Falling (12 page)

She was swiped by a handsome artist who lived downtown. Naturally. He was in his late twenties, and confessed to always being drawn to older women, which threw Emma slightly, for she didn't consider someone in her midthirties an older woman. They went to the bar of a basement restaurant in the West Village, where he was greeted by the hostess, the bartender, and even the manager, who came out from the back to give him a bro hug.

They sat at the bar and had dirty martinis, two for her, three for him. They talked about nothing very important, but he was good-looking, and young, and his interest in her made her feel desirable and beautiful. It had been a while since she had felt desirable and beautiful. Attention from the lecherous men with whom she worked didn't count—that was all part of the game.

She couldn't see herself with this Tinder man in any meaningful way, but the attention was flattering, and easy. Toward the end of her second martini, she began to feel like Mrs. Robinson. How old must Mrs. Robinson have been? Much older than thirty-five. In her late forties, at least, thought Emma, picturing Anne Bancroft in the film, her age indeterminate, a young and gorgeous Katharine Ross as Elaine.
She was much older than me,
thought Emma, looking at the bloom of smooth skin on the artist's cheek,
but I think I now know how she felt.

“Want to come back to my place for a . . . coffee?” murmured the artist, after he had kissed her, at the bar, in full view of everyone, his tongue snaking into her mouth in a way that was both embarrassing and exciting.

She knew that coffee was not on the agenda, and she nodded. Why not? It would be something new for her.

Emma was not the sort of girl to have a one-night stand, had never, in fact,
had
a one-night stand. Emma was a good girl, a rule-follower. The only rule she had ever broken was not marrying Rufus. It was high time she did something unexpected.

So, yes, she would go back with him; yes, she knew coffee would be forgotten once they walked into his loft; no, they didn't have enormous chemistry. His kissing, in fact, was very . . . enthusiastic.
Too
enthusiastic. And wet. There was no buildup, no excitement, no anticipation; one minute his face was in front of hers, the next his tongue was plunging around her mouth.
That's okay,
she thought; that didn't mean the sex itself would be awful. Maybe it would be wonderful, despite the bad kissing. Why not have wonderful sex with someone young and handsome, and fun?

She should have listened to her feelings about the kiss. For she soon learned, a bad kisser was not a good start. A rough, wet, overenthusiastic kisser meant a rough, wet, overenthusiastic everything.

Emma did go back to his apartment, where he threw her on the bed in a way that he perhaps thought was dominant and sexy but was in fact the opposite. His tongue was too big, his touch too impersonal. There was no chemistry, and it was too late. Emma felt too guilty to get up and leave.

It was, thankfully, quick. She spent the few minutes it lasted thinking about a pair of shoes she had passed on the way to meet him, wondering whether they would go with a white dress she had hanging in her closet. As soon as it was over he grabbed his iPhone from the nightstand and started reading texts. She watched as he hovered over the Tinder app, and she started laughing.

“You're actually going to swipe
now
? Seconds after you've finished having sex with someone?”

At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. She left, vowing
not to have regrets. She had tried Tinder, and clearly it was not for her. The sex was definitely not for her.

Not long after, when she found herself out with a group of women, all talking about Tinder and their sexual escapades, she was gratified to discover she wasn't alone. Most of them were disappointed, complained that sex was a commodity, felt disposable. There was no intimacy, they agreed, and worse, no pretense or effort at giving them pleasure.

And yet these women kept doing it, addicted to the swiping, to being swiped, to the possibility that one of the swipes might, just might, turn into something more. Not necessarily a relationship but, at the very least, great sex.

Not Emma, though. She deleted the app from her phone. No sex at all was better than selfish sex. She threw her energy into her work (and bought a small, discreet vibrator online).

Until now. Until Dominic, who has made her heart smile these past few weeks. She hasn't thought about him much, hasn't allowed herself to think about him, because the two of them seemed so mismatched, from such different cultures and classes, but there is no question she has a warm glow of happiness whenever he is around.

They have become friends, with an ease and openness that Emma isn't quite sure she has experienced before. With that friendship, she has found herself looking at him, with something she refuses to recognize as lust.

But it is lust. Oh God. It is definitely lust.

He doesn't stop looking at her as he moves inside her, Emma's legs wrapped around his back, her hands moving over his arms, his shoulders, his chest. He dips his head to kiss her, over and over, smiling, watching her face as she feels an orgasm beginning to build, tipping
her head back and moaning as the feelings overtake her body, as he allows himself to be overtaken with her.

Afterward, as she lies in his arms, Dominic talks. He tells her stories about his family, his friends, his hopes and dreams.

“I must go soon,” she whispers, and he nods, and keeps on talking. He is still talking when she falls
asleep.

I
t takes Emma a while to orient herself. Her eyes are closed as she fights her way upward, out of the deepest of sleeps, with the vague awareness that something is different.

Everything is different.

The smell of the room is unfamiliar. She is pressed against something warm. Something breathing. Last night comes back to her in a flood, flashes of memories like Polaroids, flitting through her mind. The dinner. The kiss. The drive home. The strap of her dress being slipped off her shoulder. The hand moving . . .
Oh!
There is a flicker deep down as she gasps ever so slightly and opens her eyes.

She didn't mean to fall asleep in Dominic's arms. She didn't mean to spend the night in Dominic's bed. She is pressed against him, or is he pressed against her? The two of them are in the middle of the bed, squeezed together. She can smell his cologne, the musky scent of his skin. She didn't think she liked cologne, but Dominic always
smells delicious, even when he is building shelves, and she sniffs deeply now, drinking him in.

She wants to kiss him, to reach out and stroke him, but what if last night was a one-night stand? What if he wants nothing to do with her now? What if it is awkward, and awful, and they are not able to look at each other?

Damn,
she thinks.
Why did I allow this to happen? Where am I going to live if it all goes horribly wrong?

She turns her head and squeals in fright. Standing right by the side of the bed, up close, staring at her with narrowed eyes, is Jesse.

Oh
shit
.

She has no idea what to say. She wouldn't have wanted Jesse to know they were more than friends. She wouldn't have wanted him to know anything until she was sure there was anything to know.

“Hey,” she whispers, pulling the covers up under her chin, attempting a natural smile as if it is completely normal to find the next-door neighbor in your father's bed. “How did you sleep?”

Oh God.
Why did Jesse have to be standing here?

“Are you okay?” she whispers, when he doesn't answer. “We had a sleepover with your dad last night,” she says lamely. “We didn't plan it but, obviously, I ended up staying over.”

Jesse just stares at her.

“Why don't you have any clothes on?” he says eventually.

“It was so hot,” she says. “I think maybe the air conditioning was broken. Was it hot in your room? No? It must just be in here, then. I do not want your father to see me with no clothes on, though. Would you mind passing me that dress on the floor over there so I can put something on before he wakes up?”

Jesse squints at Emma, deciding whether to believe her, knowing, she suspects, that her story doesn't quite add up, but eventually he
gets the dress and throws it at her, quite unpleasantly she thinks, although she's in no position to say anything.

“What about Hobbes?” says Jesse. “Who's looking after Hobbes?”

“Why don't you go through the cat flap and check up on her?” says Emma brightly. “I'll get dressed and maybe I'll make us some breakfast. How does that sound?”

Jesse shrugs but leaves the room. Emma hears the back door slam as he goes out into the garden on his way next door. She slips the covers back to get dressed, before an arm lays across her chest to stop her. She turns to see Dominic's eyes open, and for a second she is nervous about what he will say, until a slow smile spreads on his face.

“Morning,” he says, pulling her gently toward him and kissing her. For all her concerns—about him, about Jesse—she can't help but giggle.

“Get off me!” She attempts to push him away, which only makes him squeeze her more tightly.

“This is great,” he says. “This is like having my own teddy bear.” And she finally relaxes in his arms, snuggling down in the bed, rolling over until she is looking into his eyes.

“Jesse came in,” she says. “I'm so sorry. I honestly wasn't planning on spending the night, but I fell asleep, and when I woke up it was to see him standing next to the bed.” She frowns a little. “I don't think he's happy.”

“Why isn't he happy?” Dominic takes a strand of her hair between his fingers and twirls it around and around. “I love your hair, by the way,” he says. “Curly hair turns me on.”

Emma starts to laugh. “You're just saying that. Curly hair turns you on? I don't believe you.”

“Okay. Let me revise.
Your
curly hair turns me on.” He smiles. “Or maybe it's you that turns me on.”

“I do?” Emma smiles back at him.

“You do. Everything about you. Your curly hair. Your English accent. Your hands . . .”

“My . . . hands?” Emma grins.

“You have the most delicate hands.” He takes her hand in his, entwining her fingers with his own. “I noticed them right when you moved in. They're beautiful. You move them when you talk, in this really graceful way. It's like watching ballerina hands.”

“You're weird,” sputters Emma, although she is unspeakably flattered.

“Also, your body turns me on”—he raises an eyebrow—“big-time.” He kisses her, and she relaxes into the kiss, so relieved this is still lovely, so relieved he isn't changing his mind, hasn't woken up to what he believes is a terrible mistake.

But she's still concerned about Jesse. She pushes Dominic away reluctantly. “Not now. Jesse's going to be back any second and I said I'd make breakfast. Is that okay?”

“It's more than okay. You're turning into quite the breakfast-maker, it seems. Lucky us. Lucky me.”

After one more lingering kiss, Emma pulls on her dress. She watches Dominic watching her every move, with a lazy smile on his face. She smiles back before going downstairs.

Once there, she moves around the kitchen, finding bowls, plates, opening the fridge for the eggs and milk. She cuts slices from a loaf of sourdough bread, puts them into the toaster oven; beats the eggs and seasons them; melts butter in an old cast-iron skillet she finds at the back of a cupboard—as good as new after a very good wash.

This feels nice,
she thinks. Cooking breakfast for Dominic and Jesse. Jesse clearly wasn't happy with her being in his father's bed, but why would he be? He's had his father to himself for his entire life; of
course he doesn't want to share him. Not that Emma is looking to share him. Good
God
! She laughs out loud at the very thought. Still, it must have been disconcerting for him, and she understands that. Luckily, it won't last, thinks Emma. Look how she and Jesse bonded over Hobbes; look how much fun they had been having together before this morning. This is a tiny blip in what is clearly a friendship. She knows Jesse likes her, she can tell. He likes the fact that she talks to him like an adult; he doesn't have to know it's only because she doesn't know how to talk to children.

Breakfast will go a long way toward healing his shock at finding her there this morning. He's a little kid, after all. A little kid who has no mother, who will surely blossom with a spot of love and nurture. Of course his father adores him, Emma has no doubt of that, but Jesse needs a woman in his life to look after him, and right now, even if it's only temporary—God, why is she even thinking like this?—she can give him some of that maternal warmth. She will start by making him the most delicious eggs he has ever tasted.

Emma sets the table properly. She goes into the front garden and snips off five blue hydrangeas, setting them in water in a mason jar that she puts in the center of the table. She lays the knives and forks at each place setting, with glasses of juice, the coffeepot in the middle on a coaster.

She places the toast on a napkin-covered plate, standing the slices up, as if they were in a hotel dining room. She finds grape jelly in the fridge, and scoops some into a small ramekin, placing it on a small plate with a teaspoon.

She has no idea why she feels the need to create a scene of domestic bliss, only that she wants them both to sit down to something that is both delicious and beautiful. She wants this to feel special.

“Breakfast!” she calls, and hears Dominic clump down the stairs.
Her stomach lurches as he walks in wearing boxer shorts and a navy T-shirt that rides up as he stretches.
You are gorgeous,
she thinks, gazing at him for a moment, savoring a feeling she now knows for certain she has never felt in quite this way before.

“I know what I want for breakfast.” Dominic comes up behind her, murmurs into her neck, sliding his hands around her waist. Then the back door opens, forcing them to jump apart as if shocked.

“Breakfast!” Emma says to Jesse with false brightness. “Come sit down!”

“I don't like these eggs.” Jesse sits, sinking his head in his hand as he stabs at the eggs with his fork, a scowl on his face.

“These are scrambled eggs, English style,” says Emma. “They're creamy and delicious. I promise you'll like them.”

“They're really good,” says Dominic, scooping some into his mouth, then turning to Emma. “Wow. These actually
are
really good. What did you do?”

“The secret is lots of butter, and very slow stirring over low heat so they cook slowly. It makes the eggs creamy rather than rubbery.”

“Jesse, you'll really like them,” says Dominic. “Come on. Try some.”

Jesse reluctantly lifts a forkful to his mouth, grimacing as he chews, before jumping up and spitting them in the sink.

“Jesse!” says Dominic, with a laugh. “That's not very nice.”

“They're gross!” says Jesse. “Slimy and disgusting.”

“Come on, buddy. Sit down. You don't have to eat them, then. Have some toast.”

Emma feels herself almost on the brink of tears but remains silent and tries to mentally talk herself out of it.
Don't be silly,
she tells herself.
He's only a child and he's punishing you for being here. Don't take it personally.

She looks at Dominic, who is gazing at his son with unconditional
love.
How can he not say something?
she thinks.
How can he laugh? Surely this is a learning opportunity.

You may not like the food,
she thinks, although she doesn't even believe that, for who would not like these creamy, buttery scrambled eggs?
But even if you don't, you don't jump up from the table and make a big song and dance about spitting it out.

You put the fork down and say, “No, thank you. I'm not hungry.”

Dominic is encouraging this bad behavior. Instead of showing Jesse another way to cope with his distress, he is smiling at him indulgently, which will surely give him the wrong message, make him think his behavior is acceptable.

It's a teaching opportunity, she thinks. And she will not let it pass.

“Jesse,” she says gently, as Jesse crosses his arms in a sulk and refuses to look at her. “It's very rude to spit food out. I just went to a lot of trouble to cook you breakfast. You didn't have to eat it, but it would have been more polite to just say you didn't want it.” He refuses to look at her. “Jesse, my feelings are very hurt.”

He mutters something under his breath.

“What? I can't hear you.”

“I don't care!” The words burst out of his mouth. “I don't care about you. I don't even want you here. Why are you here? Go back home! Go back to your house. We don't want you here!”

“Jesse,” Dominic finally interjects. “That's not very nice. Say you're sorry.”

“No,” says Jesse, kicking the table leg, pushing the chair back, and running out of the room. As he heads upstairs his sobbing can be heard loud and jagged through the thin ceiling of the small house.

“I'd better go talk to him,” says Dominic. “He'll be fine. He's never good with the idea of me having girlfriends. Wait here. I shouldn't be too long.”

But Emma doesn't want to wait. Poor Jesse, she thinks. She understands why he would not be happy about the prospect of his father having girlfriends.

Is that what she is? she wonders. A girlfriend? It is far too early to use that term. A friend who is a girl, she thinks. That's what he meant. A friend who is a girl, a friend with, obviously, benefits.
Girlfriend
, in the loosest possible term.

She washes up quickly and quietly before letting herself out the back door and returning to the safety of her own home.