She threw her hands up. “I don’t know. Because I’m thirty and I should know already?”
“Fuck that. There’s no deadline on learning new things.”
“True.”
“I love to cook, you know.”
Her eyes went wide. “Really?”
“Yes. Does that surprise you?” I poked her in the side, and she giggled.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“My dad was actually the cook at my house when I grew up, so it never seemed strange to me. Plus, without another parent in the house, it’s been on me to put meals on the table by myself.”
“Is that enough?” She glanced at the soup, looking worried. “I should have given you extra for Scotty.”
“It’s plenty. I’m sure he’s already eaten. His dinner is at six sharp or the world ends.” I kissed her cheek. “Thank you. Next time, I’ll cook for you.”
“Sounds good.” She put her arms around my neck. “This was fun. I hope you aren’t home too late.”
“I will happily suffer the consequences if I am.” Wrapping my free arm around her waist, I hugged her close, inhaling her sex-and-citrus scent. “I’ll call you this week.”
“OK.”
She walked me to the door, and after one more kiss, I forced myself to leave.
On the fifteen-minute drive home, I did nothing but think of her, every sense bombarded with memories. I could still feel her softness, taste her sweetness, smell her skin. I could still see her eyes closing, her back arching, her fingers clutching my shirt. I could hear her quiet sighs and her loud cries, my name a plea on her lips.
Fuck. My balls ached, and my cock did not seem to understand that there would be no encore tonight. I shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat, trying to adjust myself.
But it wasn’t only that I wanted to have more sex with her—although I did. (We hadn’t even gotten to position two on my church list.) That feeling of lying next to her afterward, talking and laughing and touching each other…I wanted that, too. I’d never had that with anyone, and it was so easy with her. And I wanted to hear more about her—what did I really know?
I knew how she liked her martini. The name of her vibrator. That she was allergic to perfume. Drank champagne at weddings. Wore fuck-hot lingerie under her clothes. She liked red wine and popsicles, pumpkin soup and flannel pajamas, black lace and pearls.
But what was her favorite song? Her favorite color? Her favorite movie? Did she sleep on her stomach or back? Did she like e-books or paperbacks? Sand or snow? Staying up late or waking up early?
Then there were harder questions.
What was she looking for with me?
I hadn’t dated anyone in years, because I wasn’t good at balancing Scotty’s needs with anyone else’s, even my own. There was the occasional friendly fuck with a woman who did some design work with my uncle’s firm, but Alison was older, divorced, and not looking for anything more than I was, which was basically just an adult human connection. (For about twenty minutes.) But when it was done, it was done. I never thought about her afterward, and I doubt she thought about me. I certainly didn’t give a shit about her favorite color. And the sex was just functional. It was sort of like maintenance on your furnace or something—from time to time you needed to do it, but once it was done, you didn’t think about it again until the following winter.
It was so different with Jillian. I wanted her to need me for more than just sex. I wanted to make her happy, and not just physically. I wanted to do things for her and with her. I wanted her in my life.
But how could I do it?
Seeing her during the week would be impossible with our schedules. Weekends were when I caught up with work, household chores, and made time for outings with Scotty that got him socializing in non-classroom situations. Saturday nights were our movie nights. Where would time with Jillian fit in? Was it fair to even start something with her, knowing that I’d probably end up a disappointment? What woman wants to fall for someone who can never put her first, never live with her, never promise her all the things she ultimately wants—a husband, a home, a family?
Because I couldn’t. I wasn’t free to make those kinds of promises.
But for the first time in eight years, I wished I were.
• • •
I was a little later than promised, but Scotty seemed OK with it, and happily hugged me hello and Sarah goodbye. While I warmed up the soup Jillian had sent home with me, he went back to lining up his dinosaurs on the family room rug. As I ate—the soup was delicious—I tried to engage him in conversation, asking about his time with Sarah, about swim therapy today, about his dinosaurs. But although he made noises while he played, he largely ignored my attempts at conversation, and once he told me he was too busy to talk.
When I was done eating, we went upstairs and got him ready for bed, putting on his dinosaur pajamas, brushing his teeth, reading a story, turning on his nightlight and switching off the overhead light in just that order. Even our prayers had to be recited a certain way, the list of people and things we are grateful for named in the exact same order every night. So when I added something new—“I am thankful for making new friends”— he got upset with me and told me I had to start over.
“Nope. I’m not starting over, Scotty. Prayers are how you feel at the end of the day. They don’t have to be the same every night.”
“But you said it wrong,” he insisted, and even though he was lying down, I could see the agitation in his body in the way he started rolling from side to side, hands at his ears.