That picture was a lie.
The door swung open before Cal even had a chance to knock — probably because Jocelyn had heard the roadster driving down the street, the sound rumbling through her forever-open windows.
“Where did you park?” She peeked around Cal’s body, squinting into the black of night. It wasn’t only dark — it was late, yet she wore the same black, form-fitting, off-the-shoulder velvet dress from the graduation ceremony.
What a sight this woman was. And he could look at her properly now. Up and down.
Feet bare.
Legs bare.
Her subtle cleavage an invitation.
Loose curls fell from her bun, dangling around her neck and jawline.
Cal was falling faster, standing at the door, peering deep into her cavernous brown eyes, avoiding her misplaced concern.
“I haven’t been here in weeks, and you’re worried about where I parked?”
“Where’s your car?”
“Up the street. Are you going to let me in?”
“No.” She attempted to block his entry, closing the door partway.
Cal smacked the wood, inserted a foot over the threshold, and stared her down. “What number drink are you on?”
“Fuck you, Cal.” Jocelyn smirked and turned, leaving the door ajar. She began to head toward her salvation or her diversion. “You’re supposed to be with your friends.”
The front door closed with a boom, the wind coursing through the house making it so, or maybe Cal had neglected to keep it from slamming.
They met near one of the couches.
“We decided it was over.” The ice in her glass rattled, the jingle a sad distraction or denial — the drink an inadequate substitution for what she truly desired. Perhaps, tonight, she’d been grossly reminded of her age, her place, the time — watching not only Cal, but another group of children graduate. “You can’t just show up here anymore.”
“No, you decided. You’ve been in charge.”
“That’s right.” She glared at him. “Always in charge. That’s me.”
Cal took his time observing her reactions. Her anger and frustration. The rise and fall of her lungs. Then he touched her cheek. “Why are you wearing so much makeup?” The eyeshadow he smeared with blush as Jocelyn tried to look away, her eyes turning to glass, reflecting love along with regrets — everything she tried to run from.
“I want you,” he uttered, one hand cradling her face, the fingers of his other hand gripping her nape.
“One lay for the night wasn’t enough for you?” Jocelyn removed herself from his grasp, feigned a smile, and walked toward the windows, where she promptly took another sip of the savior.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw you with her. You think you can…” She raised the glass and shook the ice around. “You think you can be with that long, spidery blonde and then have me?”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, Cal had to stifle a laugh, but his mood quickly turned somber as he looked over the tenebrous room, beginning with the kitchen. The Stoli was out, cap off, a third of the way gone. A Styrofoam box was open next to it, food unfinished, probably cold.
The room felt cold.
She’d probably been drinking in the cold and the dark for at least an hour, only the sound of the wind whistling through the old, open windows.
She’d been alone.
With her thoughts…
Taking three steps forward, Cal met Jocelyn head-on, took the glass, and set it on the table. Four of his fingers cradled her cheek, and his thumb found a cozy spot beneath her chin. Lifting it, he held her head in place and smirked. “I didn’t sleep with her.”
“Don’t lie to me. We see other people. You don’t need to lie to me.”
“I don’t lie.” Cal’s eyes roved over her face, her neck, those lips. “I fuck.”
Jocelyn froze. Only her breasts rose. Her eyes darkened. Cal felt her pulse gain momentum, watched her pupils dilate.
“You said I didn’t intimidate you.”
“I’m drinking,” she replied, beginning to tremble. Cal would never tire of her reactions to him. “You don’t intimidate me... It’s… It’s different.”
“Do you want me to intimidate you?”
Jocelyn’s nostrils flared with passion or anger. Or both. Cal felt what she felt:
That she was mad he was moving away.
Angry things could never be any way she needed them to be.
Maybe she was even mad she still wanted him, still needed him.
The separation hadn’t changed the energy flaring between them. Nor would his leaving change their love.
“I want you to fuck me.”
“I thought you wanted me to leave.” He brushed knuckles across her cheek.
“Make love to me, Cal,” she said, her voice and hands shaking, letting him see everything inside her again — the way she always had.
“Which is it, Joc? Make love or fuck?”
“Both.” She began to unbutton his shirt.
Cal untucked it from his pants, then started on his belt. “I want to stay all night with you. This will be the last night. Tonight. I’m deciding that.”
Jocelyn turned her head, her gaze traveling to the iced tea glass on the table.
“I don’t have a condom.”
“You know where they are.” Jocelyn reached for the vodka.
“No.” Cal grabbed her arm and spun her around. “You’ve had enough of that fucking drink.” Pushing the front of her body against the corner of the leather sofa, he yanked her arms over her head and lifted her skirt toward her waist. In a few quick seconds, she was there — stretched out, facedown, partially naked and immaculate.
Fucking Christ, Cal wanted to be inside her now more than he ever had.
“Stay here. Like this. Don’t move. Do you understand?” He shook her wrists, removed her panties. “Do you understand, Ms. Ryan?”
“Yes,” she burst, beginning to gyrate her hips.
Cal slapped her thigh, gritting his teeth. “I said, don’t”—smack—“fucking”—smack—“move.”
“Hurry.”
But the second Cal made his way into her bedroom, everything slowed down. His throat caught. The single wide window was open. The sheer lace curtains blew. Her necklaces jingled a little on their spindle. The old screen slapped against the splintered wood.
Everything once familiar suddenly looked brand new. Smelled new.
The photographs of her daughter, the abundance of pillows, the antique furniture, the paintings and sketches and drawings, like he was seeing it all for the first time yet feeling déjà vu — the sensation was almost frightening, unnerving.
An ending.
Cal stepped in front of the dresser, ran his hands over the top of the wood, and stared at her trinkets and pictures. He thought about her downstairs. Waiting. Jocelyn was the real celebration, the real graduation.
She was the gift, the present.
Always had been.
Her spirit, her willingness, her strong ideas submitting to his whims. Professor Jocelyn Ryan was the ultimate.
And now, it was the end.
The true end.
He would take her with him wherever he went, never forgetting her comfort, her zest and flower and sex, the sound of her voice … that fucking smile. Or her eyes…
Cal looked away from her things, items belonging to another time and place, away from the nagging, fresh-sunrise familiar, and went to the bathroom to retrieve the condoms.
As he closed the medicine cabinet, his gaze stopped on something else.
The Matisse.
The wonder of the dancers and the memory of the first night he’d seen the collage consumed him. His veins filled with what could only be described as jealousy, a crazed sort of envy. It was completely irrational yet felt terribly necessary.
The man and his partner, the two dancers, had found it. They had it. Held it. Whatever Cal thought he was missing or needed, the two figures in the cutouts had already discovered it.
No, no, he thought and shook his head. You know better than that. That picture was a lie.
The way all art was.
What the dancers embodied and exuded didn’t exist. It wasn’t real. It was art. Manufactured. Created to ignite feelings within humans, to stir their emotions. Whatever those dancers found had been invented by Matisse. Then the observer transferred their own emotions onto it, projecting … idealizing.
Cal refused its charm.
Perhaps that was the real mistake. One he would eventually discover never served him.