Unravelled (12 page)

Moments later I was immersed in the warm water, a glass of wine and a plate of snacks balancing on the edge of the tub. I could practically feel the stiffness being soothed away by the lavender-scented water, the pain pills, and the relaxing glass of Zinfandel. Surely, by the time Jim arrived, I’d be as limber as a yogi. I would just stay in here, sipping my wine, nibbling at the cheese and olives until I heard him at the door.

I was looking forward to meeting his cohorts. I planned to look my best and to be charming, witty, and relaxed in their company. They would probably envy Jim his pretty young girlfriend, maybe even teasing him about it. “What are you doing with this old guy?” they’d say. Or, “If you ever want to trade him in for a younger model, I’m only forty-seven.” It was a big step, meeting his friends, but I was ready—
we
were ready—to present ourselves as a couple.

And then, when dinner was over, I’d bring him back to my room for a mini-bar nightcap. Because...well, it was the logical next step wasn’t it? We’d known each other for a while now, and we were definitely attracted to each other. The sexual tension between us was becoming almost unbearable! Besides, it would be a waste of such a romantic location if we didn’t get some action. When I finished this glass of wine, I would shave my legs.

But halfway through my second glass, I began to feel a bit dizzy. Handling a razor in this woozy state was not a good idea. Perhaps I was overheating? As I stood, I noticed that my muscles did feel infinitely better. Unfortunately, my muscles were now the least of my problems. My head continued to swim as I wrapped a towel around myself and moved to the sink. Splashing cool water on my face seemed to have little effect. I shouldn’t have had the second glass of wine, which was really my third if you counted the one I’d had with my salad. And I hadn’t even thought to check if it was okay to combine alcohol and those muscle relaxants. Where was the package? I should check.

And here’s where things get a bit fuzzy. At some point, I awoke to an insistent banging at the door. I was facedown on the bed, the room completely dark. Clutching the damp towel around my nakedness, I stumbled to answer the door. “Hi,” I cooed, as Jim stepped inside. He had showered, his hair still a bit wet, and he was wearing fresh clothes. I moved into his arms, groggily nuzzling his neck. “You look so good,” I mumbled. “And you smell good, too. I also smell good since I just had a lavender bubble bath. So, since we’re both clean and we both smell good, why don’t we have sex?” At least I must have said something like that because I remember leading him to the bed, and him following me, willingly. I remember him lying down beside me, and kissing me and stroking my hair. I remember running my hands over his shoulders and trying, unsuccessfully, to unbutton his shirt. I don’t remember anything after that. I must have passed out.

Seventeen

SO, YOU DIDN’T sleep with him, then?” Martin asked. He didn’t appear to have taken his sweater project to San Francisco with him, but he was still miles—okay, inches—ahead of the rest of us. He reached for his glass of wine sitting on Sophie’s coffee table.

“No,” I said, rather sheepishly. “I mean . . . I don’t think so.”

“But you could have, right?” Angie said. “You were passed out.”

Something in Angie’s tone made me feel defensive. “I highly doubt he took advantage of me while I was comatose. He’s a successful architect! Not some date-rape drug-slipping frat boy.”

“I’m just saying it’s
possible,
” she replied. “Sheesh.”

“Did you talk about it afterward?” Sophie asked. She was looking especially pretty tonight in a fuchsia top with plunging neckline and snug jeans. Obviously, the body-hugging clothing was for Martin’s benefit. He didn’t appear to have noticed.

“I apologized, of course. But I didn’t come right out and
ask
if we’d
done it.
It was too awkward.”

Awkward
was an understatement. That morning, I had woken up with a pounding headache and a bleary, undefined feeling of remorse. As I regained my senses, I realized I was naked, tucked neatly into bed, and I was alone. The evening came back to me in bits and pieces: the muscle relaxants, the hot bath, the wine, dragging Jim over to the bed and asking him to have sex with me . . . or maybe just suggesting the sex? Either way, my behaviour was mortifying. Was there a bus I could catch that would take me back to Seattle so I didn’t have to face him?

But I valued the relationship too much to sneak out of town without talking to him. Of course, there was every possibility that
he
may have sneaked out of town to avoid me. Nonetheless, I showered, dressed, and then called his cell phone. My heart was beating loudly in my throat as I listened to it ring. God, I hoped I hadn’t ruined everything.

“Hi,” he answered, his voice gentle and caring. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” I said, through the lump in my throat, “just... really embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. I’m at a breakfast meeting right now. Why don’t you order something to eat and I’ll come by in about an hour?”

“Okay,” I said meekly, feeling like a little girl—a little girl with a mild hangover, that is.

I picked at the fruit salad and muffin I’d ordered, too nervous to eat. What if my antics last night caused Jim to realize that I simply wasn’t in his league? And maybe I should just face it? I wasn’t in his league. He was sophisticated, wealthy, and a top-of-his-field architect. He cared about the future of the planet! He was a connoisseur of wines! I was a struggling writer who occasionally threw pop cans in the garbage and didn’t know enough about wine not to mix it with muscle relaxants. Astrological compatibility aside, we just weren’t a match.

The intensity of my malaise surprised me. I hadn’t realized how much I had been rooting for this relationship to progress. While I couldn’t deny that I still harboured feelings for Colin, I honestly felt my future lay with Jim. He had the emotional maturity to know how important a relationship was. He had learned, over the years, what life was all about: love, commitment, family... He had the time and energy to devote to a wife and children, and more importantly, the desire to have them! Jim was what Colin would be one day when he grew up—
if
he grew up.

Jim’s knock at the door startled me. I took a deep breath before going to greet him. I suddenly felt on the verge of tears, and I knew I had to pull myself together. If I started crying in front of him
again,
he was bound to think I had serious emotional problems.

But as soon as I opened the door, he swept me into his arms. “I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” he murmured into my hair. “I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” I mumbled.

He released me and stared into my eyes. “I stayed with you while you slept—I wanted to make sure you were all right. But I had an eight o’clock meeting so I sneaked out at seven.”

God, he was amazing. “I’m so sorry,” I cried. “I don’t know what happened. It was the wine and the bath and the muscle relaxants. And I’d only had a cinnamon bun and a salad to eat. I really wanted to meet your colleagues and I really wanted to spend—” I caught myself before I said “the night with you,” “—more time with you. I ruined our last night here, and I feel terrible.”

“Heyyyy,” he said soothingly. “These things happen. Besides, I was going to suggest we blow off the symposium dinner and spend some time alone, anyway. So, at least we got to do that... even if you were snoring through most of it.”

I gasped. “Oh god! Was I snoring?” Great. Snoring was about as sexy as farting.

Jim chuckled. “You were a perfect sleeping beauty.”

I leaned in toward him and kissed his lips. “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” I whispered. Unfortunately, Jim didn’t seem to catch my hint to come inside and let me make it up to him at that moment. Instead, he looked at his watch and suggested we get on the road. But I definitely planned to make it up to him. Where and when was the question? The next time Jim and I found ourselves alone together, I would not squander it away by passing out.

Martin’s voice brought my attention back to Sophie’s living room. “Maybe it’s for the best that you didn’t sleep with him?”

“Yeah?”

“This way, your wedding night will really
mean something.
”

“Martin!” Sophie squealed, delighted by his jibe at Nicola, who was unable to join us this evening. (She and Neil had an important meeting with the calligraphist who was doing their place cards.)

“You’re such a bitch!” I cried. My eyes darted to Angie, to see if she picked up the gist of my words. Obviously, only a gay man could have such a bitchy sense of humour.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist,” Martin laughed. “But who knows? Maybe Nic’s on to something?”

“Right,” Angie said dismissively. “But it’s not like Beth is thinking about
marrying
this guy.” I remained silent, counting the knits and purls building on my needle. Angie looked at me. “Well, you’re not, are you?”

“No . . . I mean, I’ve only been seeing him for a short time . . .”

“But do you think... he’s marriage material?” The edge had gone from Angie’s tone, and her voice was soft, almost tentative.

“I—I don’t know,” I stammered, meeting her gaze. “I guess it’s possible.” And that’s when I saw the unmistakable glint of fear in her eyes. Angie was as afraid of losing me to Jim as I was of losing her to Thad. “It would be months—even years—away.” I tried to reassure her. “
If
it ever happened.”

“Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Sophie muttered.

Martin, oblivious to Sophie’s comment, said, “I have
a feeling
about Beth and Jim.”

“A feeling?” I said, blushing.

“This relationship shows real growth,” Martin continued, helping Sophie bind off Flynn’s mint green hat. “You’ve obviously learned a lot and you’re not going to make the same mistake twice.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Uh . . . How do you mean?”

“Your last partner was an immature commitment-phobe, right? It doesn’t sound like you’ll have that problem with Jim.”

“He’s like the anti-Colin,” Sophie giggled.

“Yeah, I can’t say that thought didn’t cross my mind. He’s really an amazing man.” As soon as I’d uttered the words, I realized how revoltingly besotted I sounded. I tried to tone it down. “It’s just the beginning for us though, so, who knows? I mean, we haven’t even seen each other naked yet. Well, I guess he’s seen me naked . . .”

“The wedding night won’t be a total surprise then,” Angie quipped.

I laughed along but my cheeks were beginning to burn. I had already shared too much of my private relationship with my knitting circle. Without Nicola there for the fail-safe topic change, I shifted the conversation to Martin. “So how was San Francisco?”

“Really busy, but great,” he replied, handing Sophie back Flynn’s now-completed hat. He smiled at her fondly. “Now, we just need to sew the back seam, and it will be all ready for him.”

“Thank you so much,” Sophie cooed. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

“My pleasure. Do you have a yarn needle?” He was still smiling at her, kind of intensely. Was there something there, or was he just genuinely happy to be able to help her with her kid’s hat?

“I’ll get one for next week,” Sophie replied, eyes still fixed to Martin’s.

“So...” I interrupted the flirting or thanking or whatever was going on there. “Tell us about San Fran. What did you get up to?”

“I was mostly working and networking.”

I asked, “Any shopping? Wine tasting?”

“No.”

“Did you go to any sporting events? Motor-cross racing?” Angie queried. God, she was so obvious. But Martin just gave her a bemused look and shook his head.

“Do you have any friends in the area?” I tried. Having friends in the area didn’t necessarily confirm he was gay, but maybe he’d elaborate? Say something like: “Of course I do. Every gay man in America has a friend who ran off to San Francisco.”

“I have a cousin there, but I didn’t have time to see her.”

Well, this was getting us nowhere. I reached for another Thai chicken drumette. “These are delicious, Sophie.”

“Thanks,” she smiled demurely, no doubt for Martin’s benefit. “I just whipped them up this afternoon.”

“They’re amazing,” Martin agreed. “Did you try one, Ange?”

“Oh, no thanks,” Angie said, turning her attention to her tiny strip of knitting. “I’m not really eating stuff like that these days.”

“Stuff like what? Chicken?”

Sophie asked, “Are you becoming a vegetarian?”

“No . . .” she said, hesitantly, her cheeks turning pink. “I’m just not really eating things that are . . . you know,
cooked.
”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I cried. “That is so Hollywood!”

“How is caring about your health so Hollywood?” Angie shot back. “We feel so much lighter and have so much more energy now that we’re on the raw food diet.”

I felt a surge of panic. This Thad character was turning my best friend into some raw food-eating, magic water-drinking weirdo! And what was next? Sleeping in a hyperbaric chamber? Adopting a chimpanzee? But I knew I couldn’t express my concern without antagonizing Angie. I bit into the spicy chicken wing to keep from commenting.

At nine-thirty we packed away our accoutrements and called it a night. Martin had his car there—a silver Mazda Protegé which gave no indication of his sexual proclivity. If only he’d been driving a hot pink VW Bug! He dropped off Angie first, and then me. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, when we pulled up in front of my building.

“No problem. We should have coffee soon. We still haven’t talked about your story ideas.”

“I know. Let’s definitely do that. I’ll call you next week.”

“Okay. And thanks again for the maple fudge. It’s so
Canadian.
”

“My pleasure.” My hand gripped the door handle but I hesitated before jumping out of the car. I’d always felt comfortable with Martin, like he was the kind of guy you could really open up to. And seeing him weekly for the past couple of months had made me feel closer to him than ever. I looked into his warm brown eyes and felt a real connection. So why didn’t I just ask him if he was gay? Maybe even tell him that Sophie was developing feelings for him so that he could put a stop to things before she did any permanent damage to her marriage.

“So . . .” I began, but something stopped the words from coming. What if Martin was straight? Would he be offended that I thought he was gay? Or what if he was gay? Would he be offended that Sophie and Angie thought he was straight? What if he was straight and had feelings for Sophie? Did I want to be the one to blow the whole thing wide open and essentially end Sophie’s marriage? Did I want to be the one responsible for breaking up baby Flynn’s family? “. . . I’ll talk to you soon,” I finished. “Good night.”

Inside the apartment Kendra was lying under a blanket watching
Sweet Home Alabama.
“Hi,” I mumbled. “Got some work to do . . .” This had become my standard excuse for hiding out in my room. I knew I should have been making more of an effort to befriend my roommate, but I didn’t have the energy this late in the evening. Besides, she wouldn’t want me distracting her from Reese Witherspoon’s agonizing choice between Patrick Dempsey and Josh Lucas.

Alone in my bedroom, I opened my laptop. Hopefully, I clicked on the email icon. Jim had sent me an email on the Monday after our return thanking me for joining him and saying he hoped he’d see me soon. Since then, all had been quiet. It was only Thursday, but I’d hoped this new phase of our relationship meant I’d be hearing from him more often. When the little hourglass on the screen disappeared, I felt a swell of disappointment. There were no new messages.

I sighed heavily and prepared to visit
soapcity.com
to catch up on some of the daytime TV viewing I’d missed since work had picked up. Just as the homepage appeared, I was struck by a sudden thought. Why wasn’t
I
emailing Jim? Or even calling him, for that matter? I hadn’t imagined the closeness we’d felt in Whistler, that sense of comfort and belonging. I mean, I kind of sort of considered him my almost boyfriend now. Yes, I would call him. It was perfectly normal, even expected, to call your almost-boyfriend and wish him good night.