Waiting For Ethan (11 page)

M
y GPS leads me off the highway and onto a long, winding back road. “Turn right on Maple Avenue,” the male voice instructs. He has an Australian accent. I named him Jonah and imagine he is over six feet tall with bulging biceps and six-pack abs. He has a healthy tan, sun-streaked sandy brown hair, gorgeous blue eyes like Ethan's, and unlike Ethan, a toothpaste-ad killer smile. Even though Jonah's good-looking enough to be a movie star, he's really smart. He's Australia's top architect. When he's not working, he loves to ride the waves. Someday I'm going Down Under, and he's going to give me surfing lessons. We'll have a torrid affair. He'll fall in love and beg me not to leave, but of course, I'll have to.

I told Luci about this fantasy once. She turned sideways in the passenger seat and pushed her Maui Jims off her eyes and back into her hair. Her green eyes studying me, squinting. “Gina, we're signing you up for online dating, stat.” Of course, I refused. I still can't believe Cooper is using an online dating site. The whole idea of posting a profile with a picture and contact information for any weirdo to see is just too creepy. I'd probably end up living my last days on a mattress in a basement, handcuffed to a pipe while some three-hundred-pound sociopath who hasn't bathed since George Bush left the White House has his way with me.

“Turn left on Marsh Street,” Jonah instructs. “In point seven miles, turn right on Seaside Avenue.” I pass a general store, the parking lot empty now. I imagine coming here with Ethan in the summer. We'll have to fight for a parking space and wait in line to buy our sandwiches, ice-cold drinks, and other provisions for a long, relaxing day at the shore. I see myself putting our items down on the counter in front of the register, while on my left hand a shiny pear-shaped diamond sparkles.

“Approaching right turn.” I flip on my blinker and turn onto the narrow street where Ethan lives with Jack. I pass a row of small Capes, most of them gray. “You have reached your destination,” Jonah says.

I park next to a black Ford Fusion and study Jack's house for a moment. The only things distinguishing it from the homes around it are the painted yellow clapboard and the pole proudly flying a Boston Celtics flag at the end of the gravel driveway. I get out of the car and head toward the front door, feeling the stones crunch under my boots. In the distance, I hear the sound of waves crashing. This place couldn't be any more different from the mountainside log cabin Ethan shared with Leah.

I reach the front door and ring the bell. I hear barking from the garage. “Quiet, Brady,” a male voice snarls. The door swings open. A basketball-player-tall man with bright red hair stands on the other side. He does a double take and his mouth gapes open when he sees me. I wonder if I have something smeared on my face or if my hair has frizzed so much it now looks like a Brillo Pad. That happens sometimes no matter how long I spend straightening it. The man says nothing, just stands there looking at me like maybe he's never seen a female before. “You must be Jack,” I finally say through the storm door separating us.

He blinks twice and nods. “And you must be Gina.” He pushes the door open and steps to the side for me to enter. “Ethan's in the kitchen.” He points upstairs. “Take your shoes off before heading up.”

He stands watching me with his arms folded across his chest as I balance myself on the railing and pull off my boots. He's giving me the heebie-jeebies the way he's studying me so intently.
What are you looking at?
I scream inside my head. When I finish taking off my boots, he gestures with his arm for me to climb the stairs first. Is it ridiculous that I'm a little afraid to turn my back on him? We get to the top of the stairs. It smells delicious up here, like chicken potpie. Jack takes my coat and disappears to a closet down the hall.

Ethan emerges from the kitchen, smiling. “You made it.” He gathers me in his arms, kisses me hello, and hugs me tightly. His scent, a combination of sawdust and pine, is already familiar. Jack returns, wearing a jacket himself now. Good, he's leaving. Only, he doesn't. He stands there watching Ethan and me embrace, so I pull away.

Ethan follows my gaze to Jack. “Have a good night.”

Jack doesn't answer, just stands there shaking his head.

“What gives?” Ethan asks.

“You're something else, man,” Jack says.

“What did I do now? Don't tell me you're still pissed about Brady?” Before Jack answers, a buzzer sounds. Ethan shrugs and heads back to the kitchen.

I start to follow him, but Jack grabs my arm, his hand tightly wrapped around my elbow, his fingernails digging into my sweater. He tilts his head toward the living room. “Come with me. I want to show you something before I take off.”

Something about the way he says it conjures up memories of my parents sitting me down to talk in the days after Matthew Colby disappeared. “Don't ever go anywhere with a stranger,” my father warned.

Jack must sense my hesitation. He loosens his grip on my elbow. “It will just take a second.” He guides me toward the couch and tells me to sit. When I do, he walks across the room to a built-in bookcase, pulls a stack of photos off one of the shelves, and flips through them. He finds the one he wants and heads back toward me.

He sits down next to me and hands me a picture of Ethan on a motorcycle with a woman standing next to him holding a helmet. I take a deep breath while I study the photograph. Ethan's looking at the woman with a huge grin, seemingly unaware that the picture is being taken. She, on the other hand, seems oblivious that Ethan is there. She's looking directly into the camera with an impatient expression. She has long dark hair, big brown eyes, and an olive complexion. I can't stop staring at her. Jack leans forward so that he can see my face. “Leah?” I ask, my voice shaky.

“So you see the resemblance.”

“She's a good-looking woman.” I force myself to laugh, but I'm remembering when Ethan and I first met, how he did the same double take Jack did. Is this why he's dating me, because I look like his soon-to-be ex-wife?

“When I first opened the door, I thought you were Leah coming to reclaim Brady,” Jack says.

“Why did you show me this?”

He cracks his knuckles and leans back on the couch. “Ethan's a good guy. He's like a brother to me, but this thing with Leah. It's got him all messed up.”

Ethan enters the room, dish towel in hand. He makes a sweeping gesture with it. “Dinner is ser—” He stops speaking when he notices the photo in my hand. He crosses the room in two giant steps and peers down at the picture. “Oh man, why did you drag that out?”

“The resemblance is uncanny,” Jack answers. “I wanted Gina to see.”

“You're out of your mind.” He takes the picture from me. I swear he caresses the image of Leah with his index finger. “They look nothing alike.”

“Come on, man.”

“I don't see it,” Ethan snaps. Maybe it wasn't a caress. Maybe he was trying to erase her.

“You're full of it,” Jack says.

“We have the same coloring,” I say. It's an attempt to stop the hostility from escalating, because even if Ethan doesn't see it, his soon-to-be ex-wife could be my twin, the sister I always wanted. How could he not see it?

“Whatever.” Ethan tosses the photo on the coffee table. “Let's go before dinner gets cold.” He heads back into the kitchen without waiting for me.

I stand. Jack gets up, too. “Hey,” he says, “Leah really screwed him over. He's still fragile.” He pauses, pulls his keys from his coat pocket. “Just be careful.”

I walk into the kitchen wondering what I'm supposed to be careful of.

 

At dinner, Ethan is the perfect host. He instructs me to sit, pours me a glass of white wine, and serves me a bowl filled with chicken potpie with a buttery, golden-brown, flaky crust and a steaming hot filling of creamy potatoes, large chunks of chicken, and soft carrots. He leans across the table toward me, waiting for me to take a bite. “So, what do you think?” His face is serious, and his fingers drum the table as he waits for me to respond.

“It's delicious.” The drumming stops, and he smiles, practically breaking my heart. No one has ever wanted my approval so badly before.

He hands me a piece of corn bread. “Try this. Tell me what you taste.”

I bite into the spongy yellow bread. My throat burns as I swallow. “Jalapeño.”

“My secret ingredient.” He winks. I can't help myself. I lean across the table and kiss him.

By the time the meal is over, we've killed off half the pie, the pan of bread, the entire bottle of wine, and most of another.

“Where did you learn to cook?” I ask.

He laughs. “It was a matter of survival. Leah's idea of cooking is slapping peanut butter and jelly on burnt toast.”

After his reaction in the living room, I've been careful not to mention her or the picture, but since he brought her up, I figure she's fair game now. “So, do you really not see a resemblance between me and Leah?”

“A lot of women have long dark hair and brown eyes, Gina.” He picks up his plate and takes it to the sink. I do the same.

“It's more than that,” I say as he rinses his plate.

He yanks on the handle of the faucet to shut the water off. “Believe me, Gina, you're nothing alike.” I can't tell if it's a good thing, the way he says it. We work in silence. When the kitchen is clean, he wraps his arms around me. “Sorry. Leah's hundreds of miles away, and she's still screwing up my life. Believe me, you're nothing alike. You're so much prettier than she is.” He kisses me softly, and my body responds the same way it always does. It's not unusual for men to be attracted to a certain type of woman, I think, as I kiss him back. Ethan's type is dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin. No different from me liking men with blue eyes and dark hair. He's backed me against the counter, and his kisses are rougher now. He whispers again as his fingers glide down my body unfastening buttons, “And so much sexier.” I feel the counter's hard edge cutting into my back as Ethan's body presses into mine. By the time he lifts me and carries me into his room, I've forgotten all about the picture of Leah.

T
he host at the Italian restaurant uses short, clipped sentences when explaining that after an hour, she gave our table away because she assumed we weren't coming. We can clearly see two empty tables, but she insists we will have to wait at least thirty minutes before being seated. Ethan and I decide to have a drink at the bar, which has more unoccupied than occupied stools.

It's my fault we're late. Well, really, it's because of the effect Ethan has on me. Ever since that weekend he cooked me dinner. It's like he's shaken loose years of repressed longings and cracked the foundation of my self-restraint. Now each time I see him, a tsunami of uncontrollable desire rushes over me. We've spent the night together a dozen times since then, and each time is better than the last. I can tell he enjoys the power he has over me because he prolongs the foreplay until I'm pleading, arching my back so high a double-decker bus could drive underneath.

When he came to pick me up tonight, he gave me that suggestive smile before kissing me hello. That's all it took. I was reaching for the button fly of his Levi's. He pushed my hand away, laughing. “Slow down, Speed Racer. We've got dinner reservations.” But as he said it, he was sliding one hand under my skirt while pushing me against the refrigerator with the other.

Now, seated at the bar with drinks in front of us, he uses his index finger to trace small circles on my thigh, each inching higher than the last. He leans toward me so that his breath is hot on my ear. “Do you think you can make it through dinner?” His voice is low, intimate.

“Can you?”

“We could just go back to your place.” Before he even gets all the words out, I'm off the bar stool putting on my coat. “You're so easy, Rossi.” He drains the last of his beer from his mug and stands.

I brush the back of my hand near his inner thigh and can feel that he wants out of here as much as I do. “And you're not?”

As we make our way to the door, the hostess calls Ethan's name. He looks at me. I shrug. I will show him I have self-restraint. I will show myself I have self-restraint. “We came all this way.”

“So unfair,” he says.

“I'll make it up to you later.” I try to give a suggestive smile, but I'm sure it just comes off as goofy.

He pouts as the hostess leads us to our seats. It's the worse of the two tables that have been empty since we arrived, so close to the table next to it that Ethan and I both feel compelled to greet the elderly couple sitting there. They are each eating big bowls of pasta, and all I can smell is garlic.

The hostess leaves us with menus and a wine list. “Do you want to share a bottle?” I ask.

Ethan shrugs.

“You're not going to pout all through dinner?”

“I might,” he says.

“I'll make it up to you later tonight, and then again even later. And then again in the morning.”

This elicits a smile from him. “Let's get some Chianti.”

I don't have to look at the menu to know I will get the chicken parmigiana. It's pretty much what I always get at Italian restaurants. Ethan figures that I am the expert on all things Italian and decides he will get the chicken parm as well.

A waiter stops by with bread. Ethan orders our wine and our dinners. I like it that he orders for me. I excuse myself to go to the restroom. As I get up, Ethan grabs my wrist and whispers, “You can make it up to me now. I'm right behind you.” He gives me that same suggestive smile he gave me when he came to pick me up tonight.

I wind my way to the back of the restaurant wondering if he's serious. Part of me hopes that he is; the other part disgusted that I have this hope. The restroom, a single room with a toilet and sink, is in a hallway by a back door. We could pull it off here, I think, as I enter and lock the door behind me. I take my time in the room, even touching up my makeup. Finally, there is a knock on the door. My heart stops. He can't really think I would do it here?

“Are you almost done in there?” It's a woman's voice. I should be relieved, but all I feel is disappointed.

I push open the door. It's the old lady from the table next to us. “It's all yours.”

What's happening to me? Was I really just considering having sex in a public restroom? It's like I have morphed into a teenage boy. Earlier today, I was sitting next to Cooper Allen in a meeting. His leg accidentally brushed against mine under the table and that got me wondering what kind of lover Cooper would be.

He's methodical with his analysis, examining every single possibility before making a recommendation. I imagined him applying the same methodology when exploring his partner's body, determined to find every spot that mattered. Unlike the other analysts at TechVisions, Cooper never loses his temper. He always has to be in control. That probably means he prefers giving to receiving. Then, of course, Cooper is the company's golden boy, the stereotypical overachiever. This got me thinking Cooper wouldn't be satisfied unless his partner had multiple orgasms. And then I couldn't help but imagine me as that partner, and that made me snap out of it. Fantasizing about TechVisions's top revenue generator. Lord, help me.

Back at the table, Ethan sips wine while talking to the old man next to him. I take my seat, and the man shifts his gaze to me. “You have to be Italian.”

I tell him that I am, and he asks me if I speak the language. I answer him in Italian.

“It's rare for people of your generation to speak it. How did you learn?” His speech is much faster than it was in English, and it takes me a moment to form the words to answer. Finally, I tell him that when my grandparents were alive, they would only speak to me in their native tongue.

He compliments me on my mastery of the language.

Ethan waves his hand in front of my face. “What are you two talking about?”

The man laughs. “I told her she is very beautiful and you are lucky to have her.”

Ethan grins and reaches for my hand. “I know.”

The woman returns to the table, and the man turns his attention to her.

“I was just about to join you,” Ethan says, “but she got up.” He tilts his head in the direction of the old woman. I can't believe it. He's serious. He thought I would do it in a public restroom. He thinks I'm that kind of girl.

The waiter arrives with our food. “Let me feed you a bit of mine, and then you can feed me a bite of yours,” Ethan says.

“But we ordered the same thing.”

“So.” He cuts a piece of chicken. His eyes lock with mine as he slides his fork into my mouth. I chew, and he continues to stare. Maybe this is supposed to be sexy? I laugh. He laughs, too. “My turn.” I feed him.

A few minutes later the waiter approaches the table next to us with a piece of tiramisu that the couple shares. The man hands the woman a small gift-wrapped package. I watch her open the box and extract a pair of pearl earrings. “It's our forty-eighth anniversary,” the woman says to us.

I salute her with my wineglass. “Congratulations.”

I look at the man. “We're very lucky. It's rare for marriages to last so long these days,” he says.

Ethan snickers and refills his wineglass. He doesn't notice my glass is empty, so after he puts down the bottle, I pick it up.

“How long have you been married?” the woman asks.

I tell her that we're not married, but Ethan speaks at the same exact time and says, “Seventeen years.”

I look at him. He immediately looks down. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

The woman and man both look at us with raised eyebrows. “I'm married. She's not,” Ethan finally says. His words may as well be a kick to my stomach the way they leave me gasping for my breath. The old couple exchanges a glance. I can tell they have it all wrong.

“He's getting a divorce.”

The couple, who was looking at me so kindly before, is now looking at me like they walked in on Ethan and me in the restroom. The woman shakes her head. I look to Ethan for help, but he's busy trying to twirl the fettuccini around his fork and lost in his own thoughts.

“No, really. He was in—”

The man cuts me off. “It's none of our business.” He signals to the waiter for the check.

The wife studies me for a moment. “
Sfasciafamiglie. Vergognati
,” she mumbles.

The man tries to shush her, but she keeps talking. Frantically, he says, “She speaks Italian.” The woman abruptly stops speaking, but it's too late. I heard the names she called me. They pay the check in silence and hurriedly put on their coats.

Ethan, still busy trying to figure out how to twirl the pasta around his fork, finally looks up. “I'm so sorry, Gina. It just slipped out. I wasn't thinking.”

“That woman just called me a homewrecker.”

He glances toward the door the couple just walked through. “I didn't hear her say that.”

“She said it in Italian.”

“It makes no sense that she would say that. Are you sure you understood her?” He twirls more fettuccini around his fork.

“Yes, I'm sure. She said it because you told her you were married.”

The fettuccini uncoils, and he drops his fork.

“Do you still consider yourself married?”

Ethan picks up his napkin and twists it. “I don't know. I guess technically I am until the divorce is finalized.” He shrugs.

Oh God, I am that kind of girl. I'm sleeping with a married man. “I shouldn't be dating you. I should be encouraging you to work things out with Leah.”

He laughs. “Leah doesn't want to work things out.”

“Do you?”

He hesitates. “There's no chance for that.” He picks up his fork, and this time instead of twirling the pasta, he cuts it with a knife.

I've barely touched my meal, but I can't take another bite. I push my plate away. Ethan watches me. “Come on, don't let what that woman said ruin your dinner. It's not even true.”

I want to tell him it's not the woman who has ruined dinner, but him. Instead, I say nothing.