Sex Love Repeat
Page 5

‘Just a minute,” I mutter, throwing my bag over my shoulder and zig-zagging through the crowd. Then I pulled on the handle and stepped into the bar.
A woman should be dressed properly to go into battle. But I wasn’t expecting to confront Stewart’s Barbie Doll this morning. I was only hoping to see Paul. So I had worn an outfit Paul would recognize me in. I could envision the exact moment when he saw me. How his eyes would light up and he would toss an arm over my shoulder, a soft kiss snuck in and placed on my cheek. And, in that moment, everything would be perfect. He would understand that I still love him. That I will always love him—no matter what. And he will hug me and tell me that he loves me too. That he will allow me to be a part of his life once again.
So I wore a suit, my normal skin for work and my non-existent social life. Paul would recognize a suit. It would stand out on the boardwalk. Cause him to stare a little longer, long enough to see my face and know that it was me. But now, walking into the bar filled with flip flops and tan bodies, I wish that I had at least worn my good heels. Prada would help me have the confidence to approach this woman. Prada would hold my hand and whisper in my ear that I am cool enough, hip enough, to approach this woman who is probably ten years my junior.
My eyes take a moment to adjust to the dark, neon lights coming into focus, the floor beneath my heels sticky. Only two figures at the bar, neither which were blond. The bartender, a redhead pixie who shoulda worn sunscreen earlier in life, raised her chin at me. “What’cha need?”
My palms are suddenly clammy and I wipe them down the front of my skirt, trying to think of some plausible need for my presence. “Do you have a restroom?”
She pops her gum, the crude, loud crack grating my nerves. “It’s outside, past the bookstore. Down that hall.” She points, and my eyes follow the path to a dingy hall, just past an open doorway. Glossy paperbacks are stacked on either side of the door, on wooden chairs that seem to sag beneath their weight. Curiosity makes my eyes linger, the reggae music from inside draws me closer to the door.
An arm chooses to snake out the door, startling me, coming from the height of a small child, pushing a heavy hardback out the door until it bumps into an adjoining stack. I step forward, peering inside, and see Stewart’s blonde sitting, cross-legged on the floor, books stacked all around her. She works here. The realization that she is not a barfly is relieving. I step backward but her head snaps up, and our eyes meet for one terrifying moment.
She smiles. “Please don’t leave. I can turn the music off if it bothers you.”
“Oh no – it doesn’t bother me.” I wipe my annoyingly sweaty hands on my skirt, trying to find my mindset. Why had I come in here? What was my ball-busting plan of attack? Suddenly, my lack of designer shoes seemed to be the least of my poor planning. “I was just looking for the bathroom.”
She frowns regretfully, a ridiculously adorable gesture that made me want to throttle her. “Damn. I was hoping for a reader. It’s been crickets today.” She stands, brushing off her shorts, leaving the pile of books behind. “Want me to show you the way?”
“No, it’s okay.” I glance around. It’s a small space, a few rows squeezed into a small room lined with floor to ceiling shelves, shiny new books squeezed next to worn paperbacks with broken spines.
“I know that look. What’s your weakness? Steamy billionaires with foot-long junk? Or a serial killer taking out half the women in Mississippi?” She shoots me a wicked grin, winking conspiratorially.
I blush, hating the smile that is fighting its way to my face. This is not how this is supposed to go. She shouldn’t be cute, or likable. I had expected upper crust, snooty, digging perfectly manicured fingers as far into Stewart’s money pile as they could possibly go. “Janet Evanovich.”
“Oooh! I knew I liked you.” She jogs past me, humming along with the music as she drags a stool over to a shelf and stands, reaching up and trotting her fingers over titles. “You want the latest?”
“Sure.”
“Have you read Stephanie Bond?”
I glance around the store, trying to pick up clues in the brief moment of her distraction. “Uhh.... No.”
She jumps off the stool, crouching down briefly and skimming over a second shelf, snatching a quick book from the rack and tilting her head towards the register. “Anything else before I ring you up?”
I shake my head, reaching into my pocket for some cash.
“If you like Evanovich, you gotta check out Bond too.” She held up the second book. “It’s used, so I’m gonna toss it in no charge. Just ignore the worn pages. She is freakin’ awesome. If you get a chance,” she shrugs. “Check it out.”
I smile, counting out bills and passing them over. “Thank you—I will.”
She bags the books and walks around the counter, handing me the green plastic bag with a smile. “Thanks for coming in. You want me to show you to the bathroom?”
Right. My imaginary need to pee. I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks for the book.”
I take a right out of the store, walking down the dim hall and locking myself in the dirty bathroom, standing in the middle of the germ-infested space and trying not to touch anything. I take a deep breath and try to relax. Two minutes later, I use a paper towel to flush the toilet and open the door handle. I avoid looking into the bookstore, walking quickly through the dark bar and back into the bright light. The bench where I sat with Shannon is empty, a pink post-it stuck to her spot, an intense frowny face drawn on it in blue ballpoint pen. I glance around, seeing no sign of her, and crumple the sticky note, dumping my coffee into the trash and casting one, final look for Paul. Then me, and my green bag of deception, left the sandy boardwalk of Venice Beach.
VENICE BEACH, CA
MADISON
I am, for the next two years and three months, sterile. Then it will be time to pull out the hormone implant in my arm and replace it with a fresh one, and I can make that humongous decision again. To have a kid or not to have a kid. That is the question. It was an easy decision two years ago. But I am already waffling now. In two years I will probably be beside myself with the hefty choice. In a way, choosing a kid will be like choosing between my boys. It will be a conversation I will have to have with both of them, and I can already foresee their stance on it. Stewart won’t have time for a child, and will tell me so without hesitation. Any financial obligation he would support. But anything more... I’d be on my own. It’s just the facts of his life. Paul will ask what makes me happy. And whatever I say, he will go with. It is how our relationship has always been. He does what makes me happy. It is why he accepts the f**ked up threesome that we currently live. While Stewart wants me to have a second man to keep me off the streets, to keep me from being lonely, to keep me in his life – Paul accepts that I have a second man because it was what he signed up for. And now, as in the beginning, he’d rather have half of me than none of me.
Paul and my first experience, under the Santa Monica pier, led to dinner—meat lovers pizza under the dim lights of Joe’s, cold beers downed, our bare legs brushing under the slanted brick bartop, knowing smiles exchanging space with flirtatious looks.
I thought that’d be it, but he persisted, got my number, called the next day. Showed up at the bookstore and pestered me till he snagged a second date. He didn’t have to work too hard. I knew who he was, had wandered down to the surf after Bip went oh-my-god-that’s-Paul-Linx crazy, spilling words like ‘surfing god’ and ‘sweetheart’ as if he was onceinalifetime special. I sat on the beach, sand smudging up my dress and sticking to my skin, and watched him on his board, watched the speed and dare of his ride, and let my mind wander down the what if road. What if I went on a second, then third, then fourth date? What about Stewart? What about his idea of a second, consistent boyfriend? Could I bring up that scenario? And if I did, how would Paul respond?
I watched him, admired the flex of muscles as he crouched, then jumped into the water, emerging with a big smile, his gaze catching and lingering on me in the sand, a question of recognition in his eyes. Then he waved, the smile broadening, and I waved, and I knew I would have to try.
I broached the subject on our fourth date, at which point I had grown a little attached to his quick smile and always-ready cock. I waited till after sex, when we were stretched out on his bed, his hand running gently down the line of my back, the room quiet, save our contented breaths.
“Bring many girls here?” I teased, the words playful, the thoughtful look he gave me not.
He reached over, dragging me atop him, till my head rested on his chest, my bare br**sts on his stomach. “Not since I met you.”
“Well that’s an impressive feat,” I joked. “Seeing as we’ve screwed in this bed ... What? Three of the last four days?” I pushed up with my arms, crawling forward with my legs and sitting, straddling him. I tucked my hair behind my ear. “No girlfriend’s clothes hanging in that closet?” I tilted my head to the door—an accordion-style set that was probably, ten years earlier, painted white.
He stretched back his arms, locking them behind his head and studied me, his face serious. “Why would you be here if I have a girlfriend?”
I shrugged. “Maybe she’s busy. Out of town.” His eyes follow me, staying on my face. “Maybe she doesn’t care.”
“I wouldn’t be with someone if they didn’t care,” he said softly.
My eyes, which had been tracing the lines of his chest, his shoulders, the muscles enhanced by his position, finally came to his eyes, blue I had been avoiding as I attempted to find words that were unspeakable. “I ... have someone ...” His abs tensed underneath me, and his hands loosened beneath his head, his face tightening as he listened. “Someone I date—it’s not an exclusive thing.” I rush out the words, watching his features relax a bit. “He doesn’t care. I mean, he cares, but he doesn’t mind me dating other people. He’s too busy for a full-time relationship.”
“And?”
My eyes pulled back to his, surprised at the resolve behind him, the insistence to wait out this conversation until it reached final destination. I grimaced, and pulled the bandaid off with one, painful rip, anxious to get it out and move the hell on.
“This guy ... he’s a part of my life. I love him. I just wanted to put it out there. I don’t know what you’re looking for, if it’s a f**k buddy or—“
“I want a relationship,” he interrupted me, his face unreadable, and I fidgeted slightly on his hips.
It was too early to ask him the question, but I was already there, and he was waiting. Waiting while I was treading water, trying to figure out whether to dive deeper or swim for shore. Wondering if Stewart was worth this headache while knowing, before my mouth even opens, that he was. “With me? I know it’s early to ask that but—“
“Yes. I want a relationship with you.” His voice was quiet but firm, his hands sliding up my legs and stopping on my thighs. He looked at me as if he was completely in control of his emotions, utterly sure at the words that came out of his mouth. I yearned for that resolution, for that decision-making ability that he seemed to so cavalierly hold.
“I’m not available,” I whispered. “Not fully. I do want a relationship with you. And it’d be exclusive ... except for him. If we dated, he would still be in my life. That’s something you’d have to be okay with.”
His face darkened, his hands tightening slightly on my skin. “You’d date both of us?”
I nodded silently, unable to look away from the train wreck that was occurring between our eyes. “I love him,” I said simply. I did. I had fallen for Stewart quickly, despite the gaps of time that kept us apart, despite the little that I saw him. He just ... stayed with me. And it felt like every man I was with, every other touch I felt, was just a hollow substitute till I could have him again. Until Paul. Paul’s touch, Paul’s smile. It tugged at me in a new way. And I hoped, desperately, as I straddled him in that rundown duplex, a siren sounding one street over, that he would understand. That he would agree.
He didn’t agree. I could see the fight on his face, the inner turmoil that pulled him this way or that. He sighed, sitting up, our position changing, and wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me tightly to him, crushing my br**sts against the muscle of his chest, his lips putting one soft kiss on my neck. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Madd.”
It was the first time he called me that. I liked hearing it on his lips, even if it was attached to such a horrid decision. I left his place fifteen minutes later, wanting, hoping, he would say the nickname again. Hoping I would hear it roll off his tongue one last time. But he didn’t. He only hugged me close, kissed the top of my head, and studied my eyes, as if he could find out some secret answer that lay in their depths.
The second time I heard the nickname was one week later, when he showed up at the bookstore, his face flushed, his eyes intense, and told me that he changed his mind.
“I don’t like it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, biting his bottom lip with a look of raw need that had me gripping the paperback in my hand a little tighter. “But ... I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. If it’s what you want ... what you need. I’ll give it a try.”
We celebrated our new union right then, right there, pushing books aside and closing the doors, and he lowered me to the floor, his mouth frantic on me, ownership in every touch of his hands.
I think he was surprised at how easy it turned out to be. The seamless union our lives took. The separation played a big part in that. The separation of my two worlds. That was, and still is, the key that keeps this whole production running.