Hooking Up
Page 46
“You make everything so . . .”
“Everything so what?”
“Real. Perfect. Endless. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to lose this.” I feel the pain of her words in my chest.
“I’m right here, going nowhere.” But she is, sooner than either of us want.
There’s nothing wild and untamed about the way we claim each other. It’s not fast and hard. It’s intimate and soft, it’s trust and gentleness. When she comes her eyes are on mine.
Afterward we go for a swim, followed by a bath. It’s late by the time we order dinner and later still when we climb back into bed again. I can feel her fear expanding with every passing hour. At three in the morning I watch her pack up all her sex toys. She rides me hard after that, desperation bringing back the wildness.
At four-thirty she curls into my side. “Set an alarm just in case I nap for too long,” she whispers.
She has to leave for the airport in two hours. I’m going with her. I stroke her hair and kiss her forehead. “For how long from now?”
“Half an hour.”
I set it for an hour. We’re both exhausted. Bodies spent. I feel her tears on my chest and I hold her tighter. “You want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head and sniffs. “I don’t want to go home.”
I kiss her forehead. “I know.”
“I wish I could play pretend a little longer.”
“Me, too. Then I could go anal on you again.” I make light of it, because if I don’t I’m going to say something I shouldn’t. Like telling her she should cancel her flight. That she should stay here with me until I go home—I have no set end date, we could stay here for weeks if she wanted to. I want to tell her it doesn’t have to end here. But I know it does. She has an estranged husband to deal with back in New York. One I’m related to. I’m an escape, not a long-term reality for Amalie.
She laughs but it ends on a soft sob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do this.”
“Do what?” There’s a tightness in my chest I don’t want to think too much about.
“Get emotional.”
I caress her cheek, wetness cooling my fingertips. “Can I help distract you?”
“I don’t know if my body can handle any more of your distractions.”
“I could just kiss you, wherever you want me to.”
She lifts her head, eyes shiny with tears she’s losing the fight against.
Amie taps my lips and then hers. “Start right here.”
So I do. I kiss her until the alarm goes off and our time runs out.
Seventeen: Alone and Lonely
Amie
“This is me.” I turn to Lex, who looks amazing and exhausted, the latter of which I’m sure is mirrored in me. Neither of us has slept, not even for a second. My lips are chapped, my body is sore, muscles aching and tight. My eyes are puffy and they feel like they have sand in them every time I blink.
He rolls my carry-on to a stop, which he insisted on being responsible for. This time it’s not full of sex toys, those are checked, so I won’t have to worry about being embarrassed while going through security.
He sweeps my hair over my shoulder and smiles. That’s his thing, I realize, the hair touching. He did it countless times last night. When we weren’t having sex, we were touching endlessly, like we were trying to fit in a lifetime of physical connection into those remaining hours.
“Thanks for making my honeymoon not suck.” I laugh at how awful that sounds. God, this is harder than I thought it would be. I can’t decide if I don’t want to go home because of what I have to face, or because I really don’t want to leave Lex, or if it’s a combination of both, or if one influences the other. My emotions are frayed like spliced wire.
“Thanks for making this the best work trip I’ve ever been forced to take.” He steps into me, wrapping me up in a tight hug.
I press my face into his chest, willing the tears not to come, but they do anyway. I should be out of them by now. My body shakes with the effort to silence the sob pushing its way up my throat. Lex’s lips brush my temple, his palm curving to cup the back of my head. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby, everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. You’re stronger than you realize.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“I know. I don’t want you to go either.” He tips my chin up. His eyes meet mine for the briefest moment before they fall closed, sealing his emotions behind them. Ones I recognize. Ones that feel all too familiar. He dips down to press a soft kiss to my lips.
I’m sure he means to keep it chaste, but the second we connect all the desperation comes bubbling to the surface, erupting like a volcano, and suddenly we’re devouring each other. I feel the loss of him in my chest already. I don’t want to walk away from this, but there’s no other choice. This isn’t love, this is lust and comfort, this is a diversion from a life I don’t want to go back to. These are the things I tell myself so I’ll be able to let him go.
I pull away first. His resigned sigh echoes in my heart. He presses his lips against my forehead and then releases me. When our eyes meet his gaze is void of emotion, as if he’s shut them all down, locked them away. I don’t know if I’m as successful at hiding the way I feel right now.
His voice is as flat as his expression. “Have a safe flight.”
My smile is forced, weak. “I will.”
“Bye, Amalie.” I like it better when he calls me Amie.
“Bye, Lex.” I grab the handle of my carry-on. My legs feel wooden as I walk toward the security check. Tears track down my cheeks and drop to my shirt faster than I can wipe them away. I don’t turn to see if he’s still there.
I don’t understand why it feels like my heart is cracking open in my chest. Or why this ending hurts so much worse than what Armstrong did to me.
My security check goes without incident. I sit in the lounge and order a breakfast that goes uneaten, my exhaustion so complete that all I can do is periodically lift the napkin in my lap to wipe away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s no relief in getting on the plane, just dread rooting itself deep in my stomach, making it roll.
An elderly woman who apparently doused herself in an entire bottle of perfume takes up the seat next to me. She seems rather preoccupied with my teary face and my constant sniffles, but my one-word responses eventually dissuade her from her continued questions and I’m able to close my eyes. The tears don’t stop for a long time, and my mind is spinning, but I finally fall asleep with the help of some sinus meds and a small bottle of champagne.
The eighteen-hour flight home seems to take twice as long, even though I sleep through a good portion of it. My eyes are puffy and swollen, so I cover them with sunglasses. Cold New York weather greets me after I’ve collected my bags. The dismal, dreary winter the perfect accompaniment to my somber mood.
My apartment is exactly how I left it; tidy, apart from a few papers on the counter and the checklist for the wedding stuck to the fridge. I tear down the list and the magnet keeping it there falls to the floor, breaking in two neat pieces. It’s a heart with Armstrong + Amalie written in the middle. I toss the fragments into the garbage, thinking about how it’s pretty much my life right now; fractured crap. I haven’t checked email once since I’ve been away, which was probably a bad idea, but then so was marrying Armstrong. Complete avoidance mode seemed easier than dealing with life for the past three weeks.
“Everything so what?”
“Real. Perfect. Endless. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to lose this.” I feel the pain of her words in my chest.
“I’m right here, going nowhere.” But she is, sooner than either of us want.
There’s nothing wild and untamed about the way we claim each other. It’s not fast and hard. It’s intimate and soft, it’s trust and gentleness. When she comes her eyes are on mine.
Afterward we go for a swim, followed by a bath. It’s late by the time we order dinner and later still when we climb back into bed again. I can feel her fear expanding with every passing hour. At three in the morning I watch her pack up all her sex toys. She rides me hard after that, desperation bringing back the wildness.
At four-thirty she curls into my side. “Set an alarm just in case I nap for too long,” she whispers.
She has to leave for the airport in two hours. I’m going with her. I stroke her hair and kiss her forehead. “For how long from now?”
“Half an hour.”
I set it for an hour. We’re both exhausted. Bodies spent. I feel her tears on my chest and I hold her tighter. “You want to talk about it?”
She shakes her head and sniffs. “I don’t want to go home.”
I kiss her forehead. “I know.”
“I wish I could play pretend a little longer.”
“Me, too. Then I could go anal on you again.” I make light of it, because if I don’t I’m going to say something I shouldn’t. Like telling her she should cancel her flight. That she should stay here with me until I go home—I have no set end date, we could stay here for weeks if she wanted to. I want to tell her it doesn’t have to end here. But I know it does. She has an estranged husband to deal with back in New York. One I’m related to. I’m an escape, not a long-term reality for Amalie.
She laughs but it ends on a soft sob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to do this.”
“Do what?” There’s a tightness in my chest I don’t want to think too much about.
“Get emotional.”
I caress her cheek, wetness cooling my fingertips. “Can I help distract you?”
“I don’t know if my body can handle any more of your distractions.”
“I could just kiss you, wherever you want me to.”
She lifts her head, eyes shiny with tears she’s losing the fight against.
Amie taps my lips and then hers. “Start right here.”
So I do. I kiss her until the alarm goes off and our time runs out.
Seventeen: Alone and Lonely
Amie
“This is me.” I turn to Lex, who looks amazing and exhausted, the latter of which I’m sure is mirrored in me. Neither of us has slept, not even for a second. My lips are chapped, my body is sore, muscles aching and tight. My eyes are puffy and they feel like they have sand in them every time I blink.
He rolls my carry-on to a stop, which he insisted on being responsible for. This time it’s not full of sex toys, those are checked, so I won’t have to worry about being embarrassed while going through security.
He sweeps my hair over my shoulder and smiles. That’s his thing, I realize, the hair touching. He did it countless times last night. When we weren’t having sex, we were touching endlessly, like we were trying to fit in a lifetime of physical connection into those remaining hours.
“Thanks for making my honeymoon not suck.” I laugh at how awful that sounds. God, this is harder than I thought it would be. I can’t decide if I don’t want to go home because of what I have to face, or because I really don’t want to leave Lex, or if it’s a combination of both, or if one influences the other. My emotions are frayed like spliced wire.
“Thanks for making this the best work trip I’ve ever been forced to take.” He steps into me, wrapping me up in a tight hug.
I press my face into his chest, willing the tears not to come, but they do anyway. I should be out of them by now. My body shakes with the effort to silence the sob pushing its way up my throat. Lex’s lips brush my temple, his palm curving to cup the back of my head. “Shhh, it’s okay, baby, everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine. You’re stronger than you realize.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“I know. I don’t want you to go either.” He tips my chin up. His eyes meet mine for the briefest moment before they fall closed, sealing his emotions behind them. Ones I recognize. Ones that feel all too familiar. He dips down to press a soft kiss to my lips.
I’m sure he means to keep it chaste, but the second we connect all the desperation comes bubbling to the surface, erupting like a volcano, and suddenly we’re devouring each other. I feel the loss of him in my chest already. I don’t want to walk away from this, but there’s no other choice. This isn’t love, this is lust and comfort, this is a diversion from a life I don’t want to go back to. These are the things I tell myself so I’ll be able to let him go.
I pull away first. His resigned sigh echoes in my heart. He presses his lips against my forehead and then releases me. When our eyes meet his gaze is void of emotion, as if he’s shut them all down, locked them away. I don’t know if I’m as successful at hiding the way I feel right now.
His voice is as flat as his expression. “Have a safe flight.”
My smile is forced, weak. “I will.”
“Bye, Amalie.” I like it better when he calls me Amie.
“Bye, Lex.” I grab the handle of my carry-on. My legs feel wooden as I walk toward the security check. Tears track down my cheeks and drop to my shirt faster than I can wipe them away. I don’t turn to see if he’s still there.
I don’t understand why it feels like my heart is cracking open in my chest. Or why this ending hurts so much worse than what Armstrong did to me.
My security check goes without incident. I sit in the lounge and order a breakfast that goes uneaten, my exhaustion so complete that all I can do is periodically lift the napkin in my lap to wipe away the tears that won’t stop falling. There’s no relief in getting on the plane, just dread rooting itself deep in my stomach, making it roll.
An elderly woman who apparently doused herself in an entire bottle of perfume takes up the seat next to me. She seems rather preoccupied with my teary face and my constant sniffles, but my one-word responses eventually dissuade her from her continued questions and I’m able to close my eyes. The tears don’t stop for a long time, and my mind is spinning, but I finally fall asleep with the help of some sinus meds and a small bottle of champagne.
The eighteen-hour flight home seems to take twice as long, even though I sleep through a good portion of it. My eyes are puffy and swollen, so I cover them with sunglasses. Cold New York weather greets me after I’ve collected my bags. The dismal, dreary winter the perfect accompaniment to my somber mood.
My apartment is exactly how I left it; tidy, apart from a few papers on the counter and the checklist for the wedding stuck to the fridge. I tear down the list and the magnet keeping it there falls to the floor, breaking in two neat pieces. It’s a heart with Armstrong + Amalie written in the middle. I toss the fragments into the garbage, thinking about how it’s pretty much my life right now; fractured crap. I haven’t checked email once since I’ve been away, which was probably a bad idea, but then so was marrying Armstrong. Complete avoidance mode seemed easier than dealing with life for the past three weeks.
