The best lesson I was given is that all of life teaches, especially if we have that expectation.
–Sam Abell
Gwen
It doesn’t take long to figure out where Marc is taking me, but I don’t say anything, enjoying the comfortable silence between us interspersed with casual touches and the snap of my camera.
I take pictures of him driving, smiling, kissing my fingers. I want to capture these moments and hold them close. Something to remember later when . . .
I’m not thinking about that.
The future is for tomorrow. Today is about me and Marc.
The Hamptons are quiet in the winter. The streets are nearly empty. We drive past dried-up fields and bare trees, through small towns full of clapboard houses and buttoned-up buildings. We go all the way to the end of Long Island—as far east as you can get without driving into the ocean—and end up in Montauk.
As he winds the car into a neighborhood, I catch glimpses of the empty beaches. It’s too cold to swim, but I still want to walk along the beach with him, even if I freeze.
He pulls up in front of a two-story grey clapboard house that backs up to the beach.
We park in the small driveway. A set of wooden stairs leads down from the front porch and disappears around back.
“We’re here.” He grins at me and then slides out of the car, opening the back door to pull out our bags. I get out and breathe in the crisp, salty air, stretching before following him up the stairs.
The front door opens into a long, open room. A couple of chairs and a small couch cluster around a fireplace and above it a flat screen on the wall. A dining set with a glass-topped table and bench seats nestles between the seating area and the kitchen, which is lined with stainless steel appliances, white cupboards, and a butcher-top island. In countless shell- and pebble-adorned photo frames, children romp and laugh in the sand.
Everything is clean and high quality, but instead of being sterile, the pictures clustered on the side tables in the living room and arranged on the walls give everything a homey, lived-in feel despite the fact that no one lives here full-time. A sliding glass door in the kitchen leads to the backyard. Next to the front door, a staircase leads up to the bedrooms, or so I assume.
“This is nice,” I say.
“Mom bought it when we were kids. We used to come here in the summer.” He tosses our bags on the couch and then walks into the kitchen. “Are you hungry?” he asks, opening the fridge. “We have a guy that maintains the property in the winter. I had him stock it with all kinds of stuff because I didn’t know what you might be craving.”
“I am hungry.” Something in my voice must register with him because he steps back from the fridge and lets the door fall shut, his eyes meeting mine.
I walk over and grab the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the floor. “Have you ever had sex with anyone here?”
His throat jerks as he swallows. “No. I’ve never brought a woman here.”
“Good.”
We christen the kitchen island. Then a chair in the living room. Then the bench seat in the dining room.
Once that’s been taken care of, we’ve worked off all the calories from the burritos and it’s after lunchtime.
“Let’s go out to eat,” he says.
“Didn’t you say you had a bunch of food here?”
“I know but I want to take you out.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
We go to an Italian restaurant on the beach in Montauk, Harvest on Fort Pond. There’s only one other couple in the restaurant and they look over eighty. Well, we are eating dinner at four thirty.
We hold hands and talk and eat pancetta roast shrimp and penne pasta, like lovers.
We take a couple of slices of apple blueberry pie to go.
Then we head back to the house and walk along the beach as the sun sets. I take more pictures. Marc in front of the tumultuous waves, in a sweater with windblown hair, while he laughs at something I’ve said. Marc gazing into the distance as we watch the sun escape under the waves. Marc watching me take his pictures with a rueful grin that turns into a grimace. Marc sticking out his tongue when I won’t stop taking his picture. Marc coming after me and picking me up, tossing me over his shoulder and running with me down the beach.
Okay, well, I get pictures of the sand under his feet and some shots of his butt when he’s carrying me like that, and they’re terrible shots because he’s jostling me around too much, and yet they might be my favorites.
When we get back to the house, frozen and windblown, he makes a fire and we sit in front of it. I show him some of the pictures I’ve been taking, wanting him to see what I see.
“Look.” I click the button to give him the slide show, and when he’s seen all of them, his eyes flick to mine.
“You’re a talented photographer. Those are probably the best pictures I’ve ever been in. I look nearly normal.”
I smack him on the leg. “Stop that. It’s not because I took the picture, it’s you. I’m only the link. It’s not who takes the picture, it’s who’s in the picture. Photography is about making a connection to people. It’s empathy. It’s . . .” I try to put it into words, the way I feel about taking pictures of people. Of real moments and emotions. “The best part of photography is capturing a moment of humanity and freezing it forever. To be honest, I don’t even see your scars anymore. Just you. And you are beautiful.”
He shakes his head. “You almost have me believing it.” He takes the camera from me with gentle fingers and puts it on the coffee table. “About those naked rules.”
My smile is as big as the Atlantic. “I’ve never made love in front of a fire.”
“That’s something we need to fix.”
The next morning is subdued. He makes me breakfast. It’s nothing fancy, scrambled eggs and cut-up fruit, a bagel and cream cheese. He even makes some sandwiches to bring with us on our way back to the city. It’s the little considerate things he does that makes my heart hurt. When I rub the goose bumps from my arms, he gets me my sweater from the living room. When I’ve finished my glass of juice, he asks if I want more.
He’s always looking out for what I might need or want.
He’s Marc.
The drive home is quiet. Not as exciting as the way out to Montauk. We’re both bracing ourselves, I think, for reality to return.
He’s going back to work tomorrow. He’s going to talk to his dad about quitting. I have my presentation and if all goes well, I’ll be leaving the city in the near future. Maybe for good.
All I’ve wanted over the past year is to leave and now I’m not ready for it to end.
We’re still somewhere on Long Island when I unbuckle my seat belt and lean over Marc in the driver’s seat.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I answer by unzipping his fly.
“You don’t have to . . . dear God.”
I lift my head. “No, actually it’s Gwen, but I get that a lot.”
His chuckle turns into a moan when I once again drop my head, and then the rumble of the engine drops as he pulls over to the side of the road.
Thank God for tinted windows.
There’s nothing more exciting than the sound of his moans and the feel of his fingers in my hair, gently encouraging. “Gwen, I can’t,” he pants.
I sit back and then pull off my leggings, keeping my eyes on his.
He pushes a button and the drivers seat moves back.
I take a few seconds of fumbling in my purse to find a condom and slide it on. Then I’m straddling him, feeling him stretch inside me, his eyes on mine, seeking, before he kisses me on the mouth, then his lips trail down my neck and I arch against him.
My body is sore from all the lovemaking, but I don’t even care. It feels too good, too right.
His hips pulse upward, and we’re frantic, both of us clinging to something we know won’t last. I finally climax on a sob. His cock flexes inside me, coming moments after I’ve finished.
I collapse against him.
We don’t say anything.
Our foreheads touch as we breathe together and I enjoy the feel of him inside me, ignoring the damn steering wheel digging into my back until I can’t anymore. Then I slide back over to the passenger seat and pull on my leggings and buckle my seat belt. He’s moving next to me, righting the seat, disposing of the condom and zipping up his pants, but I don’t look over.
I can’t. Not until he’s parked in front of my building.
I gaze out the window for a second before turning to face him.
He’s watching me. “I should walk you up.”
“No. Don’t.”
“Can I see you tomorrow?”
“I don’t know.”
“This doesn’t feel right.”
I feel it, too, but still I ask, “What doesn’t feel right?”
“Leaving you.”
I lean toward him and our mouths meet over the center console. His hands sneak into my hair and I brace myself against his chest for a moment before pulling back. “I have to go.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but then he nods.
I slide out of the car and shut the door. I grab my bag and phone from the back seat and then I’m jogging away.
I don’t look back.
Once I’m alone in my apartment with nothing more than my thoughts and the scent of Marc’s skin on my clothes and on my sheets, the panic sets in.
I pick up the phone to text him, then put it back down.
A minute later, I repeat the motion.
I want to call him to tell him Martha came over and stole my saltshaker. Or how nervous I am about my presentation tomorrow, even though I’ve been practicing it for years. Or even something gross, like how I found a piece of bread from our sandwiches in my cleavage a minute ago.
I want to talk to him about everything. Stupid things, funny things, things that don’t matter, and things that do. I know I can say anything, be completely myself and he won’t judge and he’ll support me.
Holy shit.
I love him.
I can’t. It’s been, what, like three weeks? This isn’t possible. I’m hormonal. I’ve been watching too many chick flicks.
What am I supposed to do now?
It’s either cry or drink heavily, and since I have an important presentation tomorrow and I don’t want to be red-eyed from either, I have to go with a third option.
“I can’t come over.” Scarlett calls me back after I send her a text. Her voice is a bit higher pitched than normal and she’s breathing fast.
“Are you okay?”
“No. I’m baking.”
“I thought you loved baking.”
“I do. But I’m probably never going to be able to do it professionally. Ever.” She sniffs.
“Don’t panic. I’m coming over.”
Scarlett doesn’t live far from me, a small one bedroom in Washington Heights.
She lets me in and immediately returns to the counter to stir something in a giant bowl.
It’s an open floor plan, which is a good thing because she’s set up tables to extend her counter space from the kitchen into the living room. Counter space that is now covered in mixers, baking pans of various shapes and sizes, bags of flour, spices, and other accouterments.
She’s moving like a dancer, stirring and measuring and doing whatever it is that chefs do.
“Try these.” She shoves a small plate in my direction full of different finger-food desserts. There are chocolate-covered toffee bites, mini cupcakes, and some kind of fruity wonton-wrapped creamy thing that melts in my mouth and makes me groan out loud.
“This is really good,” I say through my mouth of food.
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t lie. Do you have any more of these little wonton things?”
“Yes. Here.” She gives me another plate and then takes a rag from her shoulder and tosses it on the counter.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
I pop another dessert in my mouth and watch her carefully. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“You know why I went out with asshole Jerry? And all those other guys who never bothered calling me back?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“It’s because I slept with my boss back in Blue Falls. He turned out to be married.”
“Yikes.”
“Right? I didn’t know, by the way. Well, I knew he had been married, but he told me they were separated and going through a divorce. They weren’t. He was a chef. We had a passionate, torrid affair, and when I learned the truth, I was devastated.” Her stirring pace increases. “That’s why when I got to New York and was ready to put myself out there again, I only picked guys on Grindr that didn’t really do it for me . . . you know, sexually,” she whispers the word, “and they were all serious businessmen. And do you know why?”
“Um, because you really like douchey guys that are only moderately attractive?”
“Because I don’t want to end up in a relationship like my parents. Or like the one I had with Bruce.”
“Bruce is the married chef guy?” I clarify.
She nods.
“I thought you said your parents are super in love and into each other.”
“They are. And that’s the problem. They are so passionate, to the absolute exclusion of everything and everyone else. Including their daughters. My relationship with Bruce was like that. I forgot about my dreams, and he forgot about the wife he had at home.”
I nod. “So you want someone who doesn’t make you feel too much. I don’t think you need Grindr. I think you need a therapist.”
She switches from stirring to chopping strawberries. “I don’t need a therapist, I need someone I have lukewarm feelings for.” The knife clicks down on the cutting board with swift, hard thrusts.
“That sounds like a horrible idea and why are you getting all worked up?”
She stops chopping and stares down at her mess of berries. “I lost my job today.”
“Scarlett! What happened?” I rush over and put a hand on her shoulder.
She turns to face me. “One of our drunk customers asked to see the chef, and the boss always makes us go out and talk to them. The customer is always right!” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, he was an older guy and he was dressed in a Santa costume. He said his burger was overcooked and when I reminded him that he asked for well done, he pointed at his crotch and told me I could crawl under the table and be his ho-ho-ho. So I dumped a chocolate shake on his head.”
“Scarlett, I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
“So explain to me what losing your job has to do with you dating those asshats? You’re not going out with horny Santa, right?”
“Yuck, no. But now I’m going to end up back in Blue Falls and I won’t be able to get a job there either because Bruce owns every restaurant in town! What am I going to do, Gwen?”
“Why don’t you work for yourself?”
She blinks at me. “I don’t have the money to lease space in the city and start my own place. There’s no way a bank would front that kind of money to an unknown chef.”
“Not a restaurant. You’ve got a lot of desserts right here. What if instead of leasing a space, you do a dessert food truck or catering or something.”
She stares at me.
“I can help you market,” I add. “And I bet Brent would, too. Maybe he could tweet or something about how divine your desserts are to get some interest. Plus, I bet Liz would run a follow-up article, to show where you are now and what you’re doing. It could be amazing.”
She drops her spoon in her batter and throws her arms around me. “Gwen. That’s a brilliant idea!” She pulls back, her hands still on my shoulders. “I’ll have a lot to figure out, but it’s just crazy enough to work. A dessert food truck,” she mutters, then turns back to her mixing. “Okay, my crazy is all tapped out. It’s your turn. Tell me something going on with you.”
I bite my lip and then decide to just spill it. Why not? “I’m in love with Marc.”
She stops stirring and cocks her head toward me. “The brother?”
“Yeah.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I kind of figured.”
“You did?”
“Well, sure. I mean, Brent is the most handsome guy in the city. If you don’t want to truss him up and bring him home, then it must be love.”
“But now I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
“About my job. About his brother. About his issues and my issues and, and . . .”
“Honey, we all have issues. Did you not just hear what I said about wanting someone I don’t really want too much? There’s no reason you can’t have issues and still be together. And why can’t you have the job and the guy, too? There’s no rule against it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Maybe it is.”
“If News Weekly likes my presentation, I might leave the country.”
“That’s a big deal,” Scarlett agrees. “But he could go with you. Or he could wait for you. Have you even asked him?”
“No.” I’m like a sullen, angsty teen. I should go hang out with Janice.
“Do you even have this job yet?”
I sigh. “No. You’re right. I’m going to tell him.”
I want to call him. I want to be with him. I’m going to do it, after my presentation tomorrow. But something feels off, and I don’t know what it is. It’s like there’s a dark figure looming over me, waiting to drop the hammer.