The Shape of Desire (14 page)

“And she’s, okay, she’s thirty-two, it’s clear she’s thinking it’s time to get married and have kids, and I’m pretty sure I’m not the right one for her to marry. So if I wanted to be a nice guy, I had to break up with her so she could be available for the right man, you know? But she didn’t really hear it that way when I tried to explain.”

I nodded again. “And you break up with
all
your girlfriends?” I asked, repeating the secretary’s accusation. “Do they
all
want to get married and have kids?”

He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “Sometimes that’s the reason and sometimes it’s not,” he said. “It’s just so complicated.”

“Boy is it ever,” I said.

“But I really don’t want you to think I’m a jerk.”

“I have a boyfriend,” I replied.

He was already poised to say something else, and this stopped him so completely that for a moment his mouth hung open. “Are you about to break up with him?”

“No,” I said, and laughed.

He laughed back. “I didn’t want you to think I was on the rebound,” he says. “So I wasn’t going to tell you about my ex-girlfriend.”

“I wasn’t going to tell you about my boyfriend, either.”

We both laughed even harder. I wondered if we were being watched by the blond secretary (who probably had a secret crush on him). I wondered if she found it impossible to believe that I was amused by her revelation instead of unsettled. I wondered if she had any idea how tricky it was to navigate any relationship and what a relief it could be when laughter was one of the first options.

O
ver dinner that night, I told Matt more about Dante than I had told almost anyone up to that point. It was odd; it wasn’t as if I knew Matt so well that I felt I could trust him with the one thing I had hidden from everyone else. It was more like he was a seatmate on a transatlantic flight, someone I knew I would never see again, and the very randomness of our connection made it safe to confide in him.

Even so, I wasn’t entirely truthful. “I’ve been dating Dante for six or seven years now,” I told him. “And yet there are all these things I don’t know about him. Like, he travels for his job. He’s gone about half the time. But he’s evasive about where he goes. I’ve never met his boss or his coworkers. He tells me he’s in sales—he sells valve and gear parts for big machinery—but I can’t really get a sense of the job.”

Matt’s eyes were huge; he was suitably intrigued. “Do you think he works for the CIA?”

“I don’t know! It’s crossed my mind.”

“Maybe he’s a hit man.”

“Something else I’ve considered.”

“Does he carry a gun?”

“Not that I’ve ever found.”

“Have you looked? Like, have you gone through his clothes when he’s sleeping?”

To anyone else I would have been ashamed to answer honestly, but
with Matt I simply nodded. “I have. And I’ve looked through his closets when we’re at his place.”

“So he does let you come to
his
house.”

“His apartment. He rents a studio. Yes.”

“Well, that’s good, because my next thought would be—”

“That he might be married.”

Matt nodded. “That was what I was thinking.”

“I’ve wondered about that, too. Hell, he could have
several
wives all over the Midwest, the amount of traveling he does.”

“Have you considered hiring a private detective?”

I shook my head. “No. I don’t think—well, if he’s an assassin, I surely wouldn’t want to put a private detective in danger! And if he’s married—maybe I don’t want to know.”

“I’d want to know,” Matt said.

I scoffed. “You’d be relieved. Less pressure on you.”

He grinned. “You’re right. I think it sounds like a good arrangement.”

“Anyway, I don’t ask too many questions.”

A look of unwonted seriousness pulled down the corners of his dark almond eyes. “But you want to be careful, Maria. I mean, if you really think he’s leading some kind of double life—and if you think it could be dangerous—”

He’s a shape-shifter. Half the time, he roams the world as a wolf, a dog, a bear. His life is dangerous to him, but probably not to me. Unless he is lying about all of it.
“How nice of you to be concerned,” I said playfully, changing the tone and changing the subject. “And here I thought you were such a carefree guy.”

He grinned again. “It’s easy to be carefree with a girl like you.”

H
e took off that Friday, and I, of course, was already on vacation. We spent the day wandering through the Plaza, Kansas City’s high-end collection of shops and restaurants and apartments. We found
a sports bar for dinner—since it turned out Matt was far more than a casual baseball fan—and cheered on the Royals over beers and burgers. When he drove me back to my hotel, we found a shadowy corner of the garage and sat in the front seat, kissing.

“Isn’t this the point when you’re supposed to invite me up to your room?” he asked finally in a breathless voice. He drove a small European sports car, and it wasn’t entirely satisfactory—or comfortable—to lean over the gearshift to make out.

I laughed shakily. I was having a hard time remembering when I’d last kissed anyone but Dante, and I hadn’t slept with anyone else since college. It was odd how what was essentially the same act could taste so different, feel so different. Matt’s lips were fuller than Dante’s, softer. He held back a little more, but I liked that; it made me feel like he wasn’t certain of me, or he wanted to explore me slowly, or both.

What was odder still was how the body reacted to two such different men. All the physical symptoms were the same, the breathlessness, the rush of blood, the flood of desire, the building urge to press harder, go farther. My body was fully engaged; my body was ready to go the distance.

But my heart was not. Or perhaps it was my mind. Or whatever part of the psyche that presided over monumental decisions. I could picture Matt in my bed, but I didn’t want him there. Not tonight, anyway. I wanted to think about this some more. I wanted to consider whether I was ready to cheat on Dante.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think I’d better say good night and go up to my room alone.”

“There’s a word for women like you,” he said, but he murmured it against my mouth, nibbling at my lips.

“Mmm, I know. Always loved that word.”

He laughed and straightened up, pushing me away. “Don’t wear anything too sexy tomorrow,” he said. “I want to be able to control my lust.”

I opened my eyes wide as I resettled my shirt over my jeans. “You mean you don’t plan to ravish me in the middle of the Royals’ stadium?”

“If we’d gotten box seats, maybe, but we’re in the stands, right behind first base. I just don’t think there will be much privacy.”

I sighed. “And I thought you were getting us
good
seats.”

He grinned and patted me on the head. “Scoot,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.”

I glided across the hotel lobby and smiled during the whole elevator ride to my room. There is something about amorous contact, whether or not it culminates in sex. It roils through the body like an intemperate liqueur, leaving the brain pleasantly fogged and every inch of skin sensitized. It blunts your irritations and flushes you with well-being. It just damn well makes you feel
good
.

The red light on my phone was blinking, so I sat on the bed and dreamily dialed the hotel operator. “You have a message from Mr. Tay,” she said in a voice bearing traces of a Spanish accent.

Mr. Tay? Who was that? Someone from the bank? “What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Had to go.’”

“‘Had to go’? What?
Who
is this message from?”

“Mr. Tay. Mr. Don Tay.”

Don Tay.
So fuzzy was I from excited endorphins that I had to run the syllables through my head three times before they clicked.
Don Tay. Dante!

“Wait—he said what?”

“‘Had to go.’ He left the message ten minutes ago.”

The sense of the words hit me like a punch to the stomach, and all my floaty happiness withered away. “Thank you,” I whispered and hung up the phone.

I sat there on the bed for the next fifteen minutes, rocking a little, my arms wrapped around my shoulders, my eyes filling with tears.
Had to go.
It was what he always said when he departed abruptly, impatient of farewell scenes or long, drawn-out good-byes. It meant he wouldn’t be waiting for me when I returned Sunday evening, it meant I would go at least another full week without seeing him—maybe two. It meant that by sitting in the hotel garage, madly making out with Matt Tanaka, I had squandered my last chance to hear Dante’s voice for days and days and days. For a moment, I burned with anger at Matt—the faithless, irresponsible man who kissed many girls and then cavalierly left them—but almost immediately I was angry with myself. What kind of lover was I, what kind of human being, to play games with one man while the one I truly belonged with was hundreds of miles away, missing me, girding himself for a hard and physically risky transition? I was not steadfast, I was not honorable, I was not deserving of either man’s affection.

But soon enough, my anger turned on Dante. Who was irritable, who was secretive, who went to elaborate lengths to make sure I only got so close to him, and no closer. Who might be lying to me every time I saw him. Who might be betraying me every time he left my house. Who did not love me enough to stay, no matter what shape he took, what challenges he faced. Who would not let me love him as much as I wanted to, which was with all my heart.

T
he ball game was fun. I sipped Cokes since it was clear by the third inning Matt was going to reach my two-drinks-and-you-stop-driving limit. A man at the end of our row caught a fly ball. Some player hit three home runs in three different innings. The Royals won.

“So that was a great game,” he said as I drove his car back to my hotel.

“It was. Great seats, too.”

“Good enough for you to invite me up to your room tonight?”

I laughed. “Mmm, good enough for us to sit in the hotel restaurant while you drink enough coffee to sober up.”

“I’m not drunk.” He leered over at me. “But maybe I should spend the night in your room just in case I’m more hammered than I thought.”

There was a Starbucks in the lobby. We bought coffees to go and carried them to my room—where they sat unnoticed on an end table while we collapsed on the bed, in each other’s arms. I could not have gotten out a pen and paper and mapped a coherent illustration of the confused thoughts in my head. I was still angry with Dante, angry with myself, sad, aggrieved—and yet excited by Matt’s presence. My nerves and my skin instantly responded to his touch. I was thinking it would serve Dante right if I slept with another man. I was thinking it might be the best thing that had ever happened to me, curing me of the daft notion that I could never love anyone but Dante. I wasn’t actually thinking at all, just reveling in sensation, longing, and heat.

I wanted to have sex with Matt, I really did.

But something went wrong. He was drunker than I realized, maybe, and not able to maintain an erection. I was too tense, too nervous, and not able to open myself to him fully. We tried a few times, kissed some more, tried again, laughed a little, and ended up curled together face- to-face, half entwined, like friendly puppies full of affection but absolutely no sexual desire.

“This doesn’t seem to be working out exactly as I envisioned it,” Matt whispered against my cheek.

“I expected something a little different myself,” I replied.

“I swear to you, it’s not because I’m thinking of my ex-girlfriend.”

I choked on a laugh. “I’m not thinking of her, either.”

He kissed my cheek. “Can I still spend the night?”

“I think you better,” I said. “A man who can’t fuck has no business trying to drive.”

Y
ou’d think we would be shy and awkward around each other in the morning, but we weren’t. We made fun of each other’s bedhead, we took turns showering, and I even let him borrow my toothbrush, though I ostentatiously threw it away once he was done. “I’ll buy a new one,” I said.

I was doing one last glance around the room to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind when he said, “I keep wanting to ask if I’ll ever see you again.”

I looked over and smiled. “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

I kissed him and opened the door. “So I guess we have to keep on living if we want to find out.”

“You think that’s supposed to be a metaphor for life in general?”

“It
is
life,” I said. “It’s its own metaphor.”

He saw me to my car and I drove away, humming along with a song on the radio.

I
haven’t seen Matt again, in fact. But I do hear from him now and then. Every time I get a new e-mail address, I send it to him, and he always replies. (He’s never changed his old AOL account.) He finds a new girlfriend about every two years. He was engaged once but broke it off. Still not ready, he wrote.

Now and then he asks about Dante. It is a relief, sometimes, to be honest on this topic with someone—well, as honest as I can be with anyone. Still seeing him, I reply. Still mysterious.

Still love him. Still not capable of loving anyone else.