Boston (6 page)

“What did you do to tease him?”

I frown, then giggle a little at the memory. “Well, I sort of got down on my knees in front of him and asked him if he likes blow jobs. Maybe I said a few other things to get him really worked up. But then I didn’t give him, you know, one.” My voice is apologetic. “So.”

“Jesus, Abby!” Liesl’s eyes bug out. “You did what? You little slut!” But her voice is fond. “I didn’t know you had that in you.”

I laugh. “He was acting all big shot hot stuff, like he could get me to combust with just one wink, so I wanted to tease him right back and give him a taste of his own medicine. I guess maybe he upped the ante with the kiss.”

Liesl rolls her eyes. “You do realize you’re playing with fire. Right? I mean, you keep that shit up, you’ll be having sex with him in about an hour regardless of whether it’s a good idea or not. And I will have zero sympathy when you come crying to me. Jealousy, maybe. The man is hot.”

“He is hot,” I agree.

Liesl narrows her eyes. “And here’s another theory. Maybe
he
thinks he’s not good enough for
you
, Abby. Did you ever consider that? You have a degree from Harvard. You have a nice house and car. You’re a bestselling author. You’re pretty and smart and fun. Maybe he’s the one who thinks he doesn’t bring enough to the table.” She raises her eyebrows. “Give it some thought, Abby. ‘Kay?”

I don’t even know how to process this. “Really?” I cock my head. It’s a strange, enticing idea. Me!—as the unattainable goal. I let my mind drift, imagining myself on a stage, glowing golden, maybe flying around, because I’m a super hero and all the hot guys want me.

Liesl pats my hand, breaking into my reverie. “Look. Part of the reason I think you’re beautiful is because we’re BFFs. That’s the whole
point.
You see the beauty in the people you love and care about. If he’s getting to know you, the real you, maybe he sees you inside and out and likes you—and he understands how fucking amazing you really are. Is that so hard to believe?”

I like the quiet afternoons with Boston. After our work is done, before we clean up, the sun comes in through the window in thick, golden beams that accentuate each swirling dust mote in the air. It’s like the very atmosphere is alive, where little sparks twist and whirl in a random pattern, millions of sparkling gems in the air between us. It’s a snowstorm of particles, a rain shower. The sun reveals things that were hidden, makes visible the countless little motes that are all around us, unseen, unmentioned.

It’s in these moments that I feel my desire for him so strongly that I almost can’t stand it. I imagine just going up to him like it’s expected and slinging a leg over his lap, straddling him, taking his face between my hands and burying my tongue in his mouth. I imagine standing in front of him, rubbing my palms up his chest, taking the time I want to feel each ripple and indentation of each muscle. I dream of kissing the side of his jaw where his neck just starts, licking his pulse. I envision myself licking along his upper lip with a flick of my tongue, taking his hands and placing one on each breast. I want to rub his cock through his jeans until he gets so hard that he groans his need to me, moans it into my neck with a sharp bite, hard enough to leave marks.

These thoughts make me quiver with desire and make my panties wet. And then the words come, too, they pour from my fingers and I write almost like I’m being chased, I write frantically, desperately, urgently. I write until the thoughts get too complex and the pattern too hard to follow and only then do I come up for air.

Today he’s watching me when I reemerge. He’s sitting in a backwards chair, his arms folded over the top of it, his eyes on me, and as I flicker into the present I also feel a flicker of arousal at his gaze, which is low-lidded and direct.

“Good writing today?” he asks, his voice a murmur.

“Yes.” I stand and stretch, feeling my shirt rise up to reveal my stomach, but I feel sexy because of what I just wrote, so I take my time, feeling his eyes land on the bare skin. “I’m happy with it.”

He smiles so briefly I think I imagined it, maybe. “You get so intense. It’s like nothing else exists.”

I nod. “It comes alive for me, like I’m watching a movie and hearing a song, but I’m directing real time. It’s like living in another dimension.”

Now he smiles for real. “You talk like a book of poetry sometimes. Not that I evah read much poetry. Your ex does, I guess, though.” His smile fades.

I blink. “How did you know that?”

His gaze meets mine. “I read his profile on the university website. Saw that he’s published a dozen books on the theory of law, and a book of poetry, too.”

I shrug. “Yeah, he writes a lot. Reads, too. Erik reads everything that exists. He’s a walking Wikipedia, without any user error.”

Boston looks away. “Pretty smart guy. Understatement, right?”

“He’s just a guy. And sometimes it got overwhelming.” I pull my hem back down. “Sometimes I want to be the expert on something, you know? Did you get a lot done today, too?”

He nods and stands. “I edited the motorcycle pictures, especially the one you wanted for the cover. Want to see?”

I do, and I come over to his laptop. I like standing so close to him; like last time, I bend my head down to look, wondering how close I can come to his jaw without being obvious. The warmth from his body is magnetic and I want to keep leaning in. That’s a lie: I want to push in, to leap in, to grab him.

I’m supposed to be looking at the screen but he’s just opening up files so I dart my eyes to his profile; his chiseled jaw, his sharp nose. His nose isn’t exactly perfect, but I like it, and I like the stubble on his chin. I want to stroke those tiny sharps under my index finger. I want to stick my tongue in his ear.

I force myself to focus, put my eyes back into the screen just in time: The picture is up and it’s magnificent. The first time I saw it, I loved it, but now it snaps with power. The whites and blacks feed off of each other and blend into a cohesive image. The light is sun painted over his body. I know for sure that this is perfect.

“Boston. It’s—how did you do that?” My voice is hushed. “This is like a visual poem.”

He smiles and I think he’s proud. “Thanks, Abby. It’s what I love. I practice a lot, you know?”

He turns to look at me and our faces are close—so close! He blinks and swallows, then pushes back his chair.

“I would guess I am about halfway done with your pictures, Abby.”

I nod. “Great.”

Neither of us speak, then we both do at once. I say, “So I guess I should—”

And he’s saying, “You want to have a beer or somethin’?”

I flush. “Really? You actually drink something made from grain?”

He laughs. “Yeah. I cheat once in a while. You in?” He raises one eyebrow.

“I’m in.”

I don’t follow him to the kitchen; instead, I walk to the window to admire the sunset. It’s bright, so bright, the oranges and yellow licking into the room and over my keyboard like flames attacking dry branches.

Boston comes back and touches my shoulder, his fingers lingering one extra second, and that’s all it takes to make my heartbeat accelerate. Does he? Doesn’t he? Are we? But he just hands me a cold beer and raises it. “To your book, Abby. Your amazing brain.”

I reply, “And your pictures. Your amazing body—I mean, well, yeah, of course it is amazing. But I didn’t mean it like, I mean…”

He smiles and shakes his head at me, takes a long swig of beer. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then gestures to the couch. “Sit with me.”

So we sit together and my heart is in my mouth. Everything I ever said to Liesl was a lie, all those things about not wanting a one-night stand, not wanting him if he just wants a quickie because no one else is around. The truth is that when I’m with him like this, our bodies close, the attraction is so powerful that nothing of that matters. All I can think about is the need in my body, the urge to devour him rising in me with such ferocity that I almost wail with frustration at each missed touch, each lost opportunity. So help me God, if he kissed me right now, I’d lie down and do whatever he asked. Over and over again.

But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he asks me, “So you do this full time, Abby? The writing?”

“Yes.” My voice is soft. “I used to be an accountant, shared an office with my friend. Well, I still am one, but I don’t work at that anymore. I wrote part time, but then my books really took off, and I decided to try doing it for real, you know? I figure I have the other skills and I can always go back if I need to. But I hope I don’t need to. I love this. How about you?”

He puts his beer onto the coffee table and then his hand is next to me on the couch, and I can’t breathe because it’s so close to my thigh.
One inch closer, just one inch. Touch me. Please.

“I had a rough start, Abby. I’m not like you and your—Erik, all with your advanced degrees and happy families and shit. I barely graduated high school. My family—well, I was pretty much on my own. Workin’ out was the only thing I was good at, so I did it all the time. And then I decided, what the hell, why not try to make a livin’ at it, you know? So I got into bodybuilding and fitness. Started modeling. Did well. But that shit gets old. And it’s pretty much a young man’s game, so I figure I gotta come up with another way to pay the bills.”

“You’re still young!” The words burst out, but he is, really—what is he, early thirties?

He gives a short laugh, then grabs his beer for another swig. “You hit thirty, you’re on the way out as a model. I like teaching, but I wanted something more profitable than being a trainer full time. So one day I used the last of my savings and bought a fancy camera. Didn’t know jack about how to use it or anything, Abby. I was freakin’ out, but I made myself read that damn manual cover to cover. Seven times. Seven fuckin’ times until I figured out how to work the thing. Then I started practicing. And I got good.”

His voice evens out and gains strength, fluency. “Then I started takin’ pictures of other models, and reaching out to authors for cover pictures. It’s going well so far. It turns out I like being behind the camera. A lot. I still model too, but I think in the future, you know? This is going to be my thing. Like, my real thing. My job. My life.”

I trace the mouth of the beer bottle with my index finger, mesmerized with the motion and the smooth feel to the cool glass.

“So we’re not that different after all, Boston.” My voice is low. “We both jumped into something new and gave it our all, hoping it would work. Something artistic and free and open and crazy. Don’t you think so?” I lift my eyes up and meet his.

I think he’s about to agree, but then his phone trills and the moment is broken. He answers, and his face breaks into a grin. “Annalise! Babe. You comin’ ovah?”

My stomach turns. I stand up and put my beer on the table and wipe my hand on my jeans.

“Great. See you soon.” He slides the phone onto the table and frowns at my stance; I have “going to leave now” written into my posture, into the way I’m leaning toward the door.

“I guess I should get going. Thanks for the beer.” I smile, trying not to act crushed.

“You wanna stay and meet Annalise?” He raises one eyebrow.

“Well, I have to get back. I need to, um, check in on Marr. She said she had something important to tell me.”

“Your mom.” He smirks.

“Shut up. ” I roll my eyes. “That was so not funny.”

“It was hilarious,” he corrects me.

I laugh, despite myself. “Okay. It was.”

“So she was okay?” He puts his hands into his pockets and cocks his head to one side. “Marr?”

“Yeah.” I nod. “She’s a little… kooky. But she’s a good person. Just a little lost.”

“I get that.”

We stand, looking at each other, then I wake up and grab my laptop case.

“See you tomorrow, Boston.”

***

Knocking on Marr’s door is the last thing I want to do, but I promised. When she answers, my eyebrows probably indicate my surprise. Mozart is playing, and something smells like a French bakery (or how I imagine one would smell). She’s in a tight pencil skirt and a pretty top, and her hair is up and her eyes are made up smoky. She looks younger. Pretty, actually. Insightful, too, based on what she says next:

“I probably look a lot different than that night at Men Got Moves. Come in for a minute, okay, Abby?”

I enter, stepping onto a thin plastic sheet that whispers and slithers in the minuscule breeze created by my feet. Several paint-spattered ladders bear the bird-dropping debris from multiple colorful jobs, and there’s a stack of floor tiles in the corner.

“How’s the reno coming along?” I pick my way along the eel-like runner to the kitchen where the question answers itself. “Marr. This is amazing.” Her kitchen is something from a catalogue, all marble and silver and warm reddish wood, with a bowl of green apples as a vibrant exclamation. “Oh, my God.”

Marr waves her hand. “Ridiculously generous divorce settlement. I’m finally getting the house of my dreams.” She slides onto a barstool and pats the one next to her. “I wanted to apologize, Abby. And to say thanks. That night I wasn’t myself, but it was something I needed. I know I was probably obnoxious and embarrassing, and I appreciate that you and your rather sexy new boyfriend helped take care of me.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I blush, then quickly add, “And you weren’t, uh, annoying.”

She laughs again. “Please. That could be the video definition of the facial expressions someone makes when they lie. Right out of my freshman psych 101 lecture.”

I roll my eyes and tilt my head and shrug. “Okay, maybe you were a little bit… silly.”

She smiles. “You know? I never went out to a club like that. Ever. I guess I’ve been working my way, rather frantically, through some kind of bucket list ever since I found myself single.”

I don’t like thinking about Marr being older and alone, and how her husband left her for some ditzy bimbo (probably). And how she finds solace in a list that includes getting drunk in clubs with girls young enough to be her daughters. Because if I thought about that, truly pondered it, I think I’d sob for her.

Marr really must be a mind reader. She adds, “Abby. I don’t have children. Mike never—. But if I ever had a daughter? I would have liked her to be like you.”

I make a stifled sound and wave my hand in a “no, don’t” gesture, but she persists. “You’re kind. You’re smart. You took care of me. You have a generous spirit.”

She pats my hand. “Don’t feel bad for me, Abby. I’m getting my act together, and I appreciate the people who give me a hand along the way. You’re one of them.” She gets up and retrieves a gold and green striped gift bag from the counter, places it in front of my spot. “Here. This is for you. Open it.”

I look at her, then take out a few handfuls of crumpled tissue paper to reveal a book. “You got me a book? Marr, you don’t owe me anything.” I take it out, brush my finger along the cover. It’s a battered book of poetry entitled
Soul Music
.

Marr opens a wine fridge, takes out a bottle of Riesling, and adds it next to my bag and book. “I drank enough that night and you didn’t get to. Here’s some wine for you to enjoy with friends, on a night when you don’t have to babysit.” She laughs, and I laugh with her. “I know you’re a writer, so the book, hopefully you’ll like it. A friend gave it to me and it helped me make it through a couple of pretty dark nights. Once you’re ready, pass it along to someone else, if you want. Or not. It’s up to you.”