Page 81 of Love Lessons
I don’t ask who said that. I guess it’s none of my business. But it makes me angry anyway. “Scars are part of life. I got a few.” I point to a scar on my shoulder where I got cut by a skate blade while playing pond hockey as a teenager.
“Men are supposed to be battle-worthy,” she points out. “Women are supposed to be smooth and lovely.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then I stop myself. Because I bet it’s true. There are lots of people who’d tell her so, anyway. And they never say that shit to me, so I don’t really get to dispute the point. “Nobody is smooth and lovely all the time,” I say instead. “And if they are, we don’t like them very much.”
Vera suddenly cracks a smile. “Agreed.”
“If I shut up now, can I make love to you?”
She laughs softly. “Anytime you’re ready.”
I take her hands in mine, and I move them onto my chest. And then—without further discussion—I slide home.
“Oh,” she says, her mouth falling open as I enter her. Then she moans as her body surrenders to mine.
This time I make myself go slowly. We’re running out of time together. I can make this last.
So I draw it out as long as I can. But I’m not used to so much raw connection—all that eye contact and deep, deep kisses.
I’m supposed to be the teacher here—the one who knows what he’s doing. But when she whispers my name, I’m lost.
And I don’t even think I care.
* * *
Sometime later weboth collapse in her bed. Sleeping together is something I’ve gotten used to in a hurry. My eyes always fall closed with remarkable speed.
But not so quickly that I don’t have time to grab my phone one more time and look for news of the trade.
Nothing yet. Just a text from O’Doul.Stay cool, he says.
As if.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I Don’t Groove on Pageantry
VERA
After our epic sex fest,I lie awake for a while, my mind too busy to sleep.
Ian is passed out next to me, breathing deeply. His handsome face is serene against the pillow. One of his legs lies against mine, as if trying to hold onto the powerful connection we found earlier.
Or maybe I just wish that were true.
On our first day in Italy, I’d told the other women that I wasn’t a vacation-fling kind of person. And—in spite of the naked evidence at hand—that’s still true. Flings confuse me. I’m confused right now.
I’d told Ian that I didn’t really understand sex, and he’d quickly proven me wrong. At least I understand it better now than I ever have before. But now that I know how good it can be, I don’t quite know what to do with that information. I don’t know how you go from staring into someone’s eyes and moaning his name to waving hello as you pass on the sidewalk.
The way Ian makes me feel is like a miracle. And it seems wrong to throw miracles away.
Except he’s wrong for me in so many other ways. We don’t care about the same things in life. We argue constantly. And—most crucially—he doesn’t date. Staying with him was never an option.
And then there’s Danforth. I never got over him. I never made peace with the way we ended. We had plans together. I still remember all the things we said we’d do together.
I still want all those things—the coop apartment we were going to save up for. The dog we agreed we’d adopt when we both had good jobs. The restaurants on our endless list that we never got to try.
The apology he never gave me.I’m sorry, Vera. What was I thinking? You’re the perfect woman for me.
