Friday Mornings at Nine (29 page)

“I’ll be filing for divorce before the end of the month,” she said, marveling at how it was possible to speak these long-dreaded words so evenly. But they were the right words leaving her mouth. They were not partial truths. They were whole, painful, raw truths. Despite all of her mental and verbal protests. Despite all of her wishes otherwise over the years. Despite all of her attempts—and, perhaps, even Jon’s—at steering their marriage away from the perils they’d been warned about by their parents.

Bottom line: It hadn’t been Aaron’s body or his kisses that’d drawn her to him (much). It had been his company. His conversation. The contrast he had provided to the emotional isolation at home.

“W-When did you decide this? And, um, are you—okay?”

She grasped him lightly with both hands straining to span his biceps and kissed him very lightly on the tip of his nose. “I’m okay. Kinda.” She shrugged. “I think I actually knew before the Hallowiener Party, but I was trying to avoid admitting it. For years I thought, ‘I don’t want this to happen to me,’ but the focus was wrong, you know? All that energy being used to try to
prevent
something….”

“As opposed to working to
keep
something.”

“Exactly,” she said.

He reached out to her and ran the side of his thumb from her temple to her chin. “Are you sure there isn’t anything left that’s worth working to keep? Maybe Jon would really want to try—”

“No, Aaron. Not for any truly good reason anyway. Not wanting to let go of a draining situation because of pride and stubbornness is different from wanting to nurture a relationship.”

He nodded. “Okay. I get that. But—” He groaned, and not in that “I’m filled with desire for you” way this time. “What’s this thing happening between us? Did that make you, uh…”

“No. You weren’t what set off the change. I mean, you sort of were but not really.”

“What? What do you mean I ‘sort of’ was?”

She couldn’t help but laugh at his expression, which seemed to be almost indignant, but she wasn’t precisely sure why. Because he was only
slightly
the cause of her impending marital breakup or because he was implicated in it at all?

“Aaron, look, you’re a very attractive guy and talking to you is always fun. But, you’re—” She contemplated how best to put this. “Young. It’s not like you’re a kid or anything, but you’re
way
younger than I am. You’re barely thirty and—”

“I’m thirty-one, Tamara. Thirty-two in a couple of months. I’m not
that
young. You’re not
that
old. Don’t use superficial crap like that as shorthand for the real explanation.”

Her jaw dropped. “Superficial crap?” she repeated slowly. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”

“Oh, I plan to tell you more than that.” He shot her a small grin. “You know we should probably sit down or something if we’re going to have a long discussion. I can put on some tea or coffee if you want.”

She poked him with her index finger in the middle of his chest. “And that’s what I meant when I said you were sort of the reason. You’re annoying and a big braggart, but you want to talk things out. You want to share what you think and feel. I discovered I really appreciate that in a man.” She squinted at him and qualified the statement, “In a man-friend. A young man-friend.”

He poked her back. “First, I’m not as annoying as you are. And, second, I changed my mind. You don’t get coffee or tea. This conversation calls for a much stronger drink.” He pointed toward a long cabinet that had a few bottles of alcohol on the top and a row of crystal tumblers and wineglasses beside them. “Pick your poison and pour yourself some.”

“I’m not sure after the whole Halloween thing that we should be allowed to drink in each other’s company,” she said.

“Suit yourself. I’m having wine. At least half a bottle of it.”

And he wasn’t kidding.

“Huh,” she said, after he’d made a serious dent in the chilled, French-imported Sauvignon Blanc. “Well, I guess I can’t let you drink alone.”

“Guess not.”

So, he poured her a glass, they sat back down and they talked. Just talked. Most of their conversation wasn’t earth-shatteringly profound, but it also wasn’t antagonistic or abrasive, something that always surprised her when she was in Aaron’s company. They merely lobbed their questions and answers back and forth. It was a simple continuation of the way they’d always spoken to each other—affectionately sarcastic, topically divergent, remarkably honest—with one, critical difference: Aaron openly admitted he’d played out this exact scenario in his mind a few times.

“You’re saying, you imagined me leaving Jon and…and having a fling, or whatever this is, with you?” she asked.

He gulped a healthy amount of white wine. “Yep. I visualized it. Things I visualize tend to happen.”

“You don’t get to take credit for this.”

He laughed. “Credit? Tamara, you’re getting a fucking divorce. If anything, I should take some of the blame.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I keep telling you, this mostly doesn’t have anything to do with you. You couldn’t have
visualized
my marriage into shambles. It was like that for years before I met you. Besides, I had…fantasies of us, too.”

“That’s great.” He grinned. “I wanna hear about those later. But visualizing and fantasizing are two different things. Their intentions are different.”

“What? I don’t get how—”

“People don’t seriously believe their fantasies will come true, Tamara. But when a person visualizes, they’re practicing their hoped-for reality. They not only want what they’re thinking about to come true but, on some level, they expect it.”

“You’ve been reading too much of your own magazine.”

He shrugged. “Probably. Want some more of this?” He held out the nearly empty bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. It was more potent than she’d expected. She could feel her appendages beginning to tingle, but she was a long way from drunk yet.

Better to stop while she was ahead.

She shook her head. “No, thanks. You can have the rest.”

But he put the bottle down and turned to her. “I don’t know if this thing we have is going to go anywhere. Or even if it should. You’ve got a lot to deal with in the next several months. Even in the next year or two. But I just want to hang out with you today.” He pointed to his fireplace. “It’s getting darker and colder out, and I haven’t made a fire yet. Let me throw on some logs and make the first one of the season.”

She remembered his colossal stack of wood by the side of his house and said, “Sounds great.” But she didn’t tell him that the simplicity of that gesture—and his statement of wanting to just hang out with her—was the best foreplay she could imagine. It worked better than the wine or any aphrodisiac she could name. So, when the logs were on and the fire built to a medium, easy-burning level, she slid over to him on the sofa and said, “I want to kiss you again.”

And she kissed him again.

“You realize the wine I drank, while not enough to make me completely incoherent, keeps me from being able to resist your advances,” he told her, when he pulled away to catch his breath.

“Good,” she said, her tone deliberately flippant.

“No. Not good,” he shot back. “I’m still trying to decide if I’m willing to let myself get used by you. I like you, but I know what you’re doing.”

“What?!”
She started to laugh but, then, realized—no, he was serious. “I am not trying—”

“We’ll see,” he said, cutting her off. “Thing is, I’ve been wanting to do you in front of the fireplace for, like, a year now. So, this is my chance. I’m weighing my options, but the wine is tipping things in your favor.”

Oh, God. Even before he was on
her
radar, she had been on
his?
She had certainly noticed he was attractive, but the fantasizing and the lingering thoughts were, she had to admit, something that had rushed in after they had begun chatting more regularly.

As if reading the question on her lips, he nodded. “Yeah. It was more an immediate attraction thing for me. Guys are visual, you know.” He tugged at her light pullover. “Guys wanna see what’s under the shirt. It took a while before you started to look at me like that. It didn’t happen until—” He paused. Thought. “Late spring of this year. Nine or ten months after we met at that stupid block party last summer.”

It was true. She remembered. It wasn’t until she and Aaron were out on their respective lawns doing yard work that they had a conversation independent of Jon and Benji. Aaron had been sending her very subtle signals. Signals that he had noticed her. And somewhere along the line, she’d begun responding to them. She was, perhaps, more susceptible to them the closer Benji got to leaving home…and as Jon’s inattention became more obvious…but Aaron’s signals to her predated hers to him.

“So, wait a freakin’ minute,” she told him. “Shouldn’t I be the one worried about
you
taking advantage of
me?
You flirted with me first. And I’m the emotionally vulnerable one here. I’m the one about to get divorced.”

He pulled her into his arms, a gentle but firm embrace. “Tamara, I’ve already been where you are. Grief and manipulation are not mutually exclusive. I may have slipped and kissed you the night of that party but, throughout most of this fall, you’ve been as much of an aggressor as I have, if not more. You stop by here. You flirt with me. You wear provocative outfits—”

She pulled away from him and crossed her arms. “Oh, give me a break. Like you don’t stop by my house? Like you don’t take your shirt off or wear those really great-fitting jeans on purpose?” She scowled at him, even though a part of her thought the whole argument was kind of funny. “Don’t try to claim I’m the only one being manipulative.”

“I’m not saying that.” He smiled carefully at her. “Just that you’re in the position of being even more manipulative than I am. Because there are a bunch of things you need to work out in your head. Your being here with me is not just about liking or not liking
me
. It’s also a reaction to your husband. It’s also a testing of a new role.” He pulled her back toward him and kissed her very lightly on her cheek. “I’m telling you, I’ve already been where you are. I’m not criticizing as much as explaining.”

“So, what kinds of things did
you
do after you and Isabelle separated?”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head for emphasis. “We’re not going there tonight. ’Cuz, a part of me—maybe more than one—is still trying to get you into bed with me sometime very soon. It’s too early in our physical relationship for me to tell you my sordid tales.” He winked at her. “But, even though I’ve been giving you shit, you gotta know, I do get it. I do empathize with you being at this stage. This beginning of the end of the marriage. So, just because in a lot of ways it’s a Very Bad Idea for you to sleep with me tonight, and vice versa, I’m not going to discourage it. I’m just trying to be open with you about the dangers. For both of us, really.”

Again, it was the ease with which he said stuff like this. The way he perceived it and processed it. She was stepping into brand new territory when they communicated. He was so direct. His understanding of human frailty so strong. He didn’t let her get away with anything, yet he was still so compassionate. She’d never met anyone like him. Not ever.

She had walked through his front door having fantasized a thousand times about the two of them having hot sex. Knowing it could be a reality for her, though—and being able to visualize it for real—gave her the courage to pull back. To say to him, “I want to be with you, but you’re right. This isn’t ideal timing. Maybe tonight we can just talk, snuggle, kiss.”

“Sure, Tamara. And while we’re doing that, you need to tell me if or when you want it to stop. You especially need to tell me if you think there’s even a one-billionth chance that you’ve changed your mind and you want to stay with Jon. Just don’t try to hide from me what you really want and really need. I know it’ll be confusing and inconsistent. I know it’ll change from one moment to the next. That’s okay. Just keep telling me the truth.”

She leaned over, and just before she kissed him again, she whispered, “Okay.”

And for the longest time, those were the last words spoken aloud. They shifted positions on the sofa until their bodies were stretched out—his partly curling over hers—and they made out like the teenagers they hadn’t been for decades. It was passionate, involving, and the tenderness of his touch almost made Tamara cry.

At one point, it must have been an hour or more later, they suddenly realized they were both cold and ravenous. Aaron got up to revive the dwindling fire and to bring them hastily made ham and cheese sandwiches. It was after seven, completely dark outside and a forbiddingly nippy night. Tamara was glad she didn’t have to go out there alone and walk back into her equally chilly house.

Aaron caught her staring out the window. “Do you need anything from home? Contact solution? Toothbrush?”

“I don’t wear contacts,” she said. “And I’ll finger brush and borrow your mouthwash. Deal?”

“Oooh. Nothin’ says hot to me like a freshly finger-brushed mouth.”

She laughed and they ate their sandwiches in companionable silence. Then, revived by the exercise, or maybe the nourishment, they slid back to their languorous spots on the sofa, and Aaron started kissing her again. This time harder, heavier, with more feeling and force.

He was doing it, she realized. He was doing just what he had said he would do: trying to get her to sleep with him. He had candidly admitted to it being a bad idea, but also confessed his intentions for giving it a shot. Aaron was honest that way. And this time, he did more than curl onto half of her. Fully clothed, he put more of his weight on her legs, her hips, her chest. He pressed deeper against her everywhere their bodies touched. With his hands, he explored any region of her not covered by any other part of him. Through his jeans and hers, she could feel his erection. She didn’t have to fantasize—or visualize, for that matter—anything at all. It was all right there. It was all too tangible to be trapped in her imagination.