Part 3 (1/2)

”Ah,” I say. ”Well then I guess it's a good thing I didn't go to Yale.”

I gently pull away from him, turn, and get in my car. His warm laughter follows me as I make my exit.

I'm miles away before I realize he still has my blazer.

CHAPTER 4.

IT'S FRIDAY NIGHT. I cook dinner for Dave at my place on Friday nights. Always. It's a little ritual that erases some of the irksome uncertainty from our lives.

Now he sits at my dining room table eating rosemary chicken and steamed asparagus. A gla.s.s of white wine sits untouched by his plate.

”I've worked out a budget for the ring,” he says.

”A budget?”

”I was thinking we should spend around twelve thousand,” he suggests. ”Twelve thousand buys quality, not flash. We want to keep it real, right?”

I turn my gaze to the gla.s.s door leading to my backyard. Dave is always suggesting we keep things real, but he doesn't seem to actually know what the term means or how to properly apply it.

Do I? When Mr. Dade slid that ice cube up my thigh, when he kissed me in a place where Dave would never kiss me, when he teased me with the flick of his tongue . . . was that real? It had felt more real than anything. And at the same time it hadn't felt real at all.

I look back at the table. It's made of a dark-stained wood that's been polished to an inch of its life. It's solid, dependable, useful. It's real. Just like Dave.

Mr. Dade is the first man who has ever made me come while I was standing up. He's the first man who's ever seen me naked while he remained fully clothed. Even now I can see him, circling me, a.s.sessing, planning, wanting. . . .

I squirmed in my seat.

”Are you all right?” It's Dave's voice. The voice of caution and reason. The voice I should be listening to. ”You seem . . . agitated tonight.”

The word p.r.i.c.kles my skin. ”I have a new account . . . the biggest I've ever worked on. I suppose it . . . has me on edge.”

”G.o.d knows, I relate to that. I'm buried these days, too. You know how it is.”

I do. Dave's a tax attorney. Like me, he likes things he can count on, and you can always count on the overprivileged to cheat on their taxes. That's where Dave comes in. The rich give him the money they refuse to share with the IRS, and Dave makes their worries disappear.

As I watch him finish his meal, I realize that I want to be something he can count on. And I want him to make my worries vanish like the invisible money he hides away in tax shelters.

He eats his last bite and I stand up and walk behind him. My hands go to his shoulders and I begin to knead away the tension. ”Stay the night, Dave.”

”Hmm, I was planning on it.” He lifts the gla.s.s of wine to his mouth while I lift my fingers and run them through his blond hair. Moving in front of him I straddle his lap.

”I want you, Dave.”

”What's gotten into you?” he asks with a wary smile. The winegla.s.s goes back on the table.

I lean forward and let my teeth graze his earlobe. ”It's what I want to get into me that's important.”

He doesn't respond. His hands go hesitantly to the small of my back.

This could be good. This could be real.

”You don't need to be gentle with me tonight,” I whisper. Again my hand goes to his hair but this time I gather it in my fist and pull his head back so he's staring into my eyes. ”I want you to tear off my clothes. I want you to hold me down while you press inside.”

”Wait, you want . . .” His words fade off; I can feel his hands trembling against me.

”Mmm, I want a lot, ferocity, pa.s.sion, animalism. . . . Overpower me. Tonight I want to be wicked.” My voice is teasing and sweet. ”Dave, will you f.u.c.k me tonight?”

In an instant he's pushed me off of his lap; I have to reach for the table to steady myself as he leaps away from me.

”What's going on?” He appears disoriented and lost. ”This isn't you. You never talk like this.”

The sweetness is gone. His bewilderment is pus.h.i.+ng him toward anger.

He's looking at me with . . . disgust. ”You don't even swear!”

Shrinking back, I can feel the shame spiraling up my spine and taking hold of my heart. ”I was . . . I just thought . . .”

I wither under the hostility of his stare. The power I felt only a second ago is gone. ”I guess I'm just overtired,” I finish, lamely.

He hesitates. He knows that being tired doesn't explain anything at all but I can see he likes the simplicity of the excuse. He wants to accept it. ”You're overwhelmed at work,” he says carefully, testing his own ability to defy logic. ”That's always exhausting. I know how it is.”

”Yes,” I say, although my voice is so quiet, it's unclear if he can hear me.

”I think we should call it an early night after all.” He takes his jacket, pulls it on. His words are coming a little faster now as he implements his escape. ”Sleep is what you need. I'll be back at . . . shall we say eleven tomorrow morning? I have a list of jewelry stores we should start with.”

I nod. I can't speak. Not without crying. Dave wants to get away from the demon that briefly possessed me. He a.s.sumes it will slither away after I slip under the covers, alone in my bed.

He crosses to me again, and gives me a brief, gentlemanly kiss on the lips. It's the kiss of forgiveness.

My shame curls up my throat, choking me.

As he opens the door to leave, he turns back with a sympathetic smile. ”We'll want to go to several of these stores before we make a decision. Weigh our options and all that.”

Again, I nod.

”So don't forget to wear sensible shoes. I don't want you to be uncomfortable.”

He blows me a kiss just before the door closes behind him.

Gently, I pick up his winegla.s.s. I take a moment to appreciate the way the overhead lights make the pale liquid sparkle before I bring it to my lips. The taste is floral, sweet, pure. Angelic.

I let these notes play on my tongue before hurling the gla.s.s across the room.

I walk forward and step down on the mess I've made, enjoying the sound of shattered gla.s.s crunching beneath my sensible shoes.