Spiral of Bliss 01 Arouse (17 page)

I back out of the bathroom, close the door, and return to the living room. I’m breathing fast as I pace, my mind filling with images that both arouse and dismay me—Dean thinking about another woman naked, fantasizing about fucking her… his grad student with her pretty smile and toned body.

The bedroom door clicks open. My breath catches in my throat. He’s only wearing a pair of boxers, his skin still damp, his arms raised as he scrubs at his wet hair with a towel. When he lowers it, he sees me standing there.

My mouth is dry, though I don’t know if it’s from fear or my own thwarted lust. Unfortunately I suspect it’s the former.

Dean loops the towel around the back of his neck. “You okay?”

I twist my hands together. “I don’t… no. Not really.”

He waits. He knows I’ll tell him eventually, but it takes a minute to drum up my courage.

“Do you… uh, do that often?” I gesture to the bedroom.

He flushes a little. “Not often, no. Not if you’re here.”

“So why now?”

“I didn’t know you were home.”

I cross my arms. My nipples are still hard. I have to know. “Were you thinking about her?”

“Who?”

“Your grad student.” I can’t bring myself to say her name.

Dean frowns. “My grad… Jessica?”

“No.” I try to keep my voice even. “Maggie.”

“Maggie?” He looks stunned. “You thought I was thinking about her?”

“Were you?”

“Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“I saw her today. In the parking lot behind the deli.”

He doesn’t say anything, again waiting for more.

“She’s… uh, the first time I met her, I suspected she had a thing for you.”

“How do you know?”

“I can tell. I’m not blind.” Neither is Maggie Hamilton. Or any other woman when it comes to Professor Dean West.

“Liv.” He pulls the towel from his neck and tosses it onto the sofa. “I’d be lying if I said sometimes other women… even grad students… haven’t come on to me. But do you think I respond? Do you think I’d ever let them cross the line? Do you think
I’d
ever do that?”

I don’t like the turn of this conversation, as if I’m at fault for having doubts. In the deepest part of my heart, I know he’s honorable and loyal to the core.

At the same time, there’s a lot I don’t know right now. And every day I have the disquieting sense that the pool of “don’t knows” is growing larger.

“Maggie Hamilton implied that you’ve made a move on her,” I tell him.

Dean stares at me. “What?”

“That’s what she said.” I swallow past the lump in my throat, the resurgence of unease. “She’s upset that you won’t approve her… her thesis proposal, and then she said maybe you’re expecting more from her.”

“What the fuck…” Dean paces away from me, his shoulders stiffening. “I won’t approve her thesis because her research and methodology are incomplete! I told her that. I told
you
that. I won’t put my name behind a student who produces lousy work. And she won’t take my suggestions or find another topic, so we’re at a deadlock.”

“Why hasn’t she changed advisors?”

“Because she claims it would set her back too far since she already started with the previous professor, and then she took a year off. She still thinks she can earn her master’s by the end of the year, even though she hasn’t started writing her thesis. Much less done any useful research. I’ve been telling her that since last summer.”

He swears and paces again, running a hand through his hair. I tighten my arms around myself, feeling the thump of my heartbeat. I could care less about Maggie Hamilton’s poor research abilities.

“Why… why would she imply you treat the female students inappropriately?” I ask.

“I don’t know! I haven’t even talked to her in a…” He stops suddenly. Tension rolls through his body as he turns back to face me. Darkness suffuses his eyes.

I take a step back. My throat aches.

“Liv.”

I can’t look at him.

“Liv.” His voice roughens. “Do you
believe
her?”

No.
No!

The denial boils inside me. But it is not powerful enough to dissolve the hard-edged fear that has prodded at me for weeks now. I clench my hands into fists, digging my fingernails into my palms hard enough to hurt.

“I don’t… I don’t know what to believe anymore,” I whisper. I realize that is the unvarnished truth. A wave of dizziness washes over me.

“Liv… Jesus, Liv…” The words crack as Dean backs away, pale beneath his tan. “No, for the love of God. You think I would do that to you, to us, after… why the fuck would you…
no
.”

“I’m sorry, Dean! I feel… for weeks now, I’ve felt like you’re keeping something from me, but I have no idea what it is, so when she said—”

“You thought that was it?”

“I’m just… things have been so messy between us, and then she… why would she say that?”

“No.” His voice is forceful now, lined with steel. “No, Olivia. I have never made a pass at another woman since the day I met you. Since long
before
I met you. If you can’t believe that, then I don’t know what the fuck we’re even doing anymore.”

He turns and leaves. A second later, the bedroom door slams shut. I sink into a chair and bury my face in my hands.

Is it true? Have I stopped trusting my own husband?

If so, where in the love of God does that leave us?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

October 9

ock the blade, Liv.” Tyler Wilkes pauses beside my station.

“Sounds like the name of a chef’s concert series.” I shoot him a grin. “Rock the Blade, fronted by Chef Tyler Wilkes on the sauté pan.”

“Funny. Now pay attention to what you’re doing.”

I turn back to chopping chives. The voices of my fellow students and their occasional laughter rises around me and Tyler. Oil sizzles in pans, blades thwack against cutting boards, oven doors open and close.

It’s all become pleasant and very welcome over the past weeks, a familiar cadence that soothes all my tangled, barbed-wire thoughts.

“Careful.” Tyler steps closer. “Move it backward to get ready for the next stroke.”

He puts his hand over mine on the knife handle, then takes my other hand and places it against the top of the blade. He’s done this often since that first time when I kind of freaked out. Now I’m used to his hands-on guidance, and I appreciate it because he shows me exactly how to do it right.

“This stabilizes the cutting board,” he explains. “Now rock the blade up and down without moving the tip. Keep it in the same position, and let the knife do the work.”

He guides my hands into the rhythm. It’s easy and satisfying to feel the sharp blade chopping the chives into uniform pieces.

Tyler steps back to watch me. “Good. Got all your
mise en place
?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Remember the chicken breast won’t take long to cook. Give it a good sear, then finish it in the oven.”

“Got it.”

He watches me chopping herbs for a couple more minutes before he nods with approval. “Nice work, Liv. Told you I’d make a chef out of you yet.”

He winks and smiles, which makes a pleasant warmth glow through me. Even at almost thirty years of age, I apparently still have the urge to earn the teacher’s approval.

At the end of class, we sample our own dishes and everyone else’s. My chicken turned out dry and, according to Tyler, under-seasoned, but overall it’s not a bad dish. At least it’s edible.

“How do you feel?” Tyler stops by my station again when we’re cleaning up and getting ready to leave.

“How do I feel?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.

“Yeah. About your cooking skills. You were pretty shaky about your abilities at first. Since it’s been a few weeks now, I was wondering how you feel. Are you enjoying yourself?”

Hmm.

“I don’t know if
enjoy
is the right word,” I admit. “I mean, it’s frustrating when I can’t even crack an egg properly. But that soufflé did taste good, right? And I’m learning a lot.”

“Are you practicing at home?”

“Sometimes,” I say, then add, “though honestly, it’s so much easier to pick up a roasted chicken on the way home.”

“Not nearly as good, though,” Tyler says, “for your tastebuds or your soul.”

“I don’t think cooking is the best thing for my soul right now.” I’m surprised that I admitted such a thing, but Tyler only tilts his head and looks at me consideringly.

“What is, then?” he asks.

Fixing my marriage.

I shrug and scrub at the spotless counter. The insane thing is, I want to say the words aloud. I want to tell him that things are tough right now, that my marriage is rocky, that I’m doubting both my husband and myself.

And that it hurts.

I lift my head to look at him. He’s watching me with curiosity in his blue eyes. His blond hair flops over his forehead. I find myself staring at his mouth, then jerk my gaze back down to the counter.

“Friends?” he asks.

I swallow. The air feels different, charged with something I’m not used to, something not right, something I should reject.

“They’re good for one’s soul,” Tyler says.

“Yes,” I agree. “And maybe food?”

He grins. “Any time you want, Julienne is open. I’ll cook you a meal that’ll make your soul sparkle again.”

That, I think, is a meal I’d love to eat.

Today’s Saturday. Dean wakes me up early and tells me to get dressed for a hike. It’s been ages since we’ve gone hiking at dawn, and I struggle with the urge to burrow back under the covers.

“Come on, beauty. Let’s talk.”

I push the comforter aside and peer at him. He looks serious, but not angry. Given our recent discord, the thought of spending a couple of hours hiking with him is appealing. So lured by the hope that we will find our way back to each other, I haul myself out of bed to dress and eat a quick breakfast.

We put on jackets over our jeans and sweatshirts, hitch on our backpacks, and head out to hike one of our favorite trails that crests along the edge of the mountain and overlooks the lake.

“I sent you an email with my flight information for the conference next weekend,” Dean says.

“Is your paper ready?”

“Finished it last night.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Four nights. I’ll drive to the airport and leave my car in the lot.”

I follow behind him, stepping where he steps. Some leaves still cling precariously to the tree branches. Below the rocky ridge, the lake shimmers and undulates with a light wind. We pass a couple of other hikers, but the trail is mostly ours.

By mutual agreement, we stop at the top of an outcropping of rocks and find a place to sit. We eat granola bars and drink water, enjoying the quiet and the bird’s-eye view of the lake and town.

“Since the day we met, I haven’t wanted anyone but you,” Dean says.

My heart jumps a little.

“Never looked at another woman,” he continues. “Never thought about one. It’s always been you, Olivia.”

My white knight. I reach over to squeeze his hand.

“I know.”

I’ve always known. I’ve always believed in him. That belief has been shaken in recent weeks, but my heart still knows the truth. I just have to remember to listen.

We fall silent. A breeze rustles through the leaves, and a bird hops along the path in front of us.

“You remember I told you about Helen?” Dean asks.

I turn to look at him. His gaze is on the lake, but something tense emanates from him. My stomach tightens.

“The woman you were with in grad school?” I ask.

“She wanted to get married.”

“That’s not surprising.”

“We figured we’d finish our dissertations, find jobs. Get settled first.”

“Makes sense.”

He stares at his water bottle, rolling it between his palms. “So we… well, a few times we were kind of careless with birth control.”

The knot in my stomach worsens. I don’t respond.

“She got pregnant.”

Jesus. Where is he going with this?

“And she… uh, she got rid of it,” he continues. “She was stressed out over her dissertation, working two jobs, both of us still teaching and taking classes… she thought it was a mistake.”

“
She
thought all that?”

“I didn’t… I mean, we’d talked about having kids someday, but after we were married. So yeah, she was right. It wasn’t… it was a lousy time. I didn’t argue. Hell, I drove her to the fucking clinic.”

I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t known this before. Is this why he’d never questioned my own lack of desire to have children?

“So you… you regretted it?” I ask.

“I don’t know. I think so. It didn’t even seem real at the time. I was… what, twenty-two? We didn’t even talk about it much. Then a year later, Helen was still working on her dissertation when she got the Stanford job. I’d done my coursework, so I went with her. She said she’d work while I finished my research. We were out there for two months before she said she wanted a baby.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know what it was. I figured it was guilt, sorrow, family pressure… maybe a combination of all three.” He pauses and shrugs. “Helen was close to my mother and sister. I told you that.”

“Did they know about the abortion?”

He shakes his head. I see it then, an old, familiar guilt that has never fully gone away.

“Helen made me promise not to tell anyone, not that I would have,” he says. “She started her job, then I got word I’d been awarded a fellowship to study in Madrid for a year. When Helen heard about it, she flipped out. Said she’d never have taken the Stanford job if she knew I’d leave in six months, that she did it because of my parents. Then she told me she was pregnant again.”

“But you—”

“She’d stopped taking the pill. Didn’t tell me. I shouldn’t have relied on her to deal with birth control. But I did, and that’s what happened.”

“But you weren’t married. I mean, I thought your plan was marriage, then kids.”

“It was.”

“So what…” It hits me then, like a blow to the gut. “You married her, didn’t you?”

He nods, his jaw tightening. “There was a lot of pressure from our parents. I wanted to do the right thing. Thought it would work, that everyone would be glad. That it’d all
fit
, you know?”

My chest burns, and I have to remind myself to breathe. Part of me understands this about Dean—his intense urge to fix things, to prove himself a success, even at the expense of his own happiness.

Another larger part of me can’t process the magnitude of this revelation.

“Why… why didn’t you tell me?” My voice is tight, strained.

“Because I still don’t think of it as a real marriage.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Helen and I had gone through grad school together, we had similar career goals, on paper we were a perfect match. But it didn’t happen the way it was supposed to. It was like the plan went totally off course.”

“What happened to the baby?”

“Helen lost it at thirteen weeks. She’d told a lot of people early on. She was excited. Then when she had the miscarriage, we had to tell all those same people about it. That was rough.”

“Then what happened?” I ask, not at all certain I want to know.

“She got pregnant again four months later. Second time, she told only my parents and hers, but she lost that one at nine weeks. Third time—”

“
Third
time?”

He nods. “Didn’t tell anyone until she was into her second trimester, but then, fifteen weeks in… ah hell, Liv, it was all so shitty.”