Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
"D oes anyone want to offer any last-minute thoughts? Any takeaways? Or topics to talk about next week?" I ask my group as we wrap up our session.
"Can we say the Serenity Prayer?" Larry asks from my right.
"This isn't AA. And you aren't even an addict," says Curtis from my left.
"My takeaway is that I still don't believe in God. You want to get into it again, Larry?" says Herman from the back.
"I'll say it," Geoff chimes in.
"Substitute the word God for something else, Herman. You can pray to a doorknob for all I care," says Larry.
"We can say the Serenity Prayer. Herman, maybe you can pay attention to what makes you uncomfortable. It's got some good messages even without the God part," I suggest.
"Next week I have some problems with my lady I need to discuss," says Curtis.
We say the prayer, and I tell everyone to have a wonderful and safe weekend. I clean up the small room and turn the lights off. I start walking down the hallway to the elevator back to my office. I check my phone—it's only eleven a.m. I have a text from Matt.
Eight more hours.
I write back.
Can't wait.
By seven tonight, Matt will land in New York City and I will go to his apartment to have dinner with him. I cannot believe it, nor wipe the grin off my face.
I'm waiting for the elevator, staring at my reflection, when I see a man behind me, a familiar faded blue hat with a colorful patch of stripes sewn on and the words Vietnam Veteran perched atop his head.
"Daryl! It's so good to see you. How have you been?" I exclaim at one of my oldest and most favorite patients of all time. I met him years ago when I was brand new to the city and working in the ED. I worked with the VA to get him connected to services and he made it a point to show up to my outpatient therapy groups. But I hadn’t seen him in months, maybe even a year.
"Hi, Miss Julia. It's good to see you, too. I'm just fine and dandy. I'm here for some follow-ups, and I’m going to swing by that new group for my era of vets."
"Good, you look good. Are you feeling good, too?"
"As good as I can. I'm almost eleven months sober. Never thought I'd see the day."
"Fantastic. That is huge. I'm happy for you," I say.
"Thank you, thank you. What's going on with you? You look like you're glowing from within. Is it money or a man?"
I smile at him and deflect. "Just happy to be here. Even happier it's Friday,"
He gives me a knowing glance. "What is that shit you always told the group? Secrets can keep us sick."
I chuckle at my own line coming back to bite me in the ass. "You're very perceptive, you know that?"
"Yes. What's that other shit you taught me? Being sensitive isn't a weakness, it can be a superpower, but only if I learn how to manage it. Not numb it with booze and drugs and women. I pick up on all types of shit. Especially after seeing everything I saw. And I'm picking up on you being positively giddy about something."
He's got me. “Do you believe in love at first sight, Daryl?”
He pauses, smiling, bringing his hand to his chin. “Yes. Yes, I certainly do."
"Tell me more."
Daryl was notorious for dodging personal questions when he was in my group. I dubbed him the class clown because of his ability to evade disclosing anything by cracking a well-timed joke. But that is one of the huge upsides of group therapy. Even if you don't fully participate, you can still get something out of it.
“I saw her sitting across the room in my eleventh grade English class. I felt firecrackers going off in my body. She was perfect. Everything I had ever imagined. I fell in love with her on the spot."
“What happened?”
“We fell in love quickly. We were never apart. She became my entire world; she was the sun, and I just circled around her. But then Vietnam happened. And my number came up. We didn't have enough time to do the things I wanted. I wanted to give her a ring, ask her daddy for permission, the old-fashioned way. She deserved it and more. But I couldn't afford the ring, and I ran out of time. So promised her I'd marry her the minute I got home. But then those fourteen months in the muck happened."
I knew parts of this story from our individual sessions. That he was willing to share now, without my probing, seemed huge.
The elevator had come and gone twice, but we stayed standing there in the empty hallway.
“What was the takeaway for you?” I ask him, one of our typical group therapy closings.
"My takeaway is that I'd do it all over again. Love her all over again. Even though I thought I might not survive it. Even though the pain of that loss carried me straight back into the pits of hell. The only change is that I would have been more honest with myself after the war. Maybe that would've saved me. Saved us. I fight that feeling of regret by reminding myself that I got to love her—and she got to love me, the good me. Even though it wasn't for long. Knowing that love was possible—that gave me hope. Isn't that what life's all about? The highs and the lows. You can't avoid pain without accidentally avoiding the good stuff, too."
I nod, blown away by Daryl's profound insights. I mull it over, wondering if there is something in it for me to take away, too. He looks at me with his big, toothy grin.
"You know all this shit, Miss Julia, why are you kicking it around with me? If you're in love, enjoy every moment of it, ‘cause you don't know how long you'll have it."
The elevator dings.
* * *
I'm in my apartment after work, taking my sweet time getting ready, waiting to hear that Matt has landed back in New York City. I do a hair mask, a face mask, and shave almost my entire body in a steamy shower. I dry my dark hair with a round brush to give it some volume and straighten out the waves. It hangs loose around my shoulders, past my collarbones. I apply my makeup slowly and deliberately, adding a little more eyeliner and lipstick than I would for my day-to-day look.
Finally, a text comes through.
Just landed. I’m sending a car to get you so I can get started on dinner. It should be there in twenty min. See you soon.
My heart soars, and I am giddy. I dress carefully in my favorite jeans and a sleeveless black satin top cut low enough to show a hint of cleavage. I spritz myself in perfume, put on my favorite gold hoops and strappy sandals, and head down to the lobby.
I show up at his apartment with a bottle of the best cabernet sauvignon in stock at the bodega on the corner by my apartment. I stand at his door and adjust my top, my nerves reaching a fever pitch. I can hear a smooth jazz saxophone playing inside his apartment, and my heart is in my throat.
I knock.
He opens the door an instant later, like he was standing on the other side waiting for me. He's wearing a vintage Phish concert T-shirt, his signature jeans, and that sultry smile. His hair is perfectly mussed, and there’s a dish towel slung over his shoulder. Joy and nerves fizzled in my chest like freshly poured champagne,
"Hi." His smile is wide.
"Hi."
"It's really, really good to see you." He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek before wrapping me up in a hug. The moment his lips touch my skin, dopamine floods my veins and my previous notion that I'd be okay just knowing men like him existed flies out the window. I will not be okay. I want— need —more of him.
Fuck.
"Come in! Dinner is almost ready."
I walk in, looking around his apartment. It's huge—easily five times the size of mine—an industrial space that has been renovated beautifully. The ceilings are at least twelve feet high, with exposed pipes and brick. The living space is one big room, a living room flowing into a kitchen and dining area. Matt has thick Persian rugs in dark reds and blues atop the polished concrete floors, dark woods and modern leather couches, low light that makes the cavernous space feel cozy.
“Wow. I love your place,” I say as I put my purse down.
“Thank you. It was my first big purchase after I signed with my label. I finally feel like I’m old enough to live here. For a long time, I felt like Richie Rich, like this kid who was just pretending. I wish I could spend more time here in the city, but a lot of the people I work with are based in LA. Most of the time it's just easier for me to be there. And after almost twenty years, LA has finally grown on me. Not enough to call it home without feeling like a fraud, but pretty close.”
I sit down on a barstool at the black marble counter and watch Matt flit about the kitchen, moving from the cutting board to the stove. He tosses me a wine opener, and I open the bottle and pour us each a glass. My heart is beating so fast, I feel sure he can hear it. Being in his presence heightens all my senses.
“How was LA? How is your dad?” I keep my voice light and calm.
“Dad is good. He’s still in Pennsylvania but coming back to the city tomorrow, so I’ll see him while I’m here. LA was good. I made some headway on my newest album. I’m really excited about it. I think it’s going to be something special.”
“What’s the inspiration behind this album?”
“It’s fun . I know that sounds lame, but that’s the best way for me to describe it. Every song is fun for me to play. All the rhythms are familiar but new—nostalgic but fresh. I think every song is a bop. That’s what kids say these days, anyway. In the early pandemic days, I found so much solace in just playing my guitar, not for the purpose of creating an album, just for the fun of it. I felt like a kid again back in my room in Allentown, plucking those strings for absolutely no other purpose but sheer joy. That’s the same energy I took into this album.”
“I can’t wait to hear it.”
“Maybe I can give you an early private listening experience,” he says with that half smile.
Innuendo hangs in the air.
“What’s your house in LA like?” I change the subject.
“It's comfortable—a bright, Spanish-style bungalow. It has a lot of original features: the exposed beams, classic barrel roof tiles, and stucco design. It feels too big most of the time, since it’s just me out there. I turned one of the extra three bedrooms into an in-home studio and redid the backyard. It looks out over the canyon. I had a condo downtown for years, but it started to get a little overstimulating for me. I got sucked into the vortex of the social scene, and I was slipping into some habits that weren’t good for me—going out every night, sleeping till the early afternoon, waking up feeling like absolute dog shit and not being able to do what I needed to. Three years ago, I moved up into the hills, and I haven’t looked back.”
I watch him meticulously plate the food, his brow furrowed in concentration, his hands working quickly.
“Done!” He tosses the dish towel off his shoulder and walks around the counter carrying two big, steaming bowls of what looks like ramen. He sits on the stool next to me, and I tip my wineglass to his.
“To you being back in New York.”
“To getting to see your face again," he replies.
We each take a giant gulp of the red wine, and then he turns toward me and his face breaks into a huge smile, showing me all his teeth: big, straight, slightly crowded on the bottom but decidedly perfect.
“George Washington?” he asks.
A laugh bubbles out of me. “No, no, you’re all clear. How about me?” I grin widely.
“Nope, definitely post-Revolutionary War teeth.”
I study the bowl in front of me. The ramen looks divine, and the colors are vibrant—the deep green bok choy, a perfectly poached jammy egg with its bright yellow yolk. The crunchy nori sits in a broth that smells spicy and salty. I take a bite, and my tastebuds explode. Pure umami.
"Do you like it?”
“This is the best ramen I’ve had, and I think I’ve tried every single place in this city,” I answer honestly.
“Thank you. Ever been to Japan?"
“No, but I’d love to go.”
“When I was there in 2016, there was this place about an hour outside of Tokyo, a place I’d been hearing about from some of my Japanese friends for years. As soon as I got a chance, I finally made the trek out to this little hole-in-the-wall spot—it didn’t even look like a restaurant, more like someone’s house with a tiny kitchen. There were two tables inside, one of which was covered in paper, plastic bags, and other junk, so I sat down, and the guy in the kitchen just started cooking. I watched him prepare the bowl of ramen, so fastidious, yet he moved so quickly—it was like watching art. I wrote down exactly what he was doing. The way he made the pork broth—letting it simmer with the ginger, the garlic, the spices, the seared pork. He said something which I roughly translated to, let it simmer for a day. The way he carefully seasoned the vegetables with a special salt that he got shipped in from the Rikuchu Coast, layering flavor throughout. When he finished, he handed me the piping hot bowl and a plate of cold noodles on the side. You’re meant to dip the noodles into the broth. Dipping ramen is what they call it. That was my inspiration for tonight’s meal for you, a little bit of Tokyo right here in Manhattan."
"I like that."
"Like what?"
"I like how you manage to find beauty and art in unlikely places. I like how excited you get about seemingly mundane things. Your passion for things … is palpable," And a huge turn-on , I think.
“That man making ramen is as much an artist as I am. His medium is just different.” After a pause he adds, “No one has said that to me before, by the way. It means something that you noticed.”
I shrug. “Noticing things is sort of an occupational hazard for me."
He reaches for my hand, intertwining our fingers. I am quickly reminded how his touch is like a spark plug. My pulse hums.
"I missed you." His eyes are fervid. "While I was in LA, I thought about you all the time. How is that possible?"
I hold his gaze. "I don't know. But I missed you, too."
We work our way through the ramen, and I catch him up on the latest news at the hospital, Murphy’s unfortunate new obsession with a cat who lives somewhere on my hall, and some of the antics of my field hockey players. He tells me about the mudslides that are threatening a lot of houses in LA, a new technique his sound engineer is trying on the album, and all the newest updates on Sid's health. The entire dinner is so enjoyable, so comfortable, I start to feel like I've known him forever.
We finish dinner, and I grab my glass of wine and wander over to the media console on the far side of the room while Matt deals with the dishes. The console houses a vintage record player and a record collection that rivals any store I’ve ever passed by. I look through, noting all the familiar names: Eric Clapton, John Coltrane, Joni Mitchell, Tom Petty, Jimi Hendrix, Etta James, and B.B. King, plus dozens I’ve never heard of before. I thumb through them, imagining a young Matt listening to records in his bedroom somewhere in Allentown, Pennsylvania, dreaming of what his life would be like one day.
I'm lost in my thoughts when I feel him behind me, solid and firm. He reaches beyond me to change the record. My every nerve stands at attention where his body lightly touches mine. His hips are against my back, his chest pressed against my shoulder blades. I take a few shallow breaths.
He grabs an album I don’t recognize and puts it on the turntable. A low, slinky beat comes thumping out over the Bluetooth speakers. A woman’s sultry voice sings and time stands still. I try to concentrate on the music and the feel of him.
Breathe.
He gently takes the wineglass from my hand and sets it down on the console. I lean back into him, and he wraps his arms around my shoulders. I hold on to his forearms with my hands and look at the veins that wrap around his muscles and at the tattoos full of intricate designs, bright colors, and dark lines—signs and symbols I don’t yet know the meaning of. The anticipation of this moment has been building from the first time I saw him. I want to pay attention. To feel everything.
We move together slowly, almost imperceptibly, with the beat of the music. I lean my head back against his shoulder, and I hear him suck in a breath. Every point of contact between us is on fire. Smoldering. A slow throb starts between my legs.
He holds me like this for a minute and then brushes my hair behind my shoulder as he bends down and plants the tiniest of kisses on my exposed neck. Goosebumps explode on my skin, and I have the distinct urge to sink my teeth into his forearms.
“I have been thinking about doing that since the moment we met,” he murmurs into my neck before biting my earlobe. The sensation flies down my spine.
I turn and face him, the top of my forehead barely reaching his chin. I look at his gorgeous brown eyes, framed by full, dark lashes, and glance at his mouth—those lips are beckoning me. I lean in, kissing him, pressing my body against his with a force that makes him rock back on his heels. Suddenly one of his hands is in my hair, at the base of my skull, a gentle tugging on the strands, his other hand on my cheek, holding me in place.
I feel it all—his lips and his tongue and his teeth—as we explore each other. The apartment is spinning around us, and I can’t get enough. I put my hands on his chest, so firm, so steady. I feel his heart pounding against my palms. He reaches around and grabs my ass, hard, yanking me closer to him so he can keep kissing my neck, my ears, my collarbone. My hands roam his body. I reach down and feel him—hard and straining against his pants.
“I want you. I want this,” I say softly as I grip him, feeling completely uninhibited, like I simply cannot help myself.
It dawns on me that I am no longer in control.
His eyes go almost black with desire.
"I want you too, Jules. So badly." He grabs my hand and pulls me toward his bedroom.
He dims the lights, and with a few clicks, a new song floods through the bedroom speakers. Something more modern. Familiar. Sexy. I stand next to the bed as he closes the door, and I try desperately to focus on the music, anything to stay grounded. The anticipation reaches a fever pitch. My mind shuts off as Matt walks toward me.
"You are so beautiful," he whispers as he kisses me slowly, passionately. My hands drift to the hem of his shirt.
“Take this off,” I beg.
He smiles the sexy half smile and pulls the shirt over his head. I see the tattoos on his chest, more symbols and shapes and colors. I trace them with my finger. He shivers.
We stand, kissing, and I feel like I could be here, doing this, forever. He gently pushes my shoulders so I sit down on the bed. He kneels in front of me and starts undressing me, pulling my top over my head, undoing the buttons of my jeans and tugging them down over my hips, my thighs, then tossing them into the corner. He kneels in front of me for a while, almost too long, and I can feel every single ounce of his attention focused on me like a laser.
“You are so unbelievably sexy,” he growls into my collarbone as he begins to slowly and systematically devour me. “I want to taste every. Single. Inch. Of. You.” His eyes flare.
He is not kidding. He lays me down and works his way over my body with his mouth, his tongue, his hands, and those mind-numbing, perfectly nimble fingers. He is thorough and so, so good—like an archaeologist unearthing the next wonder of the world. Every freckle, every scar, every painstaking detail of my body he takes in with his brown eyes, his pupils fully dilated and hungry.
I expect to feel self-conscious, but that is dwarfed by the sensation that I have been lit on fire. The desire between my legs is so powerful I can barely hear the music over the roar of the blood in my ears.
He finally makes his way south of my belly button, kissing and teasing me. I arch my neck and grab two handfuls of his thick hair, forcing his face to the place where I need him desperately.
“Someone is impatient.” He smiles into my thighs.
He starts slowly licking the slit over my panties. The silk and his tongue are overwhelming.
Finally, and all at once, he slides my panties to the side, closes his mouth around me, and plunges one and then a second of those skillful fingers inside me. I gasp and arch my hips against him instinctively. He pushes them back down. This man knows exactly what he is doing, and we both know it.
It does not take long.
I explode around him with such force I see stars. Wave after wave of pleasure courses through my body as Matt stays exactly where he is.
My body finally stills, and my heart rate begins to slow. I look down and watch Matt emerge from between my legs, a victorious smile on his face, which is now slick with me. I take the opportunity to sit up, unfasten his belt, and free him from the confines of his jeans. He springs out, long, thick, heavy, and wrapped in veins. My mouth waters at the pure masculinity. I stop for a minute to take him in—this beautiful man, with his perfect dick, standing completely naked in front of me.
“This is very, very nice,” I say, grabbing him in my hands, so warm and smooth. I lean forward to gently lick around the head—it feels like velvet in my mouth. He goes completely still, sucking air in between his teeth, eyes closed.
"Jesus Christ."
I spend some time licking him, his hands in my hair, and I find my own pleasure ramping back up simply from knowing how turned on he is.
He guides me to lie down on the bed, his arms outstretched as he hovers over me.
As confident as I felt a few moments ago, I am suddenly nervous. “I haven’t done this in a long time,” I say to him.
“How long?" he asks.
"Too long to keep track of."
"I’ll be gentle.” He kisses me sweetly.
He reaches toward his nightstand and pulls out a condom. He places it between his perfect lips, rips it out of the wrapper, and rolls it on in one easy motion. Just watching the grace and the ease with which he does this sends a new flood of moisture between my legs. He nudges my knees apart and settles himself above me.
I feel him waiting at my entrance, all the blood in my body rushing to the exact spot where I anticipate him.
Slowly, inch by inch, he slides inside of me.
He is gentle, as promised. I feel so full, so stretched by him—it’s almost painful but not. A mind-numbing pulse flows throughout me.
He finally gets his entire length inside of me and he stills, letting out a groan into the sheets.
“Fuck.”
I rock my hips against him to coax him along. He begins to move inside of me with slow, rhythmic movements.
The tension builds in me again, faster than I expected. Before I know it, I am at the edge, and I think he is, too.
“Matt," I pant. "I’m close.”
This is his undoing.
“ Fuck , Julia,” he moans as I feel him bury himself deep inside of me. I feel him pulsating over and over as I uncoil again.
He collapses next to me, breathing hard, hand draped lazily across my chest. I stare at the ceiling, completely speechless.
“Wow,” Matt breathes.
Wow is right . We both doze off in a naked heap, a sheet haphazardly covering us.
* * *
I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of soft music coming from the living room. I wrap myself in a blanket and pad out into the hallway.
I see Matt sitting on the couch in sweatpants and no shirt, strumming his guitar. I stand in the door frame and watch as he adjusts the strings and plays a few notes before readjusting. I know next to nothing about music and musicians, but even I can sense the connection he has to his guitar.
It looks like it is a part of him, like a limb or a vital organ. I watch his fingers traipse up and down the guitar strings, so quick, so sure of themselves. They may as well be in between my legs with the effect they have on me. Matt seems immersed in his thoughts, and I don't want to interrupt, so I tiptoe back to bed.
A few moments later, I feel him slide in beside me and tuck himself against me. I curl into him and rest my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as he traces circles on my back. Before I know it, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.