Chapter Ten
“What do you say we go out to dinner? Hm? We can go forget about stupid men.”
Arabella and I have just gotten back to her apartment—or, I guess, our apartment.
“It’s my treat,” she adds, sweetening the deal.
“No, that’s okay,” I say.
I’m not sure why I say no. I like Arabella. I guess I just want to be alone.
“You sure?” she asks.
I nod. “I’m just going to go for a walk, I think,” I say.
She looks concerned, but says, “Okay. Bring your phone with you, sí? ”
“Will do.”
The late evening sun is warm on my cheeks as I walk down the unfamiliar streets. My mind is so preoccupied that I don’t even listen to music or anything. I have too many thoughts to sort through. They’re so tangled and discordant, it’s like listening to a hundred concertos at the same time and being asked to dance with it.
I don’t even mean to do it, but after winding around, street after street, I find myself around the corner from Jordan’s show.
I feel like one of those psycho stalkers from a melodramatic TV show as I stand there, looking on at the gallery in the near distance. There are dramatic up-lights outside, and there is an energetic buzz around the place.
I move closer. The show looks like a massive success. I’m so happy for him, but miserable for myself as I resist the compulsion to run inside and wrap my arms around him. I would undoubtedly burst into tears.
People come and go, and I feel sick knowing that this place is off-limits to me, when only days ago, I was more than entitled to be there.
What the fuck was I thinking breaking up with Jordan? My feelings for him haven’t changed. They never change. It’s just that when I’m mad, I can’t see straight. I can’t think straight. I can’t do anything right.
I’m close enough to see inside now, through the big picture windows that line one wall of the building. I gasp when Jordan comes into view, walking around a corner with a group of wealthy-looking people who listen to whatever he’s saying with rapt attention.
He looks so good. He looks nervous, but happy. He’s wearing the suit I helped him pick out, but his shoes are new. For some reason, this makes me feel unseated. Like he’s already moved on and the shoes are the evidence.
Speak of the devil, the blonde arrives. She hands him a glass of champagne, says something evidently hilarious , judging by the round of laughter from her little audience, and then leaves again, patting Jordan on the shoulder as she goes.
Okay, it’s time to go. I’m just a weird stalker out here in the dimming twilight, literally staring through a window at my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend.
As much as I would love to get arrested for something like this, I know I have to go.
I walk down the block and stop at a lively-looking restaurant with large, open windows and a busy patio. I walk up to the hostess and say, “Just one,” and she offers me a seat at the bar.
There’s only one open seat, and it’s toward the end of the bar, beside an attractive man in the corner who probably sat there because he wanted to be left alone.
I sit on the stool and accept the menu handed to me by the hostess.
“Sorry,” I say, when my elbow touches his.
“No problem,” he says. His voice is low, a little gruff.
I order a glass of wine and say that I need a second for food.
“The mussels are phenomenal,” he says, so quietly that at first I don’t realize he’s talking to me.
“Oh—oh, are they?”
“Yes,” he says. “Highly recommend them. Their seafood is all fresh.”
“Okay, maybe I’ll try those.”
When the bartender comes back over, I order the mussels and hand back the menu.
“Thanks,” I say to the man.
He says nothing, just gives a small no problem shake of the head.
I go to use my phone, feeling a little nervous beside this man and wanting to hide behind it.
But it’s dead.
Damn.
I put it away and sit there, feeling weirdly awkward as I try to figure out what to do with my hands and gaze.
I hear a small chuckle beside me and I turn to see that the man is laughing. At, I’m pretty sure, me.
“Are you laughing at me?” I ask.
“People your age are so lost without your phones.”
My mouth falls open in surprise at his candor. “Okay, well, if I had known I was going to be out dining alone, I would have brought something to read or something.”
He nods, eating another mussel and then taking a sip of his own wine.
I let out a tsk sound and then try again to occupy myself in a nonawkward way.
But again, I hear him beside me.
“Okay, well, what is it you do when you dine alone, laugh at the people around you and just…I mean…”
I narrow my eyes at him and for the first time, his lock on mine. They’re gorgeous, steely gray. The laugh lines around his eyes make him all the more attractive.
“I’m Max,” he says, holding out a hand.
I hesitate. Then say, “Jocelyn,” as I put my hand in his. I can tell now that his accent is English, but there’s a hint of something else. I’m no expert, though, so it’s probably just that he’s from the North or something.
He releases after a moment and says, “So what were you doing that you find yourself dining alone? Surely you didn’t get stood up.”
I think that was a compliment.
“No. More pathetic, actually. My ex-boyfriend’s got an art show at the gallery down the block. I went for a walk and just sort of ended up outside. I know that probably sounds psycho.”
He shrugs, and I appreciate when he doesn’t get on the psycho-ex-girlfriend bandwagon with me.
“Did you go in?”
“No, I just stood out there. Like a creep.”
“Why did you break up?”
“I don’t know, actually.”
My mussels arrive then, and I thank the bartender and start eating.
“You must know,” he pushes.
“You really want to hear this?” I ask. “Is this how hard up people your age are since they won’t just go on their phones like normal people?”
He laughs. “I deserved that. Sure. Tell me.”
And then somehow, though I can hardly parse through it myself, I find myself telling him the truth. The whole truth.
I don’t just monologue at him. He asks questions.
—
The conversation goes on and the dinner crowd is thinning around us, the last few of our mussels going cold. Our drinks keep being refilled by the bartender, due to the flick of an eyebrow from Max.
He’s really, really hot. He’s not older older, but he’s probably in his forties. I think about how I’ve never slept with a man in his forties, and then wonder why my brain is going there.
“It sounds like you still love him,” he says, when I finish telling him the whole sorry tale. “But it sounds like he probably still loves you, too. I imagine he’ll be there when you go crawling back.”
I laugh. “Wow, rude.”
He gives a casual shrug. “Am I wrong?”
“No. I mean, you’re not wrong that I’ll go crawling back at some point. Probably. Whether or not he’ll still be there, I have no idea.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“But what about Blondie over there?” I ask.
He waves a hand. “Men are idiots. He probably just called up someone he had from his past and asked her to come round to distract himself from what he’s really feeling, which is misery over losing you.”
“I think I was pretty awful.”
“All women are awful at times,” he says. “So are all men. Love isn’t about that. Love is about being there anyway.”
“My, you’re sage,” I say. “Who knew. I thought you were just an asshole.”
I’m afraid this jab is too far, but he just smiles and says, “I deserve that, too.”
“So what about you?” I ask. “Who do you love?”
He tears a piece of bread from the hunk on his plate. “My wife.”
Something in me depresses. He’s not wearing a ring, so I had foolishly thought maybe he wasn’t married. But of course he is. He’s gorgeous and has an air of wealth I can’t help but notice.
I am my mother’s daughter.
“That’s nice,” I say.
“It should be,” he says. “We’re not in the best place these days.”
“No?”
The bar is close to empty now. Just an old man drinking solo at the end of the bar, a couple on a date in a far corner, and two girls outside on the patio with a dalmatian at their feet.
“She doesn’t love me anymore. She wants a divorce. I’m not surprised, it’s been a long time coming. We haven’t told anyone yet. Not her family or mine. Or the”—he gestures dismissively—“press.”
“The press?”
“They care about her, not me,” he clarifies. “But they’ll assume it’s my fault anyway. Which is fine.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“S’alright. I don’t know if I love her the way I want to love someone anyhow. We’ve been together a long time. I think it’s all habit at this point.”
“That’s depressing.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding someone new, when you want it.”
His gray eyes land on mine as he scans me, reading between the lines. I hadn’t meant to be so flirtatious, but I couldn’t help it.
I’ve had a little bit of wine, he’s beautiful, and the other option is wallowing in my devastation.
“Neither will you,” he says.
I bite my bottom lip briefly, wetting it with my tongue. I clear my throat and sip my wine.
It’s one of those moments that doesn’t need to be acknowledged head-on for us both to know what’s happening.
After a long silence, I say, “You know what always seems to happen in movies?”
“What’s that?”
“Strangers meet and get a hotel room to go fuck. I’ve never done that. Do you think it really happens?”
Holy shit, I’m feeling bold apparently.
He furrows his brow, and says, “I don’t think it does. Or at least, not to me.”
My chest feels light, my legs weak.
“That’s a shame,” I say. “It would be nice if life were more like the movies.”
He holds up his hand to the bartender, and then gestures at both of our plates, handing over a card.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Buying you dinner first.”
My heart trills at his words. “Before…”
“That’s up to you.”
After he pays, I take the last few sips of my wine and lead the way out of the restaurant.
This is crazy. Are we really about to do this?
It’s always been very, very against my personal code to sleep with a married man. Lots of girls in the world don’t care. They go on their sexual journeys, feeling like they’re entitled to whatever they want.
I think, besides the obvious, that it’s morally fucked, I personally object to it after seeing my mom do it. I mean, not literally seeing her do it, but knowing that she did. It felt like it got her nowhere good.
But this man is getting divorced. He sounds like the wronged party. And it’s a one-night stand. I’ll never see him again.
He doesn’t even know I’m a ballerina. I don’t know what he does. I don’t know who his wife is. We don’t know each other’s last names. We can’t hurt each other. This can just be a dream we both have, one time, one night, together.
We walk until we find a hotel, neither of us saying a word, but the energy between us buzzing hot.
When we go in, he tells me to go to the bar and order us some drinks, handing me some cash. He then goes up to the lobby desk.
It’s a fucking nice hotel. The kind of thing that looked like a Disney princess castle to me as a kid. It’s warmly lit with crystal chandeliers, the décor would make Marie Antoinette feel at home, and the cocktails at the bar all cost twenty-five dollars or more.
I get us both dry gin martinis with a twist. Even if he’s not a martini person, I figure he probably won’t mind. At its best, a martini is a delicate exploration. At its laziest, it’s a huge shot.
He finds me at the bar, putting a hand on my lower back and asking, “Ready?”
I nod and we go to the elevator with our cocktails, his hand still on the small of my back gently leading me, both of us clearly nervous but eager.
We go to the top floor of the hotel and he takes us to the end of a long, ornately carpeted hallway, to room 2000.
He opens the door and my jaw falls open.
It’s an extremely glamorous, opulent room.
It’s a luxurious oasis, a lavish retreat from the hustle and bustle of the city outside. The foyer is adorned with ornate, gilded accents that glimmer in the soft light of the crystal chandeliers. The walls are draped in plush, deep-hued fabrics, and the floors are lined with sumptuous carpets that cushion each step.
The room itself is expansive, with soaring ceilings and massive windows that would let in a flood of natural light during the daytime. The furnishings are decadent and indulgent, with plush velvet sofas and armchairs, intricately carved wooden tables, and massive, ornate mirrors that reflect the opulence of the space.
I go to the bedroom, where a grand four-poster bed dominates the room. It’s draped in swaths of silk and satiny linens that whisper against the skin when I touch them. The bed is flanked by intricately carved side tables, each topped with a glittering crystal lamp that casts a warm, amber glow across the space.
The bathroom is a marvel of modern design, with gleaming marble floors and counters, an enormous Jacuzzi tub, and a spacious glass-enclosed shower that’s big enough for two. Soft, fluffy towels and plush robes are neatly arranged on heated racks, ready to envelop guests in their soft embrace. Overall, the room exudes a sense of timeless elegance and indulgence, offering an escape from the ordinary and an opportunity to revel in the luxury of the space.
My life with Jordan was not glamorous. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t this. I’ve never really had this. It happens sometimes that I attend a gala for my company, something like that. But this is not my usual. It impresses me.
He walks up behind me and we both sip from our martinis. It’s awkward, but in a way that amuses me. I laugh.
“Now look who’s laughing,” he says.
This cracks me up further, and that makes him laugh.
When we finally start to catch our breath, I say, “I can’t believe we’re here right now.”
“No? It was your idea, wasn’t it?” He sets down his martini and takes a step toward me.
“Yes,” I say, as I take a deep breath and set my drink down as well.
And then I feel my smile fade as our eyes lock. His gaze drops to my lips and I step toward him fast, just as he reaches out to pull me toward him.
We crash into each other, into an urgent kiss. His strangeness intoxicates me further.
As we kiss, I feel like I’m in a dream. It’s a strange feeling, like I’m watching myself from a distance, but at the same time, I’m completely present in the moment. His lips are soft and warm, and they fit perfectly against mine. I can feel the heat between us, and I sense that we both want more.
Our hands race over each other’s bodies, my fingers frantically unbuttoning his shirt, his hand pulling up my lacy top, eventually pulling it over my head. My hair cascades over my face and he pushes it out of the way.
I let out a sound of desire as he kisses me again, letting his now-unbuttoned shirt fall to the ground.
He presses against me and I feel his hardness against my lower abdomen.
“Fuck,” I say.
Effortlessly, he unsnaps my bra. He then picks me up and carries me to the bed, throwing me down on it. “God, your body is beautiful.”
“I’m a ballerina,” I say, my voice practically a whine of desire.
“Really? In London?”
“Yes.” I breathe heavily, lowering his mouth to my breast. He envelops it, his tongue warmly thrashing against my nipple. My hands run through his hair as I say, “Bite me.”
He does it, just a little past gently, and it feels good.
I kind of want to be dirty and a bit rough. I’m sure it’s a reflection of how dark and fucked up everything around me has been lately, and that any therapist worth their salt would have a field day with me. But I don’t care what the reasons are.
“Harder,” I say.
He obeys, then moving to my other breast and doing the same to me there.
“Harder.” I breathe heavily and push my breast into his mouth, as much as I can. “I want you to leave a bite mark around my tit.”
He groans happily and bites me hard. I gasp. It’s really fucking hard, but I like the pain of it.
A moment later I pull him up and climb on top of him, taking in his incredible physique, my wetness against him. I undo his belt and step off the bed to pull off my own leggings, leaving them in a heap on the floor with his pants.
I pull off my thong and then tear off his briefs.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, seeing his dick. “It’s fucking huge.”
I give a laugh, and so does he, but it quickly gives way as I climb back on top of him. He reaches his fingers up to my mouth, and I wet them. He then pulls them away and lubricates the head of his penis before I envelop him.
He’s so hard and big that I have to go slowly, but soon the desire takes me over and I find myself moving on top of him with hunger.
I bend over him and bite his jaw lightly, then kiss his neck. He groans softly against me.
“Jocelyn, god, you’re so… shit .” He goes breathless as I hit him with a new angle.
He flips me over on my back and I let out constant moans as I watch his incredible body move powerfully against mine.
When I get close, I tell him, and when I do, he tells me that he is, too.
We finish at the same time, him pulling out just in time.
Afterward, we lie beside each other catching our breath.
“That was the best sex I’ve had in—” he starts.
I interrupt him by covering his lips with my fingers. “Just say it’s the best you ever had.”
He bites the tips of my fingers and when I pull them away, he says, “I didn’t want to say that. I wanted to seem cooler than that. That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”
“Me too,” I lie. It was fucking amazing, I want more. But the best sex I’ve ever had was with Jordan.
“Liar,” he says.
“What?” I feign innocence.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Maybe this time it’ll be the best you ever had.”
And with that, he lowers his mouth to my body again, kissing me from my neck to my tit, to my stomach, and then lower, lower…
His mouth on my clit, I moan as we begin again.