“Are you seeing Tyler again today?” Andrea wanted to know. She was fiddling at her computer, ordering linens and other bedroom necessities for the retreat, which was only a day away.
“Is that okay?” I asked, feeling guilty. I’d spent almost every day for the past two months with Tyler, in lieu of pursuing freelance work or helping Andrea set up for the NewLife retreat. The house had populated around me with NewLife dolls in various stages of development. Delivery trucks had steadily streamed in with the spoils of Andrea and Rob’s trips to antique shops around the Hudson Valley. Andrea had insisted on handling the planning of the week’s menu as well as the procurement and prep of food, rather than bringing in a caterer for every meal. The first group of attendees was scheduled to arrive by chartered bus the following evening. I was starting to wonder what people were shelling out for the experience. It seemed high-end, but Andrea hadn’t disclosed the financials, and when I’d checked the NewLife website, I’d noticed rates were available by inquiry only.
“More than okay,” Andrea said. “I’m so glad to see you feeling more like yourself. I’ll just be here prepping.” She seemed cheerful about the undertaking, rather than daunted, whereas I felt guilty to have chosen that particular moment to indulge a crush.
Guilty—but preoccupied with what I’d begun to think of privately as a personal renaissance. I had a family. I was falling for a good person whose brain I was fascinated by, whose body I wanted, even though we hadn’t explored fully the depths of our sexual chemistry. I had some semblance of the stability I’d lacked my whole life and tried so hard to find … and all it had taken was opening my heart and trusting the people around me, the simple acknowledgment that I didn’t have to go it alone. What had I been trying all those years to prove?
I hadn’t spoken to Andrea or even Tyler about it yet, but I was reconsidering Andrea’s proposition. What had seemed like an egregious crossing of boundaries—a commodification of my body, an act that could have lifelong emotional consequences—now simply felt like a way I could give of myself to someone I loved. I wanted to be one hundred percent sure before I told her. I was nearly there. Perhaps after the retreat, when things around us had settled and there was time for a private, serious conversation. I could almost picture it, telling Andrea I could give her the thing she wanted most in the world, an even exchange for what she’d given me these months. My benevolence, my emotional growth, my ability to behave generously toward the people I loved.
I found I liked the idea of my body being used for something generous and positive. For too long, its function had been limited to pain and fear and longing. Now it could be more, if I let it. In such a short time, Andrea had taught me that connectivity was everything. How had she learned it, in bouncing from foster family to foster family? How had she been so much more enlightened than I, when I was the one who had abandoned her and had by all accounts come out on top, at least in childhood?
She had always been the better, stronger, smarter one. The one the Mothers had loved best. Maybe I could finally be better—stronger—than I was, for the sake of family. The prospect frightened and thrilled me.
We didn’t talk or think about the Mothers. It was as if they’d never existed. As if our lives began the day that all ended, separate courses destined to converge in the here and now. I had a home, a family, a partner prospect. As Emily had said, What else is there? The question had seemed offensive at the time, even ignorant. But now I wondered what exactly I’d been hoping to discover amid all that ceaseless striving.
“Is something about your coffee mug fascinating?” Andrea asked. I looked up and laughed, realizing I’d been staring at the lukewarm remnants of my coffee for several minutes.
“Just zoning out, I guess.”
“Well you had a goofy smile on your face,” Andrea informed me. “You look happy.”
I pushed back from the table and crossed the room to where Andrea sat at the kitchen island, typing away at her laptop. “I am happy,” I told her, wrapping my arms around her from behind. Andrea minimized whatever was on her screen before I could see it. Then she turned and gave me a peck on the cheek.
“I’m so glad,” she said. “I knew you would be, if you learned to let yourself.”
“Was it so obvious?” I straightened, looking down at her. Andrea’s blond hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. She wore a white turtleneck and no makeup. She was radiant, angelic.
“You’re one of the prickliest motherfuckers I know,” she said, laughing. “Never have I had to work so hard for someone’s trust. But you’re worth it.”
“Well, thanks for putting in the effort,” I said. “I owe you one.”
“You sure do. Now maybe you can help me. I am having a personal crisis. NewLife is driving me insane. This retreat is so much work! Like, should I switch careers? Should I be a manager or something instead of an entrepreneur?”
“Andrea,” I said with a laugh, “what are you even talking about? A manager of what?”
She shrugged. “Just like … a successful person who manages … something.”
I stood back, evaluating her. “Nah, I don’t think you’re the manager type.”
Her jaw dropped.
I burst out laughing. “Girl, you are managing this entire retreat. That is exactly what you are doing right this very second.”
“Brat,” she said. Then she was giggling too. I wrapped my arms around my cousin again and leaned down to hug her, resting my head against her shoulder. These moments were it. There was nothing better—she had my whole heart. With maybe a small sliver left for a cute English major restaurateur.
Perhaps not shockingly, there wasn’t much going on at night in our somewhat remote neck of the Catskills, which, I supposed, was why Andrea and Rob and I had spent so much time on their property—reading and talking in our own little bubble. It hadn’t seemed stifling before, but now Tyler and I were struggling to find something to do.
“I can’t believe there was a two-hour wait for the diner,” he said, pounding his palm against the steering wheel in frustration.
“Hey.” I put a hand on his thigh. “Relax. I don’t care where we go.”
“Maybe you don’t, but I’m hungry, and it’s irritating that we can’t go anywhere within twenty miles of here because citiots flood every decent restaurant at the start of the weekend.”
“It’s just dinner,” I said, taken aback. “And I’m one of those dumb city people.”
“Not really. You don’t live there anymore, at least.”
“Ouch.” I withdrew my hand. “I fully plan to, as soon as I can. What is with you tonight? I’ve never seen this side of you.” And I don’t like it very much.
“Nothing. I’m fine. Let’s just try one more place. It’s forty minutes away, but it’s amazing.” Tyler swore under his breath as we pulled out of the diner, and I tensed. His irritation had come out of nowhere, and it felt like a noose around my neck that tightened every time he made a sharp turn or drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. What started as a little bit of tension was looking more and more like a red flag.
“Look,” I said to him, careful to keep my voice light. “Why don’t we just grab a pizza and take it back to your place? When do I get to see your place?” I was teasing, sort of. We’d spent most of the past couple of months out at restaurants, hiking, or curled up together in my bed. We’d only been sleeping together for a few weeks—I hadn’t been eager to jump into anything too fast—and when he’d nervously fumbled for a condom the first night, it had felt again like we were in high school, engaging in the nervous explorations of a couple more interested in getting it over with than in giving each other any real pleasure. In the morning, he’d been sheepish and I’d been anxious, wanting to reclaim our perfect, heightened haze and fearing one awkward moment would derail us altogether. I was anxious I hadn’t been perfect, anxious he’d leave just as I was beginning to let him in.
“We’re not going back to my place,” he said stiffly.
“Like, ever?” I peered at him strangely. “Why not?”
He sighed, offering me a tight smile. “It isn’t … as nice as what you’re used to,” he said finally. “It’s basically a shack compared to Rob and Andrea’s place.”
“I don’t care about that,” I began, covering his hand where it rested atop the gearshift.
“I care,” he said, removing his hand from mine and placing it back on the wheel. I was silent. He had professed not to take money seriously, to value a simple existence with the things he loved. But there it was. He cared just as much as any of us. We sat with the weight of his words. “I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I’m not ready for you to see it yet. Can you be patient with me?”
I nodded, forcing a smile. It wasn’t the first time it had occurred to me that Tyler was hiding something. But that was the voice from my past talking, the one that had sabotaged me all my life, preventing me from getting close to anyone until I’d formed a perfect glass house with myself as its sole occupant. I wasn’t going to let anxiety stop me from seeing this thing through with Tyler. He was entitled to his privacy. And it had only been a couple months, I reasoned. It would be weird if he were spilling all his secrets at this stage.
We pulled into a narrow, partially filled lot. “Score,” he said, letting out a breath. He pointed at the neon sign flickering “Open” in orange, fluorescent swirls near the entrance. “This is the best taco joint east of the Hudson,” he announced, all his earlier tension seemingly vanished. He gave me an easy smile. It was odd how quickly he shifted from tense to relaxed. I could handle his mercurial tendencies if he could deal with my complete inexperience with emotional intimacy. And actually, I was more comfortable knowing he was flawed. The imposter syndrome was less intense during those moments; I didn’t have to feel undeserving of what I was getting.
Twenty minutes later we were seated in a red vinyl booth, sharing chips and guac.
“So how old were you when you were adopted?” he asked, casually dunking a salted chip into the bowl of guacamole and emerging with an entire serving-sized scoop. I stiffened. Speaking of secrets …
“I don’t remember telling you I was adopted,” I said carefully. “Did Andrea say that?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said, drawing a deep breath. Tyler had finally begun to chill out, and I didn’t want to tip the scale. Besides, if I was going to get him to open up, I needed to be open with him. That meant giving him at least a basic overview. But when were he and Andrea discussing these things? Had she called him, or had it come up organically sometime in the house, maybe when I was getting ready? If she accidentally let something slip, that was one thing. Going out of her way to tell him was something else entirely. It was a little odd, given that she preferred to avoid talking about those days.
“Andrea and I grew up together until she was eleven and I was eight,” I explained. “Then we were put into the foster care system. I was adopted almost immediately.”
Tyler looked confused. “Oh. I didn’t realize you two lived together as kids.”
Shit. Andrea must have mentioned my past without mentioning her own.
“Near each other,” I hedged. “In the same neighborhood.” This was the part that was hard. How could I be close to Tyler if I was lying to him? Why had Andrea broken the rules? Was she setting the terms of my relationship, sending the message that it was okay to talk about certain things and not others? “What else did she say?”
“Nothing really,” he said. “She told me you were adopted; that’s it.” The waiter came and placed an enchilada in front of Tyler and shrimp tacos in front of me.
“Well, yeah, that’s about it,” I said. “Nothing to write home about. Could we get some extra salsa, please?” I asked the waiter, feeling Tyler’s gaze burning into me.
“Look, Tyler,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “My childhood wasn’t easy. I’ll tell you about it sometime. Just not right now, okay?” It was the first time I felt I couldn’t be fully open with Tyler. He knew some of the weirdest and darkest parts of me. I’d told him about the nightmares that plagued me almost nightly, my lack of any kind of real relationship in adulthood. He knew about Ryan, and my grief, and that I needed to move slowly. The only thing he didn’t know about was my childhood.
He nodded, taking a giant bite of enchilada. “I understand,” he said kindly. “We can talk about it whenever you’re ready.”
“Great,” I said, feeling some of the tension in my shoulders subside. “Because I really want to have fun right now.”
“Fun, I can do,” he said. “Especially now that I’m not hangry.”
“Hangry isn’t real,” I informed him. “Unless you’re a toddler.”
“Oh yeah?” he asked. “Is that so? Well then, I guess I’m a toddler. You know what else toddlers do?”
“Stop!” I squealed, laughing. But Tyler was already reaching back into the chip bowl, flinging a tiny blob of guacamole, slingshot style, at my head. I ducked just in time for the guac to sail past my head and hit the booth behind me.
“Real mature,” I said to Tyler, but I was still smiling, and in it was a sense of relief. The tension had been broken.
Our high spirits continued in the car, all the way back to Andrea and Rob’s. When we pulled into the driveway, he reached over and unbuckled my seat belt and pulled me toward him, kissing me hard until I was gasping for breath, then pulling back to tease me when I went in for more. I was hungry for him, leaning toward him, panicked by the sudden rush of full-body desire, aware only of my mouth on his and his hand slipping below the waistband of my jeans. Finally, he pulled back, his own breathing labored.
“I want you,” he said. “But not here.”
I nodded. He turned off the engine, and we ascended the dark stairwell, hand in hand. It was only nine thirty, but Andrea and Rob had made themselves scarce.
He kicked the door closed and pulled off my shirt, then led me to my bed. I lay on my back, his frame hovering above me. I shivered as his eyes roamed over my body, taking me in. I wiggled my hips, then drew my arms up to tickle his muscular forearms, trying to tempt him closer, to bridge the distance between us. His gaze was searing. I felt raw and vulnerable under its scrutiny.
“You’re so beautiful,” he told me. He pushed my arms above my head and let his lips wander from my neck to my chest. I was covered in goose bumps, my nipples erect. He paused on my right breast, flicking his tongue over its peak, and I moaned quietly. He moved to the left and stayed there until my entire body was writhing. Then he worked his way toward my stomach, still pinning my arms with one hand, and I felt my back arch toward him.
“I thought we’d try something a little different this time,” he whispered. I looked for his eyes, but in the dim of the room I couldn’t make out his expression. Was it a tremble of nervousness I’d heard? Or of excitement?
“What are we trying?” I asked. Different implied we’d done this before, countless times. Different didn’t account for the fact that we’d only been having sex for a few weeks, that we were still discovering each other’s bodies and comfort zones.
“It’s a surprise,” he said. “Do you trust me?” His voice quaked again, as if to say Don’t trust me.
“I trust you,” I told him. I needed to trust him. I needed to trust a man at some point in my life, and he was there in front of me, as good as any man. I needed him to prove me wrong about all the things I’d grown up knowing and fearing. More than that, I needed to respect a man, and respecting meant giving of myself in a reciprocal way. It went fully against my nature.
“I trust you,” I said again, looking him in the eyes this time. Tyler rewarded me with a kiss.
“I like you, Maeve,” he said. If I hadn’t known better—in another situation—I’d have thought his voice sounded regretful, the words themselves inadequate.
“I like you too,” I said, laughing awkwardly. One day, I hoped to love him, to prove all the broken parts inside me had been fixed. Tyler let me go, briefly, and rummaged in his backpack. At first I thought he was searching for a condom, but instead he brought out a long, narrow piece of black fabric. Then another, and another. He kept hold of one and set the other two on my bed. It astonished me that he’d planned this.
“It’s a blindfold,” he said, about the piece of fabric in his hand. “I’d like to cover your eyes and tie you up. Is that all right?” I hesitated. I’d used restraints and blindfolds before, with Ryan. That was when, if I was honest with myself, I didn’t want to be treated gently by any man. I’d wanted punishment back then, so I could feel a measure of absolution.
I’d thought things with Tyler would be different.
But despite myself, I was aroused. My response to the sight of the blindfold was erotically Pavlovian. Intellectually I wanted respect, wanted to experience lovemaking at its gentlest and most cherished. I wanted what other, normal women had. On a more primal level, I craved punishment. Tyler waited expectantly.
I nodded.
I sat up and allowed him to tie the blindfold once, twice, to ensure there was no way I could see anything. He traced a finger down the side of my neck.
“Lie back,” he said. I felt him draw my arms over my head and pull them uncomfortably taut while he made knots around my wrists and tightened the other ends to the bedposts. I shivered; my naked chest was exposed. I felt him unfasten my jeans, and I arched my hips to accommodate him. He slid them down my thighs, pulling them past my ankles and abandoning them to the floor, where they landed with a light rustle. Finally, he removed my underwear. I was bare and trembling, my entire body vulnerable, and I could see nothing at all.
Then Tyler left the room, shutting the door behind him. Leaving me there alone, shaking. He was gone for a long time. Several minutes must have passed. My arousal transitioned to confusion and, finally, to apprehension. But, I reasoned, this was part of his game. When I reframed it that way, my heightened sexual awareness returned with a startling vengeance, until every nerve was firing, throbbing, begging for release. By the time the door opened again, I was breathless.
“You’re back,” I said. He placed a finger over my lips, and I moved to bite it, but he drew away. I felt the pressure of his body on the bed and rolled toward him as much as I could within the confines of the restraints. He flattened me onto my back with a calloused palm. He smelled like whiskey blended with vanilla, and I drank it in.
“Tyler.” I uttered his name in a hoarse gasp. My pleasure was heightened by something new—fear—but the fear itself was beginning to crowd my consciousness. Soon it would block the pleasure out. Instead of answering, he placed his palm over my mouth. He lowered his body on mine, and began to touch me, gently at first, and then with more pressure.
I wanted his voice. I wanted to ask for it. He was silent, and I couldn’t speak around his hand. I bit it lightly, hoping he would take the hint; instead, he simply accelerated his movements until I was panting against his palm. Then I felt him shift and enter me. I bit him harder then, sinking my teeth into his palm and causing him to jerk away with a grunt of pain. Still he didn’t speak. My heart was thrumming erratically. It was impossible to distinguish panic from pleasure.
“Sorry,” I whispered, tears crowding the edges of my eyes. He didn’t bother to respond. It was a sick, twisted game he was playing, and I liked it.
He moved slowly at first, then quicker when the movements of my body betrayed my pleasure. Fear spiked again in my brain, but the rational side of me knew it was my person, the one I had agreed to trust. I allowed him to thrust wildly, bringing me to an orgasm before he reached his own.
It was only when he came inside me, hot and pulsing, that I realized two things: I had never come that intensely with Ryan, not once; and Tyler hadn’t been wearing a condom.
I awoke sore, curled against him. I turned over and met his eyes. We hadn’t talked about any of it the night before; he’d simply exited the room to clean up and returned to untie me. Then he’d cradled me against his chest and kissed the side of my neck as if to establish a normal, postcoital comedown. All night I’d slept fitfully, exhausted by my own confusion. I’d consented to the blindfold. I’d known he wanted something kinky, something beyond the norm. I’d wanted it too. And I’d indisputably been turned on, possibly more than ever before. So why was it all bothering me to the extent that I felt sick to my stomach, amped up, unable to sleep?
His eyes were wide and clear, as though he’d been awake for hours.
“What was that last night?” I asked, resolving to be direct.
“I thought it was great sex,” he replied. But the uncertainty in his eyes betrayed him.
“No,” I said. “No. Look at you. You’ve got guilt written all over you.”
“I thought you’d like it,” he started. “Andrea said you liked it rough—”
“What?” I pulled back. “Andrea said that? Why were you and Andrea talking about my sex life? When is it that you two have so much time to talk behind my back?”
“It just … came up,” he said lamely. I sat up in bed, securing the sheet over my chest with one arm. “How? When? When were you talking without me there? And why were you talking about this?”
“Maeve,” he said, reaching for me. “We were just joking around. That night at my restaurant, I said how beautiful I thought you were, and she said something like Well in bed she doesn’t like to be sweet-talked, and it went from there. I thought you’d like it, last night. You seemed to like it.”
“That is so weird. Did Andrea also tell you not to use a condom too?” I snapped. “What was that about? Did it not occur to you that that’s something we should have discussed? How do I know you aren’t sleeping with other people? Have you been tested recently? Don’t you care about your own health? What if I hadn’t been tested?”
He looked down, ashamed. Then he began to climb out of bed.
“Where are you going?” I asked, shocked. “You aren’t even going to bother talking this through?”
“I want to talk it through,” he said. “But you’re hysterical, and I think we should wait until we’ve both had some distance and a chance to calm down.” He was being a coward, and he knew it. It was evident in his slumped shoulders and the way he averted his eyes.
“You’re calling me hysterical. After you use my body however you want, scare the shit out of me, and neglect to use a condom. Are you seriously walking out on me right now?” I was fighting to control my rage; I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this furious. I’d slept with Ryan for a year—no pretense of dates, no pretense of love or romance—and he’d treated me better than Tyler had treated me after mere months as my supposed romantic interest.
“We can talk later,” he said lamely, reaching for his jeans, which were lying in a bunch on the floor. He picked them up, and a small object rolled from one pocket and clattered across the floor, where it skidded and came to a rest against the leg of my bed frame. I looked over the edge and spotted it: a ring. Gold.
“What the actual fuck,” I said to him. “Is that what I think it is?”
Tyler picked the ring off the floor. Met my eyes. He had the gall to look tragic, as though he were experiencing some sort of loss.
“You’re married?” I shrieked, no longer caring about waking up Andrea and Rob. “Is that why we haven’t been going to your house?”
“Maeve,” he said, beginning to tear up. “I’m so sorry. Believe me. I never wanted it to be this way. I didn’t think I’d start to care about you.” He raked a nervous hand through his hair.
“Get out!” I shouted. He moved toward me, but I leaped out of bed, enraged. “Get the fuck out of here!” I yelled, shoving him toward the door until he turned and went.
I stood in my room like that—naked, my arms wrapped around myself—for a long time after I heard his footsteps reach the bottom of the stairs, then heard the front door open and close. I couldn’t bring myself to get my robe until the thrum of his car engine filtered through my window, until his tires squealed down the driveway and away from the house. And then I did. I went through the motions of wrapping myself up, of sitting back on my bed, knees tucked to my chest, wondering how my trust had been so misguided.
Only then did I allow the full extent of my anger to wash over me. I gritted my teeth and imagined what I wanted to do to Tyler, the anguish I wanted him to feel. The ruthless sort of justice his betrayal warranted. I wanted him to feel as frightened and helpless as he’d made me feel. But Tyler wasn’t worth despair or recriminations, I realized. Tyler had proven he wasn’t worth anything at all.