onto the counter, unzips his fly, and pushes himself into me. He only thrusts maybe a dozen times until he, too, comes with a violence I haven’t seen before, his face strained and contorted.
Rufus collapses against me in a move that’s both familiar and foreign, shaking his head.
“See what you still do to me?” he mutters.
I know this man well enough to know he’s not really looking for an answer. He often used to say that to me, back at Northwestern. “See what you do to me?”
Like it was me being so seductive that he couldn’t possibly have resisted.
There was a time that I would have found that rhetorical question romantic — a compliment. To be that desired. Now, only now, does it occur to me that it was his way of shifting blame.
Regret for having just had sex with him washes over me, as quickly as the desire had washed over me less than ten minutes ago.
Not for the first time following sex with Rufus, I’m left wondering what the hell I was thinking.
Rufus straightens up, running a hand through wavy hair that’s looking a little greasy, his brow set hard once more. I slip off the countertop, lifting my panties and shorts back on and pulling my robe closed.
He pulls his pants up from below his butt but doesn’t zip them, and moves away.
“I need a shower. Then I’m heading out again — to check on the new set build, since you’re apparently so curious about my whereabouts, all of a sudden.
And I’ll be gone all night, so don’t wait up.
” His tone is as icy as when he arrived.
Guess he only softens his manner when his dick hardens.
I watch him tread into the bedroom, and listen to the sound of the shower being turned on.
How in the world did I end up being married to this guy, where he chose me over Professor Amy? Maybe this is simply the version of reality where she dumped him for being a cheating asshole, like she should have in my world.
Even if Amy dumped him and he and I ended up in a legitimate relationship, how could I have ignored every red flag to get to the point of marrying him? Bonnie and Ben surely would’ve advised me against it.
But I also know the answer to that. It’s entirely possible that I would have remained blinded by my infatuation for him, and Bonnie and Ben would have known that I would only dig in if they tried to interfere. At least they didn’t fall out with me about it, and we stayed friends in this reality.
It seems like the me in this life may still be blinded by him — her judgment as poor as mine ever was.