I’m sympathizing with Lester Burnham, understanding his desperation, his frustration, when my phone chimes beside me. I expect it to be Tucker—who else would be texting me at close to 1 A.M.?—but it’s not. Of course not. That would be too much like right.
What are you doing?
My fingers hover over the keys, wondering if I should reply or just pretend to be asleep. But I can’t find the strength to deny him. To deny myself.
Watching American Beauty. You seen it?
With Kevin Spacey? Yeah. What channel?
Showtime
There’s a pause, and I imagine him flipping through the channels.
Got it. Great movie.
Weren’t you like 5 when it came out?
8. And?
Seems a little cynical and morbid for an 8-year-old.
Not when you’re a cynical and morbid 8-year-old kid.
I take a sip of wine. Another personal detail. One that would make me imagine a little, round-faced Ransom Reed, with shaggy dark hair and eyes too old for his young years. I could have done without it. Nothing good could ever come of it.
I used to have a crush on Ricky.
I don’t know why I tell him that.
The weed smoking creeper kid with the camera?
Yeah.
Makes sense.
Why do you say that?
Because he’s dark and dangerous. He doesn’t fit in or conform. He’s the complete opposite of you. He’s the bad boy you want but will never let yourself have. Not completely.
I nearly drop my phone. Did he just . . . try to shrink me? Are we still talking about the movie?
So you think I liked him because he’s the quintessential bad boy?
No, H. I think you want him bc you want to be bad too.
I reach for my wineglass and take a huge slug without even tasting it.
Then . . . I smile. He called me H. No one’s ever called me H. Not to my face at least. And I think I like it. Not because it’s simple or charming. But because he gave it to me.
What makes you think I want to be bad?
Bc you want me.
Seeing those words on the screen of my phone incites fear and excitement so deep that it literally shakes me to my core, and I drop the wineglass, ruining the beautiful bodice of my pajama top. I curse and toss my phone to the side to save it from sudden death and jump out of bed. Fortunately, there wasn’t much vino left in my glass and my bedspread is unscathed. Unfortunately, my lovely new sleepwear is ruined. I strip and kick it into a pile, too lazy and, honestly, too tipsy to care enough to try to salvage it. Then I climb into bed completely naked, and pull the covers up to my breasts.
When I look back at my cell, I see there’s a new message.
Did I scare you off?
No. I spilled my wine. Had to take off my clothes.
I could have left that part out, but fuck it. There’s no such thing as a little wrong. Just like there’s no such thing as a little pregnant. I was wrong the moment I replied to the first text message two nights ago. Just as wrong as I was to agree to one night of drunken debauchery. This is wrong. We’re wrong. But I don’t know how to be right. Not anymore.
You’re naked?
I’m in bed.
I’m assuming your husband isn’t home or asleep or you wouldn’t be texting me right now.
He’s working.
So you’re all alone. And naked.
I snort out a laugh, knowing exactly what game he’s playing. Nice try, buddy. He’s trying to unnerve me. Get under my skin, in every way possible. Truth is, it’s working.
Yes. How about you?
Naked? Yes.
Hmmm, interesting.
Alone? No.
I read his response again. And again.
He’s naked, but he’s not alone.
He’s with someone. Right now. And he either just fucked her or is about to fuck her. Shit, he could be fucking her right now as he watches Kevin Spacey lift weights and smoke pot in his garage! All while texting me!
I don’t know why this bothers me, not when I have zero right to feel a damn thing about him. When just this morning, I had my hand wrapped around my husband’s dick, all but begging him to fuck me up against the shower wall. When I’m married to the man of my dreams and he is just some twenty-four-year-old horny kid who would probably fuck a tree hollow if he was drunk and desperate enough.
This should not affect me. This should not hurt me. But dammit, I can’t help the heat that flames my face, leaking into my eyes until it gets too blurry to see the words on the touchscreen of my phone. I can’t control my hands that shake so badly that my fingers go limp, dropping the device in the tangle of sheets swathing my naked body. And I can’t tame the overwhelming nausea that roils my gut, creating a hot, soupy eddy of wine and chocolate.
Clutching my mouth, I run to the bathroom and make it to the toilet just in time. I empty myself of this illness, this frustration. I purge him from my body and my soul. And when I’m finished, I brush my teeth and spit the remnants of Ransom Reed into the sink. I’m done.
I climb back into bed and shut off the television just as Ricky’s dad beats the shit out of him. Poor Ricky. He wasn’t a bad boy or a creep. He was just bored. He was lonely. And loneliness and boredom combined will push you to the most extreme of extremes. All in a quest to find some semblance of normalcy. An inkling of freedom. A glimmer of life.
I think I hear my phone chime somewhere between reality and the fiction of my dreams, but I tune it out. It’s much easier to deal with the truth on this side. I can make it up as I go along.
Chapter Thirteen
T HEN
“Are you sure?”
I look up at Tucker and smile before my fingers drift up to the collar of my white cotton shirt. My fingertips touch the smooth surface of a pearlescent button and free it from its noose. Then another one. And another.
“Wait, Heidi.” Tucker swallows and I watch the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down, pushing through the tightness in his throat. He scrubs the back of his neck nervously and turns his head, yet his eyes are still on me. He can’t not look.
“No,” I say, going for the fourth button. The button that will give him his first view of my bra. “We’ve waited long enough.”
I keep going until my entire shirt is undone, keeping my eyes trained on the man in front me. Showing him that I want this, that I want him. I don’t want there to be a single ounce of doubt in his mind. Because it just doesn’t exist in mine.
I knew that Tucker would be the one I’d give my heart and body to freely. I wouldn’t have to fight him. I wouldn’t have to fear him. Because he knew me. He knew how to love me, how to hold me. He was good and kind and gentle. He was safe.
I let my shirt fall to the floor and stand before him, silently pleading for him to touch me. It only takes him a breath before his hands are on my skin, his fingertips sliding over my collarbones, down through the middle of my chest. I feel the soft bite of his nails rake over my ribs, like he wants to claw his way inside, yet he’s holding back. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
“I’m not going to break,” I whisper, touching the backs of his hands. I press them hard into my skin¸ using every bit of my strength so he can’t pull away. “You can touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
“No. Touch me, Tucker. Feel me.”
I grasp the bottom hem of his shirt and wait for him to lift his arms. He closes his eyes and, with a huff, allows me to shed it from his body. His chest is magnificent. Hard and rippled and broad. A sprinkle of light brown hair trails his pecs and circles his nipples. I taste him and he flinches as my tongue flicks across the sensitive skin. But his hands grasp me harder, fingers digging into my skin, desperate to be inside me. I don’t make him wait any longer. I reach back and unzip my skirt, and hooking my fingers underneath my underwear, I let them join our shirts on the floor.