Truly(43)
When Dan took the offer from the Jets, she’d mentally moved the schoolhouse to New Jersey. She’d expected to have a big old diamond on her left hand by the time she flew home to Wisconsin for Christmas.
Pathetic.
She didn’t know how to turn it off—how to fling these rose-colored glasses she wore onto the pavement and stomp them until they shattered. Somehow, she’d convinced herself this weekend with Ben wasn’t just one more fantasy. That it was an interlude, not an illusion.
She’d convinced herself that she’d drawn a line through her life and stepped over it, and any decisions she’d made about Ben were new decisions made in this new life.
Ha.
He’d kissed her, and her heart had dropped out of the clouds, right into her stomach. Because she’d wanted him to kiss her, but not like that. She’d wanted a beautiful moment, or at least something she recognized as genuine connection. Passion.
And instead you got a sidewalk, and the taste of borscht and orange juice. Ben’s erection poking you in the stomach and his tongue in your mouth.
The sad thing was, it hadn’t even been bad. When he’d pulled her close enough to feel him getting hard, lust had fired between her thighs. She could still feel it, a lingering slippery warmth despite all the blocks they’d walked since then and all the tears she’d cried.
She’d liked the way he smelled up close. The pressure of his lips on hers.
She just hadn’t liked the reason he’d done it.
Not that she even knew what that was. All she knew was he’d been upset, in need of a distraction, and Oh, wait, here’s a woman-shaped creature. Let’s kiss her!
And then, when she’d stopped him: I’m sorry. It wasn’t about you.
She had wanted it to be about her. Had hoped, even knowing the timing was wrong, that he’d desired her. She’d hoped Ben saw the real May—that woman in the mirror at Macy’s—and felt something more for her than friendly goodwill.
But no. It wasn’t about you.
That was life. There were always so many of these awkward moments, these miscalculations between two people. There was beer breath and the occasional need for lube. It wasn’t bad. It just wasn’t magical.
The sound of running water cut off, and May realized she was bracing herself on her forearms over the open lid of the machine, staring deep into the tub full of soapy water as though she’d find the answers she was looking for in there.
There are no answers, she reminded herself. There are no perfect fantasy outcomes. There is only this muddling thing we call “being alive.” Get used to it. Get used to it.
But she never had. She wondered if she ever would.
* * *
He came in a while after she’d put the clothes in the dryer. “How are the bees?” she asked.
Ben sat down on in a wobbly maroon wingback near the low couch where May had been reading an ancient copy of Elle. “They’re fine. How are you?”
Confused. Vulnerable. Tired of myself.
She didn’t want to go into it. Maybe tomorrow.
“I got new cowboy boots.” Lifting her legs a few feet, she pointed both toes and waved them up and down.
“I noticed.”
“I’ve always wanted cowboy boots.”
“Are they everything you hoped for?”
“They might actually be more awesome than I’d hoped.” She lowered her feet, satisfied by the sound the heels made against the polished concrete floor. “Do you think I’m too tall?”
“Too tall for what?”
“Just too tall.”
“I can’t say I’ve given it any thought.”
“You’re supposed to,” she told him. “You’re supposed to find my height threatening. Especially in cowboy boots, because they make me taller than you.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Sure they do.”
“They really don’t.”
“They absolutely do. You only have an inch or two on me in socks.”
He pulled a face. “More than that.”
“Stand up.” She rose, and when he seemed reluctant to join her, she tugged him up by the arm. “Take off your shoes and turn around.”
He complied. May spun and backed up, aligning her body against his. She ignored the pressure of his butt touching hers, the pinpricks of heat where their shoulder blades connected, and focused on measuring the tops of their heads with the palm of her hand. “My head is higher than yours.”
Ben lifted an arm, and his palm smoothed over the crown of her head. “No.”
“Yes.”
Slowly, he turned around. He framed her shoulders between his palms and rotated her a hundred eighty degrees. His body brushed against hers in a dozen different places, and his nearness pulled some secret trigger on her attraction.