Now or Never: A Last Chance Romance (Part 1) (4 page)

My breasts are C cups.

When I get home, I take off my blouse and my bra and I look at them.  They have lost their perk.  I think my nipples have become slightly darker.  And they have certainly never looked the same since I had Max.  And for twelve years they have been tucked away inside my bra, unseen by any man except my physician.

And soon they will no longer be part of my body.

It’s like that song or poem or whoever it was who said, You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.

Suddenly, I adore my breasts.  I don’t want them to go out this way — unloved.  Untouched.  I feel like I should apologize to them.

“What the fuck,” I say, tears filling my eyes.  I sit on my bed and reach into my handbag for a tissue.  Instead, I find the cocktail napkin.

With a sniff, I unfold it and see the words written in Justin’s neat handwriting:

The Now or Never List
:

1.  Kiss a stranger

2.  Wear sexy lingerie

3.  Go to a strip club

4.  Have hot, anonymous oral sex

5.  Watch people have sex

6.  Have a one-night stand

7.  Have sex in /files/10/89/66/f108966/public/risk of getting caught

8.  Anal

9.  A three-way

10.  ?

The “now or never” list.

The words trigger full on sobs.  I hadn’t seen him write that, but it’s true.

Kiss a stranger.

Hot, anonymous sex.

I take off the rest of my clothes except for my underwear, and lay back on my bed.  Closing my eyes, I run my hands over my body.

Justin might as well be in the room with me — that’s how much I feel him.  I see his face, I imagine his strong wrists and long, artistic fingers.  Moving my hand lower, over my belly, into my underwear, I’m already breathing faster.  When I touch the folds between my legs, it makes me squirm with the promise of pleasure that will follow.

My clit is already swollen.  I think of Justin — the way he said the words “hot oral sex.” The way his face looked, bent over the bar in concentration, writing things down.  The way he looked at me, waiting to hear me speak.  I imagine him saying,

Why waste time with a list?  Let’s get out of here.  Right now.

I imagine us leaving, going somewhere — his place?  A hotel?  And I imagine those large, graceful hands on my body. 
Let me touch you, Claire.  The way you haven’t been touched in so long…

My pelvis feels heavy with the swell of sexual excitement.  I slip my finger lower, inside myself, with steady strokes.

His sensual mouth is on mine, then my neck, lower, until between my legs
.

I move my hand faster, squeezing my thighs together to increase the pressure.  And then it happens, that sharp burst of pleasure, shooting through me hard and fast, like a dart.  Then ebbing, widening, like a wave.

I pulse against my own hand, riding the orgasm, until all thoughts of reality versus fantasy are obliterated by sweet sensation.

*** ***

First thing in the morning, Aimee stands in the center of the cosmetics floor, beckoning for us to gather around like she is Glinda the Good Witch, and we are her little munchkins.

Her brown hair, highlighted with chunky streaks of blond, is pulled into a neat ponytail.  Her dress is chocolate brown, falling just below the knee, cinched at the waist.  She is always dressed with extreme professionalism, but somehow it always comes off like she’s wearing a costume.  I bet if I ran into her outside the store she’d be wearing a tight shirt, black skinny jeans, and fuck-me pumps.

It’s our morning “rally,” as in pep rally or “rally the troops.” It used to be a great start to the day — back when Beth Capezio was the department manager.  She used to share sales figures from the previous day, field ideas for product promotions, and sometimes just let us gossip like a hen club.  We could tell she loved the group, and the meeting often lasted until the second the security guards unlocked the doors for the customers at ten.

But with Aimee, it’s clearly perfunctory — a routine dictated by Macy’s corporate.  Instead of sharing numbers to be encouraging, she holds the sales goals over our heads, never failing to remind us that we don’t want to become the department that is the “anchor” around the neck of store #448.  When we bring up ideas for sales promotions, she tells us to talk to our brand field reps, and they can present the promo to her for approval.  These may seem like small things, but it sets the tone for the department.  And since Aimee arrived, fresh from Rosemont Community College, it has not been a positive one.

“You’re just not good with change,” Patti tells me.

“I’ll be in closed-door meetings all day.  So if you need anything, it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.  And,” Aimee squints at her phone, where she must have some sort of app that tracks the department’s sales because she consults it every morning.  “Let’s pick up the pace, shall we?  Patti, I don’t like to point fingers.  But I’m talking to you.  God knows Clinique isn’t much to work with, but you’ve got to move some stock.  And speaking of stock, there are still half a dozen boxes in the back
. 
Whoever they belong to, that inventory better be on the shelves or behind the bay by lunchtime.  Or whoever is responsible will unpack everyone else’s inventory next week.”

Patti and I look at each other.  I’m pretty sure they’re my boxes.  I was a big sluggish this morning and didn’t get to check the stock room before the rally.  I’m not used to being out late, or drinking.  Or laying awake all hours of the morning, thinking about how it would feel to have a man’s hands on my body.

I hate to think about it now, in the rational light of day, but what happened in my bedroom last night was pretty intense.  Once I started, it was so easy to fall into the familiar rhythm.  It was startling almost, to find the pleasure right there for the taking.  I should be happy about it, but I’m a little bothered by Justin being so central to the whole thing.  That it was his fingers stroking and penetrating me — the thought of
him
sent me over the edge, making me so wet I felt like a teenager.

“Are you hearing me, ladies?” Aimee says, startling me out of my reverie.

We mumble in the affirmative.

Aimee straightens her Banana Republic skirt, and saunters off to her office.  Patti scurries to my side.

“Not much to work with?  Is she kidding me?  Clinique is the most classic brand in this department.  Mothers bring their daughters to get lipstick because it was where they got their first lipstick!”

“Don’t take it personally,” I say.  But I know how she feels.  Our counters are our babies.

“Speaking of personal,” she says, steering me to my counter.  “I know you don’t want to hear this, but really, I was talking to Geoff last night, and we both think it’s a bad idea to wait until November to do your surgery.”

Patti and her husband, Geoff, talk about everything.  It’s difficult sometimes to maintain my cynical distance from men when I see their wonderful marriage.  But they are the exception, not the rule.  Sometimes I wonder if their closeness has to do with the fact they never were able to have children.  Their whole lives have been devoted to taking care of each other.  Maybe that makes all the difference.

“Patti, the doctor said there is no rush.  I would never do something risky.  Look, Max just went off to school.  I want some time to enjoy myself and to get all my ducks in a row.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?  Because if you have doubts, or want a second opinion, I’ll go with you to someone else.  My sister said there’s a woman in New York who’s fantastic.”

“I’m not going to New York, Patti.  I like Dr. Martell.  Honestly, there is nothing more going on here.  I feel okay about it.”

“Have you told Max?”

I bite the inside of my lip.  This is my second toughest decision.  I hate to lie to my son — at the very least I am lying by omission.  But I don’t want to burden him with this.  It’s his first semester of college.  I don’t want him worrying about mom.

“Not yet,” I admit.

“He’d want to be supportive, Claire.  You have to tell him when it gets closer to your surgery.”

“I will.” My phone vibrates in the pocket of my uniform.  If I get caught checking on the floor during store hours I’ll be in trouble.

Meet me at Red Ruby’s on
Broad Street
tonight 10:30.- J

           
I cannot believe he’s texting me.

           
I smile and type back,
That is way past my bedtime. 
I’m not being coy.  I can’t remember the last time I went out at that hour.

Exactly how u got into this predicament.  Nothing on the list will happen before
midnight
.

           
He can’t be serious about that list.

On the way home from work I do something impulsive.  I stop at Pet Valu on Lancaster Avenue, and buy a litter box, litter, a plastic food bowl set, and a bag of IAMS cat food.

The cat is waiting for me on the front stoop again.

“I told you to stay in back,” I scold, juggling the bags of supplies as I put my key in the front door lock.  Her tail is held high.

Here we go.

I open the door for her. The cat looks at me, her green eyes bright and almost quizzical.  Or am I imagining it?

And then she strolls right in.  Like she belongs here.

“Okay then.  I guess that’s that.”

I set up the litter box in the first floor bathroom, and her food and water bowls in the kitchen.  I scoop her up, and place her in the litter box.  I read somewhere that all you have to do is show a cat once and they’ll get the whole litter box thing.  But her feet barely hit the gravel before she shakes off and walks out of it.

“Okay, you do your thing for now.  But I’m not leaving here until we have an understanding about this litter box situation.”

She wanders away, sniffing my furniture, exploring.

That’s when the panic sets in.  What if she has fleas?  What if she starts clawing up my upholstery?  I have to tell Justin I can’t go out tonight.  This situation needs on-site management.

My phone is in my bag, and I find his last text and write back,
Sorry can’t make it tonight. I just got a new cat and can’t leave her.

As soon as I hit send, I feel relief.

Then realize what I’ve done.

I got a cat — a live animal that will be with me for possibly the next fifteen years — just to avoid whatever awaits me tonight with Justin.  And what was I thinking last night — spilling all my personal crap?  Maybe focusing on my non-existent sex life is my way of avoiding the real problem.  It’s more fun to think about sex than breast cancer, right?

But deep down, I don’t believe that’s it.  Hearing those stories at the reading salon stirred something in me — and it wasn’t lust.

Regret.

I look at my phone, a sinking feeling in my stomach.  Is there a way to take back a text?  My phone vibrates.

Ah, the old cat ate my homework excuse. Romi, don’t be a pussy. See you at
10:30
.

*** ***

Red Ruby’s is a world away from the bars I occasionally frequent with Patti.  We always stay local, Bryn Mawr or Conshohocken.  Certainly nothing fancy like this place in Center City with its low lighting, leather furniture, and fifteen foot high ceilings.     The crowd is young and professional. I don’t belong here.

Justin is already at the bar.  He smiles at me as I make my way across the room.  For the first time in a long time, I feel attractive.  I feel like I’m out for the night. I feel like I’m a woman — although a woman with a coach that will turn into a pumpkin in eight weeks.

I slide onto the seat next to him.  He is wearing a suit, no tie.  His hair curls around his shirt collar.  If there is a better looking guy in the place, I don’t see him.

“You look hot,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, wryly.  I’m wearing a black Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress that I bought during Employee Discount Day last fall.  For my great-aunt’s funeral.

“I mean it.  Glad to see you came ready to play ball.”  He gets the bartenders attention.

“Just, ah, a glass of Chardonnay.  Thanks,” I say.

“You want a shot?” Justin asks me.

“No.  Why?  Is that a prerequisite for The List?”

“Doesn’t hurt,” he says.

“Are you serious about this?  Don’t get me wrong — this is the most interesting conversation I’ve had in years.  But really, Justin?”

“Let me ask you something:  Why are you waiting two months to have your surgery?  They couldn’t get you in any sooner?”

“No, it’s not that.  He told me I didn’t have to rush.  I chose a date I’m comfortable with.”

“So why not just get it over with?”

Point taken.  I take a sip of wine.  It’s cold and crisp, perfectly delicious.  But I’m suddenly craving something stronger.

“What are you drinking?” I ask him.

“Ketel straight up,” he says.  “Want a sip?”

I signal for the bartender and order what he’s having.  Then I look around the room.  “You think something is going to happen here?  Tonight?”

“I know it will.”

“I think you underestimate the powers of a twelve year dry spell,” I say.

“And you underestimate yourself.”

My vodka appears.

“To The List,” he says.

I smile.  “I guess that’s an improvement over your toast to the YMCA.”

“I told you it would be better if you’re just honest with me.”

We touch our glasses together.  His irises are rimmed with gray. The color is velvety, intense.  I have to look away.  He smiles, and it’s as if he knows what I’m thinking — or, worse, what I thought last night alone in my bed.

“Okay. I’ve been honest with you,” I say. “Now it’s your turn.”

“I’m an open book,” he says.

“So what’s your deal?”

“I’ve told you. I own a headhunting business.  I do pretty well for myself.  I’m not married — never been, never plan to be. I grew up around here, went to Haverford Prep, then Duke.”

“Ah,” I say.  “A rich kid. I should have known.”  He did have a certain air of entitlement about him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“No really.  Let’s hear it, Romi,” he says.  No one has called me by my last name since tenth grade field hockey.

“It’s just you’re extremely confident, and it sounds like your life has been pretty much straight lines…that explains a lot, that’s all.”

“You think because I went to expensive schools my life has been ‘straight lines’?  Romie, that’s simplistic, even for a woman who decides no sex for a decade is an acceptable solution to bad dates.”

“So, then tell me, Mr. Open Book?  What’s been the bump in your road?”

I’m smiling, teasing him.  But a shadow crosses his face.  Whatever nerve I’ve hit, I immediately regret it.  “Or,” I say, back-peddling.  “You can tell me what happened after I left last night.”  I envision the giggling young women, and feel a hot, unwelcome pang of jealousy.  I know it’s ridiculous to feel this way.

“I went home,” he says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.  Don’t look so surprised.”

“I thought for sure you went back inside to take one of those women up on the offer their eyes were making all night.”

He shook his head.  “I know you think I’m a man slut, but I do have some self-control.”

“I’m not saying you’re a man slut.  I just get the sense that it’s really easy for you.”

“It’s pretty easy for everyone, Claire.  Most people like to get laid.  There’s no magic to it.  And no mystery, either.”

“Well, maybe not for you,” I say.

“Not for you either, if you changed your attitude.”

“Yeah, right,” I scoff.

“Really.  It’s infinitely easier for a woman to get laid than a man.  We have to work for it.  Prove our worth.  All you have to do is sit back and take your pick of the offerings.”

I shake my head.  “I don’t think so.”

“Then you’re going to have to take my word for it.  Don’t look now, but at the other end of the bar, right where it curves, there’s a guy with a short beard who keeps looking at you.”

“No, there is not.”

“Yeah. But don’t look.”

How can I not look?  But Justin holds my gaze, and I will myself to stay focused on him.  I’m not interested in some strange guy with a short beard, but I am curious if Justin is teasing me or not.  I’m sure he is.  He must be.

“Romi, sex is everywhere once you’ve got your eyes open to it.”

Trying to avoid looking at the guy who is allegedly checking me out, I glance away from the bar, at a table of three women in their mid-twenties.  Their slender bodies are poured into tight, short dresses, their feet in treacherous looking stilettos.  The prettiest one has glossy dark hair falling heavily to her shoulders.  Her arms are long and tanned, decorated with thin gold bangle bracelets.  There is something feline and predatory about her.  Or maybe it’s the way she is looking at Justin.

He notices her attention, stands up, and pushes back his bar stool.

“Where are you going?”

He winks at me.  “A good wingman knows when it’s time for a little space.  I don’t want that guy to think you’re unavailable.”  Just as I’m about to protest, tell him not to be ridiculous, he leans close to me and says, “Two months, Romi. It’s now or never.”

He walks away.