Bend (18 page)

Near my ear, her breathing starts to slow, puffs of heat fanning the skin on my neck. I’m still inside her, still holding her, and I close my eyes and inhale her scent. Memorize it. And I know that, no matter where this is going, no matter what happens between us and how far apart we are, I’ll remember it and think that this, this is the smell of heaven. It’s the smell of joy and sex and satisfaction—and of Mia being mine.

She stirs and presses her lips against my neck. Shuddering, I tighten my hold on her, closing my eyes as she kisses a trail upward and takes my earlobe between her teeth, gently grazing.

Her voice intimate and teasing, she whispers, “
Now
are you ready to eat?”

“W
ow,” Jay says after he takes the first bite of the food on his plate, the sweet potato breakfast skillet with veggies and bacon and sunny-side-up eggs that I’d made before he came over and was keeping warm in the oven. “This is really good.”

We’re sitting across from each other on the tall chairs at my round, counter-height dining table, our plates on rust-colored placemats with matching cloth napkins, white wine in our glasses, and the flames from taper candles casting a soft glow over the corner just beyond my kitchen.

No, the candles aren’t to set a romantic mood. The recessed light in the cathedral ceiling above burned out a few days ago, and I haven’t worked up the energy to change it, so without the candles it’d be way too dark in here.

“Thanks,” I tell him. “Found the recipe on Pinterest, and I just modified it a little.” I glance at him as I say it, and I’m pretty sure I sound sincere. Praise for my cooking is really praise for my grandma, who started having me help her in the kitchen as soon as I could hold a spatula, but it still warms my heart. Especially when it comes from Jay.

But tonight, and for the past two days, it’s been hard to feel much of anything besides tired and weighed down, like I’m dragging an anchor around. Getting that text from Jay earlier was the first time the load lightened since Wednesday, possibly the shittiest day of my life—maybe surpassed only by the day Matt smashed my heart to pieces.

When Jay showed up on my doorstep, looking so big and solid and fuckable, and when he started kissing me, I forgot everything except him. And that worked so well, but it didn’t last. The funk returned as soon as I climbed off of him and put my underwear back on. Which kind of made me feel like I was using him, like Angela was suggesting.

Not that he wasn’t perfectly willing to be used.

“Guess I should have you cook me breakfast for dinner more often,” he comments between mouthfuls, and my smile in response is just a twitch at the corners of my mouth.

“How about just breakfast for breakfast?” I scoop up a heap of food and lift it to my mouth. It feels like a lump of nothing on my tongue. I know it has a good flavor, but my taste buds aren’t in the mood to acknowledge it.

“Yeah.” Jay sets down his fork and takes a quick drink of wine, his glacier-blue eyes sharp on me while he tips the glass against his lips. “That reminds me. We should probably lay down some rules.”

I swallow a sigh. Why does he have to make everything so complicated?

“Like what?” To my own ears my voice sounds testy, which isn’t intentional.

“If this is going to work, we need boundaries.” He looks at me intently while he says this, elbows on the table and arms spread out, not touching food or drink—not doing anything except focusing on me.

I guess that means this is important, and I need to pay attention.

So…boundaries? What does that even mean?

“Like a Fight Club thing?” I ask, squinting at him. “But it’d be Fuck Club, wouldn’t it? And the first rule is—”

“You don’t talk about it,” he interrupts. His brows are pinched and his eyes hard.

Yeah, he didn’t think my comment was funny. That’s okay; it wasn’t really a joke.

He drops back in his chair. “That’s actually a good place to start.”

Don’t talk about the fact that I’m sleeping with Jay? Fine. Whatever.

Except I already did, didn’t I? Crap.

“Oops,” I say, wincing.

“Seriously?” he bursts out after a short silence. “Who did you tell?”

“Just Angela. From work?” I throw him an apologetic look. “Sorry. But she doesn’t know anyone you know, so there’s that, at least.”

He just stares at me, stares so long that I start feeling like I’ve got needles in my stomach, and then he delivers a flat, “Yeah. Great.”

Ducking my head to avoid his obvious disgust—which I suppose I deserve—I notice that somehow I’ve managed to eat most of my food. I set my fork down, deciding I’m full enough, and take a drink of wine. The Pinot Grigio glides smoothly over my tongue, light and tangy with a hint of citrus, and it’s the only thing that tastes good to me right now.

“Got any more rules?” I ask, eyeing him over the top of my glass.

He finishes chewing before he answers, “We don’t stay over or leave any of our stuff at each other’s apartments.”

Uh. What?
I almost ask if he’s serious, but the answer is written in his expression. The boundaries thing makes so much more sense all of a sudden. He’s drawing a line in the sand. And apparently keeping a toothbrush and clean underwear at my place is crossing it.

“Okay,” I say, shrugging because it’s not worth arguing over. Emptying my glass, I reach for the bottle and give myself a refill. Then I hold it tilted over Jay’s glass and give him a questioning look. He declines with a quick shake of his head.

I lean back, holding my wineglass to my chest. No sense in setting it down only to pick it right back up again, is there? I start running my fingertip around the edge of it, making a faint humming sound. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Just one more thing…” He gives his right cheek a quick scratch, and then he crosses his arms over his chest.

Defensive posture.

Uh-oh. What now?

“Are we allowed to have sex with other people?” he asks like he’s in a hurry to get the words out.

Oh, what the hell? Did he really just ask me that? My grip on my cup tightens, and involuntarily, my thighs clench together. My thighs, between which I can feel that my underwear is still damp and sticky. Not from me. From him. Because barely half an hour ago, he came inside me. And now, while I’m sitting here with his cum still leaking out of me—which
I do not mind
—he asks me if he can fuck other women?

That
I do mind.

“No,” I snap. “Absolutely not. Are you kidding me?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “But if we’re just friends with benefits...?”

My scoff comes from deep in my throat. “I don’t share towels with strangers at the gym. Or share drink straws with the people at the next table in a restaurant.”

His tone flat, he asks, “So we have to be monogamous because anything else is too gross?”

“Uh-huh,” I reply.
And because if another woman touches you, I’d have to claw the bitch’s eyes out.
I decide to keep that thought to myself. “Is that a problem?”

It’s his turn to shrug, but the casual gesture doesn’t gel with the quiet and measuring way he’s watching me. “Just figure it’s best to know where we stand is all.”

’Kay, then.
“Yeah, it’s pretty simple. You want to screw someone else, you tell me.”

His gaze sparks with something I can’t identify, something that makes me want to squirm in my chair, and his voice is gruff as he asks, “And then what, Mia?”

“Then we’re done,” I answer simply, and I’m pretty confident that I sound calm about it, but in my chest my heart is pounding painfully. No, Jay is not my boyfriend. He’s not, and I know that.
I. Know. That.
I don’t even want him to be.

But he of all people should understand how I feel about this. He knows what a wreck I was after Matt cheated and left. In fact, he was so pissed on my behalf that right in the middle of midterms, he packed up all his stuff and moved to a different dorm room, choosing to live with a stranger with unknown quirks and habits rather than stay with the guy who’d been his friend for nearly three years. Because that guy was a piece of shit who’d broken my heart.

Jay kept it cool, though. Even when he’s furious, you kind of have to know him to notice. I’ve fantasized over the years about Jay losing it and punching Matt in the nose. There’s always a lot of blood in that daydream; I’ve never been squeamish about blood. Too bad that’s not how Jay rolls. I’ve never known him to be any other way than he is now: self-restrained, level-headed, and laid-back. He turns his anger inward. Which is maybe not the healthiest way to live.

So yeah. I’m not sharing Jay. Now he knows, and I’m not entirely sure why he asked, because my answer didn’t seem to bother him at all.

Without a word, he gets to his feet, grabs his plate and glass, and takes them into the kitchen. I pick up mine, as well, and follow him. While he opens the dishwasher and begins filling it, I lean against the counter next to the fridge. Clenching my hands on the edge of the counter, hesitating.

I really should ask him about going to my grandma’s party now. It hasn’t been on my mind that much—the events after she called on Wednesday kind of derailed me—but it’s still hovering at the back of my mind that it’d be so, so easy to just
not
mention it to him. Telling my family he couldn’t come because he had to work wouldn’t stretch anyone’s credulity.

But telling white lies for your own comfort is pretty immature. Part of being a grown-up is cutting that shit out. I have to remind myself of that way too often, it seems.

“So…” I begin while Jay is scraping the small amount of food left on my plate into the garbage disposal in the sink, “is there a rule about attending family events?”

While placing the plate in the dishwasher, he looks at me sideways and asks, “Why?”

I quickly explain about the change in plans for my grandma’s party in two weeks and his invitation.

He straightens, his eyes unreadable. “She specifically said she wanted me to come?”

“My grandma really likes you,” I point out. “My whole family does.”

Jay bends to close the dishwasher door, but not before I catch the slight grimace on his face. “I’m not so sure about your dad.”

“He just likes intimidating people. Loves making people squirm.” I pick the dirty skillet up from the stove and start taking it to the sink, but Jay plucks it out of my hand, and I step back and let him. It’s the only thing left to clean, since I washed everything else while waiting for him to come over.

While he scrubs the pan, I continue on the topic of my dad, “If you’d heard half of the stuff he says to Paige’s husband about doing criminal defense… And he still picks on me for becoming a nurse instead of going for an MD. I guess I’m the underachiever in the family.”

“What?” Jay throws a sharp look at me over his shoulder as he rinses the soap off the skillet. “That’s horseshit.”

“Yeah, and I’d tell him that if he really meant it. But he doesn’t.” It’s hard to explain my dad to anyone outside the family. A softhearted puppy with a big bark would be a start, but no one is that two-dimensional.

While Jay puts the clean pan on my drying rack, I clear my throat and say, “So should I tell my mom you’re coming?”

Toweling off his hands, he watches me narrowly. Stays quiet for a while, making me edgy, antsy. He sounds a tad peevish when he finally says, “Will you be able to follow rule number one?”