Текст книги "Covet"

Автор книги: Tracey Garvis-Graves

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

57

daniel

I watch Claire drive away. I’ve always been fairly certain that this day would come, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. I tell myself it doesn’t matter that I laid my cards on the table; she was never available in the first place and she never tried to make me think she was.

It will be hard not knowing how she’s doing. If she’s okay. That was the hardest thing about losing Jessie. The way she felt about me didn’t change the way I felt about her, and it didn’t mean that I stopped caring. I let her go only because I thought it was what she wanted.

Claire’s the second woman in a row that I’ve lost and I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

58

claire

I’m quiet the next morning when Elisa and I drive to yoga. I wait until we’re seated on our mats before I tell her about Daniel. “I’m not going to spend time with Daniel anymore.”

“You’re not?”

“No. It turns out that men and women can’t be friends. Not really,” I say.

Elisa takes a drink from her water bottle. “How do you feel about that?”

“Sad. There’s this space that he used to occupy and now it’s empty.” I stretch my arms over my head and exhale. “It was the right thing to do, though.”

“Are you going to tell Chris about Daniel?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to hurt him, and I’m not sure what would hurt him more: telling him about it now that it’s over, or not telling him about it at all.” The instructor is moments away from starting the class when I say, “Elisa?”

She looks over at me. “Yes?”

“Do you think it’s possible to love more than one person? At the same time?”

“I think just about anything is possible when it comes to love,” she says.

59

chris

It’s late when I get back to my hotel room. I’m so goddamned tired of key cards, plastic-wrapped glasses, and ice buckets that I’d be happy to never see another hotel room again. They even have a smell I can’t stand. I don’t know what it is, only that it doesn’t smell remotely like home.

Being back out on the road these last three weeks, after staying home with Claire and the kids, has been hard. Jim made a big deal of welcoming me back and asking about Claire during our last conference call, but that was for the benefit of the twenty other people who were also on the line. I know this because when I called him from the hospital to tell him I was taking a week off he acted like a complete dick.

“It isn’t a good time, Chris,” he said.

“This is my wife, Jim. I’m staying home.” Fuck him. It makes me nervous to leave Claire alone now. It’s been so long since there was a problem that I got way too comfortable. If I hadn’t found her in time . . . well. I still can’t get it out of my head.

Claire assured me that she would be fine. “Mom and Dad will be checking on me,” she said. “Elisa is close by.”

I haven’t said anything to Claire yet, but I’ve been spending a lot of time with Seth, one of the senior software engineers who’s been traveling with us and assisting the implementation team. He joined me for drinks one night and we started talking. He doesn’t say much, but when he does open his mouth, what comes out is brilliant. What he told me the other day, what we stayed up until 4:00 A.M. discussing, blew me away. The possibility of what it could mean for Seth, for me, for my family, is the only thing that’s keeping me motivated right now.

I loosen my tie and sit down on the bed to call Claire. “Hey. How are you?” I ask when she answers.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Feeling good. Are you at the hotel?”

“Just got back. We took the clients out. Some sports bar they wanted to go to. Same old shit,” I say. “How are the kids?”

“They’re good. Josh is building a volcano for science class.”

“The kind with the vinegar and baking soda?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s a regular rite of passage.”

“How about my daughter?”

“She’s okay. A little quiet tonight. She spent a long time in her room rearranging her stuffed animals. I think it soothes her.”

Jordan struggles the most with my absence. I sigh and walk over to the fridge. Use the opener to pry the cap off a bottle.

“Minibar?” Claire asks.

“Amstel,” I say.

“Everything will be fine,” she says.

“Yeah.” I’m no longer satisfied with fine. I used to be, but I’m not anymore. “You should get some sleep. It’s getting late.”

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll see you when you get home.”

“Sleep tight,” I say.

“You, too.”

Later, when I’ve shut my laptop and I’m lying in my hotel bed alone I think about Claire and how much I’ve missed her. I think about how Jim says, “Jump,” and until now, I’ve always said, “How high?” All this for a man who couldn’t understand why I wanted to stay home with my wife after she almost died. If I hadn’t pulled my head out of my own ass and figured out what was really important, how long would it have taken before I turned into someone just like him?

60

claire

I lift the lid on the pot and inhale the smell of basil and tomatoes. The water in the other pot is just coming to a bubble and I grab the box of pasta out of the cupboard. After giving the marinara a final stir, I turn the heat down to low and replace the lid. The door that leads from the garage into the kitchen opens. “Wipe your feet,” I say, without turning around. It rained earlier and the kids have been tracking in mud ever since they got home from school.

“It’s me,” Chris says. I didn’t hear his car pull in, and I whip around, surprised that he’s home so early on a Friday.

“I thought you weren’t supposed to land until eight?”

“I wanted to get home sooner,” he says, setting down his suitcase and his laptop. “I had to fly standby, but I got lucky.” Yawning and rubbing his eyes, he joins me at the stove and lifts the lid on the marinara, inhaling just like I did moments earlier. “That smells good.”

“I used your mom’s recipe,” I say. “It’s the best.” I dump the pasta into the water that’s finally come to a rolling boil and set the timer. “I thought I’d be heating it up for you hours from now.”

Chris loosens his tie and says, “Nope. I can eat with you and the kids tonight.” He removes the tie completely, throws it on the island, and unbuttons the top two buttons on his shirt. “Are they outside?” he asks.

“They’re at Elisa’s, playing with Travis.”

I cross the kitchen to the cupboard where I keep my colander and after I locate it I set it near the edge of the sink. I need a bowl for the pasta and I finally spot the one I want on a high shelf, but I can’t quite reach it even when I’m standing on my tiptoes.

Chris walks up behind me and reaches over my shoulder to grab the bowl. His front is pressed up against my back and he doesn’t move after he sets the bowl on the counter. We don’t speak and suddenly the only sound in the kitchen is the sound of our breathing. He uses one hand to brush my hair to the side and then nuzzles my neck.

“I came home early because I missed you, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you. The other night, when we talked on the phone—after we hung up I laid in that hotel room bed all alone and I couldn’t remember what you smelled like. How you taste. I couldn’t remember, Claire.”

His words make me feel cherished and I want to stand there in the kitchen with his arms wrapped around me and just bask in them. But then something shifts and I feel him. I feelwhat he’s saying, and the physical side takes over. The side that wants him the way I always have. My desire pushes his affection away and replaces it with something more primal.

Chris flutters a series of soft kisses along my neck and pulls the collar of my shirt to the side so he can reach my shoulder. And he is hard. Very hard. I can tell how much he wants me and a wave of desire reaches the innermost parts of my body. Turning me around, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me as if his life depended on it. I kiss him with just as much intensity, my tongue meeting his and our mouths moving instinctively into the right position, the right angle, the way they have been since he kissed me for the first time over a decade ago.

The edge of the countertop digs into my back, but I don’t care. Chris is sucking on my neck, biting softly, and I run my hands through his hair and press my body as firmly against him as I can. He lifts me up on the counter and starts unbuttoning my shirt. I help him with the buttons and it takes only seconds with us working together for the job to be done. He doesn’t bother taking my shirt off, but once my bra is exposed he reaches around to unhook it and then shoves it up toward my neck so he can get to my breasts. I nearly scream when his tongue makes contact with my nipple. He licks it a few times and then takes the whole thing into his mouth. He’s pulling gently on my other nipple with his thumb and forefinger, and I grab the back of his head and wrap my legs around his waist. The edge of the hard granite countertop prevents him from grinding our lower bodies together and he finally gives up and pulls on the button of my jeans instead. He plunges his hand inside them before he gets the zipper even halfway down. “Oh, Jesus,” he says, when he touches me and discovers how wet I am. He strokes me and the sound of my whimpering fills the kitchen. This only seems to fuel his desire because his breathing is out of control and he starts making a few noises of his own.

I’m reaching for the button on his pants when Josh bangs on the locked sliding glass door off of the kitchen; I can see him out of the corner of my eye. At the same exact time the doorbell rings. It’s Jordan. I know this by the ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dongthat reaches the kitchen and will continue until someone goes to the front door. Why don’t they ever use the same entrance? Thankfully, Chris shut the garage when he got home, otherwise they would have burst into the kitchen and caught us in flagrante delicto. The timer for the pasta goes off and the telephone rings, because apparently there’s not enough going on.

Chris groans in frustration and I want time to stand still, because Chris and I desperately need to finish what we’ve started. But instead I remove Chris’s hand, jump off the counter, and quickly zip my jeans and button my shirt, leaving my bra unhooked, focusing only on covering up my nakedness so my children won’t be traumatized. Chris opens the back door for Josh and I go to the front. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong.

“Stop ringing the doorbell,” I say when I unlock the door and fling it open.

“Hi, Mommy,” Jordan says. “Whatcha doin’?”

I step aside so she can come in. “Nothing,” I say. “Just making dinner. Go wash up.”

I turn off the stove, drain the pasta, and combine it with the marinara, then dash into the bathroom to fasten my bra and button my jeans. When I come out, Chris is standing there with rumpled hair and a smile on his face.

“Hungry?” I ask.

“You don’t even know how much,” he says.

I set the salad and pasta on the table and Chris and I transition into parenting mode. Jordan wants butter on her pasta, and a sprinkling of parmesan. “I don’t like Grandma Canton’s sauce. It’s too spicy,” she says.

“It’s not spicy at all,” I say. But Jordan thinks everything is spicy, and I knew this was coming, which is why I scooped some of the pasta into a separate bowl before I added the sauce. I decide this battle is not worth fighting and grab the butter and cheese.

Josh informs us he’s not eating any salad. “I only like ranch,” he says. He points to the bottle of Italian dressing. “I don’t like that kind.”

I get up and grab a new bottle of ranch from the cupboard and hand it to him.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says. Harmony restored. “How come you’re home so early, Dad?” Josh asks.

“I took an earlier flight. I missed you guys,” Chris says, reaching over to ruffle Josh’s hair. “Tell me about what’s going on at school.”

They take turns regaling Chris with their accomplishments and he splits his attention equally between them. At the end of the meal, when he asks them to help clear the table, they do his bidding eagerly, fighting over who gets to carry more dishes to the sink.

I send them off to play while I clean up the kitchen. A thought occurs to me when I’m loading the dishwasher, and I wipe my hands on a towel and open the cupboard. No matter how much I move things around, no matter how hard I search, I can’t find Chris’s bottle of antidepressants. I’d bet money that I will not be able to find the other bottle, the one he keeps in his suitcase, either.

At eight we give the kids a five-minute warning. We can perform this bedtime routine in our sleep: pajamas, brushing teeth, reading, and tucking in. Tonight, Chris takes Jordan and I take Josh. We field requests for one more kiss, a drink of water. Finally, we turn off their bedroom lights and reconvene downstairs.

“Goddamn it,” Chris yells. He’s gone into our home office to check his e-mail one last time.

I pop my head in. “What’s wrong?”

“Jim needs my reports. The ones I didn’t finish because I caught the earlier flight.” Chris exhales in frustration and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He said he didn’t need them until Monday, so I didn’t work on them on the plane. For once, I didn’t want to work on the plane.”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll wait for you.”

Chris gets out of his chair and walks around to the front of the desk, where I’m standing. “I’ll be up as soon as I can. I promise. Give me one hour, two at the most.” He pulls me toward him and puts his arms around me. The kiss he places on my lips is tender and my joy knows no bounds because I feel as if my husband is finally trying to make his way back to me.

61

chris

My hatred of Jim grows every day. I have no doubt that asking for the reports is some kind of power play designed to make him feel as though he has the upper hand. He’s been extra difficult since I took that time off after Claire got out of the hospital.

I power up my laptop and open my spreadsheet, working as fast as I can. But then it hits me. If Claire is upstairs waiting for me, why the hell am I down here? Shouldn’t Jim be the one who has to wait? Hasn’t Claire waited long enough? I slam the lid of my laptop shut and take the stairs two at a time.

She’s lying in bed reading a book and she looks up when I open the door. “That was fast,” she says, smiling. “Are you done already?”

“No. I’ll work later.” I lock the door to ensure there are no interruptions. She’s wearing lingerie—I don’t know what it’s called, but it’s the kind I like: short, black, and low-cut, with thin straps. I strip off my shirt and unbutton my jeans as I walk toward the bed.

When I reach her I take the book out of her hands and lay it on the nightstand. I kick off my jeans and ease in next to her, leaning over to move one of the thin straps aside. I kiss her collarbone and work my way up her neck, inhaling the scent of her perfume.

“You smell so good,” I say.

She places her hands on my chest and runs her fingers lightly over my skin, leaving sparks trailing in their wake. Claire has always been able to turn me on with a touch of her hand and tonight is no exception. The first kiss I place on her lips is gentle, but when she opens her mouth to me I deepen it, taking my time. Gone is the frantic feeling of earlier today, because this time I’m not stopping until we’re done.

I grab the hem of her nightgown and pull the whole thing over her head. The site of Claire stripped down to her lacy black underwear almost sends me over the edge. I have no intention of turning off the lamp because I want to see every bit of this. She sighs when I rub her nipples. They harden instantly and I groan, loving the way they feel under my fingertips. I replace my fingers with my mouth and circle each nipple with my tongue. When I start to suck, Claire runs her hands through my hair and tells me how good it feels.

I kiss my way down, past her stomach. Kneeling between her legs, I hook my thumbs in the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down and throwing them on the floor. I look at her—laid out before me—and wonder how I was able to stand not being with her for so long.

I put my hand between her legs and stroke her. Her eyes are half lidded and her lips are parted as she draws in increasingly ragged breaths. I love watching Claire when she’s turned on, and all of her inhibitions are gone. I push her legs farther apart and use my mouth and my tongue. When I told her I’d forgotten what she tastes like, this is what I really meant.

Claire moans softly and repeatedly, and that’s a sound I love hearing her make. Always have. I can tell she’s close, very close, so I keep stroking and licking and I don’t stop until she comes.

When the aftershocks have subsided she pulls me up toward her and removes my boxer shorts. I’m dying for Claire to touch me, but I’d rather be inside of her, so I roll onto my back and pull her on top of me. She straddles me and guides me inside. We rock together and it feels incredible, and when I come I say her name over and over. I’m still inside her when she stretches out on top of me. I wrap my arms around her and we lay still, catching our breath.

“I never stopped wanting you, Claire,” I whisper. “Never.”

I hold her in my arms and as soon as I’m able, I make love to her again, just because I can. Afterward, when I’m certain that she’s fallen asleep, I slip out of bed and finish my reports. Jim has sent three increasingly angry e-mails, asking where they are. I’ll get an earful on Monday, but I really don’t care.

Fuck you, Jim. I still win.

62

claire

Chris and I tuck the kids into bed one night a few weeks later, and reconvene on the couch to watch TV. It’s Sunday and he worked most of the day, but he took a break to go to Josh’s soccer game and he stopped early enough so we could take the kids out for dinner. He seems happier, even with his stressful workload and the large amount of time he has to spend away from home. Even without

the antidepressants. Instead of shutting me out he answers my questions when I ask about work. He shares with me how frustrated he is.

We’re watching the end of a CSIrerun when the local news interrupts programming with a special report. I watch the BREAKING NEWS banner flashing at the top of the screen and feel a prickle of unease because whatever we’re about to learn is significant enough to disrupt prime-time programming.

The news anchor begins speaking and I lean forward a bit, listening as he reports that two police officers have been shot during a routine traffic stop. The station cuts to live footage, which shows flashing lights, police cars, fire trucks, and barricades. “Can you tell where that is?” Chris asks. I don’t answer him because I’m searching the faces of the police officers who are trying to maintain order and hold back the onlookers. The anxiety increases a bit when I realize that Daniel isn’t one of the officers I can identify in the crowd.

It can’t be him. There’s no way it’s him.

But it might be him. I don’t know if he’s on duty tonight, but this is the shift he works. I fight the urge to slip out of the room, send him a text. I might not be able to see him anymore, but that doesn’t mean I stopped caring about his well-being. The news report ends with a promise from the anchor to keep viewers updated as more information becomes available.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Chris says.

“No,” I say. My worry increases. You’re being foolish, I tell myself. Daniel wouldn’t have anyone in his police car. He patrols alone. But Daniel told me once that a routine traffic stop is one of the most dangerous things a police officer faces. “You never know what the person behind the wheel is thinking,” he said. “What they’re going to do. If they’re armed.”

CSIcomes back on, but I’m no longer paying attention. The nightly news will start in a few minutes and then I’ll know more. I’ll know that Daniel is safe.

The shooting is the first story the nightly news covers. For five minutes they repeat the same information they’ve already given viewers, but then Daniel’s name suddenly flashes on the screen and I stand up so fast that my knee hits the coffee table and sends my glass of water flying.

“Claire!” Chris says. “What is it?”

I scramble for the remote control and turn up the volume. The anchor reports that Daniel Rush and Justin Chambers, the reserve officer riding along with him, have been transported to the hospital. Their conditions are unknown.

I sit down on the very edge of the couch, feeling panicked. I can’t answer Chris. It’s as if the wind has been knocked right out of me, and I can’t speak.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says.

My heart is pounding and I have that awful feeling, the kind where the adrenaline makes your whole body vibrate with anxiety. “I know one of those officers. He’s a friend of mine.”

His forehead creases in confusion. “Which one?”

Hysteria bubbles up inside me. I feel it building and want to shout, “The ridiculously good-looking one!” but I take a deep breath and say, “Daniel Rush.”

Chris ponders this for a moment. “I don’t understand. How do you know him?”

“I did a freelance assignment for the police department.”

“But you said you were friends with him. What do you mean?”

I thought breaking things off with Daniel would mean that I’d never have this conversation with Chris. But suddenly I want to have this conversation. Need to have it. Daniel’s life could be hanging in the balance, and I’m not going to downplay our friendship, even if I have to pay for it. “We got to know each other pretty well,” I say.

“How well?”

I can almost see the lightbulb flickering above Chris’s head.

He stands up and takes a step back, exhaling in one fast breath. “Jesus, Claire. Are you trying to tell me you were having an affair with this guy? Because if you are, just say it.”

I shake my head. “I never slept with him. I never did anything like that with him.”

“Well, what did you do?” Chris asks, appearing only slightly relieved.

“We talked,” I say. “We texted. We went to lunch, to dinner. We spent time together.”

“How much time?” Chris’s face is flushed and he’s getting louder by the second. “And why didn’t you ever tell me about him?”

“When would you have had time to listen?” I ask, my voice also getting louder. “Do you know how many times I stood outside your office door waiting for you to come out and talk to me? Or laid there in bed wondering if you were going to join me? Put your arms around me and let me know in some small way that you still cared? There was always something more important to you than me.” I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “He was there when you weren’t.”

“I thought you would wait for me. You’re my wife. I thought you of all people would understand.” Chris’s shoulders slump and he runs a hand through his hair. “I feel like I don’t know you at all. How am I supposed to trust you now, Claire?”

If Chris only knew how many times I longed for Daniel to hold me in his arms, and how many times I resisted the physical pull of him. But that won’t help anything now. He won’t want to hear any of it.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you, Chris. That was never my intent. But Daniel could be dying right now, and I will not be okay if that happens. He was important to me. I need to know that he’s all right.”

Chris walks away and moments later I hear the office door slam.

I relocate to the bedroom and watch news coverage continually, flipping between all the stations, desperate for an update on Daniel’s condition. I feel powerless. There’s no one I can call, and I have a better understanding of how Daniel must have felt when I was in the hospital. I keep the bedroom door closed because I don’t want to be bothered, but it doesn’t matter because Chris never comes upstairs. Additional details trickle in and I gasp in horror when I learn that Daniel—and the reserve officer who rushed to his aid—both sustained gunshot wounds to the head.

My thoughts race and images of Daniel flash before my eyes like a slide show that’s moving too fast toward an outcome I can’t even contemplate.