What the fuck? Her heart started to pound. This was all wrong. He was definitely—this was just some one night-stand. Was that his wife? His girlfriend? Who? Every insecurity flooded her, everything fearful poured into her, and here she stood completely naked standing in the moonlight, staring over this guy who had just given her the best four hours she had had in years.
It was all a lie. A big, fat lie.
She scrambled to find her thong, her skirt, her sweater, her bra—where was it? Found it somewhere across the room hanging off of a doorknob of a closet.
Had they really been that, uh, acrobatic? Apparently. As the feelings all merged into one big bundle of sheer fright, she found herself flooded with shame—shame and despair. And most of all a massive adrenaline rush that just kept screaming, get out, get out, get out, get out, get out now.
She tiptoed, holding on to the straps of her heels, making sure she had her purse, her scrunchie pulling her hair together quickly so she didn’t look quite as ridiculous as she felt as she handled the walk of shame, clicking the door as quietly as possible.
The hallway was empty as she tread gingerly down the stairs in her stocking feet and then finally found herself outside in the cool night air, the streetlamps illuminating the path back home. Fortunately, there were cabs floating around at 3:30 in the morning now and she grabbed one, completely ignoring every comment that the cabbie made, hoping like hell he could read the fact that she had leaned back against the backseat and closed her eyes, wanting to be left alone.
Alone was safer.
Laura used every spare molecule of energy and focus to still her heart, to calm it back down to where it belonged, in the normal, boring, slow pace she’d experienced before the whirlwind of Dylan. She should have known it was too good to be true. Every damn moment of it. He just wanted a piece of meat on the side. A big piece of meat. A little variety was the spice of life, right? Her body was so different from his girlfriend’s, a sleek, muscled, athletic sculpting she couldn’t imagine.
Damn, damn, damn—here came the tears. They weren’t the great big heaving sobs that she felt after dating someone for months and then realizing that it just wasn’t working. This was more the scalding tears of reproach, of the fact that she should have known better, and of a bit of giddiness that she’d gotten something more than she’d expected out of the evening.
Dinner and mind-blowing sex was great, but apparently what she had just had with him was all she was going to have, because he was clearly involved with whoever that woman was and that woman had a bod that went on for miles. Damn, if she had 10 percent body fat, Laura would be amazed. And if that was his type, what was Laura? Just some cow he decided he’d grab onto for the hell of it, trolling some dating site. Whatever.
The screech of the cab’s brakes told her it was time and then boom—she felt the car jerk to a stop. She handed the cabbie enough of a tip to make herself feel good and to make him grin, and to wish her a good night, a good morning, a good whatever. As she headed up to her apartment her shoes vibrated like a gong, click, click, click, her legs propelling her on on very weak heels, very tired calves, very tired everything. Mind, body and soul.
She peeled off her outfit, poured herself into her big oversized flannel pajamas, and just crawled into bed to sleep the sleep of the conflicted.
Dylan was accustomed to waking alone, Jill’s side of the bed a cold place, a sexual Siberia, but he had hoped to find Laura there this morning. Making her breakfast and having her be his breakfast had been on his mind as he’d faded off to sleep, cradling her in his arms.
Hopefully, she’d left a note. Maybe she needed to rush off to work. He understood. It was hard to juggle shifts and bosses and—
His eyes stopped as they landed on a picture of Jill. Hawaii. About seven years ago. Her skin glistened in her wet suit and she grinned a relaxed, happy smile as the sun kissed her nose, Mike standing next to her, turned toward her and showing the camera only his profile, face largely hidden. He was a good foot taller than petite Jill. Their hair had lightened so much on that vacation, though Dylan’s dark locks had stayed the same. By the end of the week Jill and Mike were hooked on surfing, while Dylan...
His thoughts faded as the enormity of Jill’s death hit him. In some ways, her death was still striking blows. Good ones. $59 million blows a year.
He, unlike Laura, would never have to worry about getting to work on time again. Man, even letting himself think like that made him queasy. It was a sick, sick way to become rich— losing your soulmate—and he was still so angry at something— God? Cancer? Fate? His own helplessness?—that he just wouldn’t quit the fire station, preferring to act like a working class slob because until two months ago, that’s exactly what, and who, he had been.