FORTY-NINE

It was a dry rain.

I do know how silly that sounds, how silly it looks now on the page, but it was. It was the kind of rain that was so fine—more than a mist, really, but so fine that the sparseness of drops, when combined with the quality of the air, led you to believe no matter how long you stayed out in it, it could not possibly get you wet.

I had left John asleep in bed, moving on cat’s feet through a house that was dark, asleep. Before stepping out the door, I had grabbed my cloak, wrapping it tight around me.

There were only a handful of other people out so late, whom I passed as I made my way through the rows of gaslights, past the last light from a public house and toward the park where we normally brought Weston to play. Those few I did pass all looked as though they could be up to no possible earthly good, but I moved with such sureness, speed, and determination, all glanced away from me, rather than do anything to stop the path of my progress.

Away from the lights of the street, the park was shrouded, the heaviness of the clouds blocking out almost all evening light, so only the occasional shimmer could be seen sparkling on the lake as I leaned back against a tree.

Of course, I had a reason for coming there.

“Emma?”

I had not seen him in so long, it seemed, the moon had gone out, and he had taken the stars with him.

Now, he moved around from the other side of the tree, coming to stand before me. He reached out one hand, undid the tie at my throat, slipped the cloak back over my shoulders.

I wore only my white nightgown underneath.

Not waiting for him this time, I lifted it up over my head myself. Then I slowly removed every article of clothing he was wearing, taking my time, torturing us both.

On the ground beneath him, feeling his kisses in the hollows around my throat, I moved to open my legs for him. But he stopped me. Instead, he straddled me, knees on either side of my hips, rather than insinuating himself between me as I was used to. Then he walked on knees toward my head until his stiffness was hanging directly over my face. I reached to touch him with my hand, to touch that which I had never touched before, but he brushed my hand aside with his, placed one hand behind my neck and gently lifted me upward until I was forced to support myself on my elbows beneath him. At first, I did not know what he wanted.

“Your mouth, Emma. I wish to make love to your mouth.”

Then he caressed my lips with the head of it, the moisture from its tip dampening my lips as he circled around until it became almost an involuntary reflex, an imperative, for me to open my mouth to accommodate its insistence.

It was a taste I had not known before.

Tentative at first, I began to move more surely under his guiding hand—mouth, lips, tongue, the occasional grazing of teeth; circling, stroking, sucking, licking—all as he advanced and retreated, pumping with more intensity as it became one swift uninterrupted motion of moisture and skin. At the last, he pumped harder, holding my head hard against him, so that I could not even think to stop had I but wanted to.

But I did not mind.

I liked it. I loved having Chance in this way, owning him in a way I had never owned any man before.

And I swallowed it, everything—the same stuff that, when John pumped it into me, ran out down my leg—I swallowed it all.

Afterward, I moved to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, but Chance brushed it away again, grabbed on to a few strands of my hair, and pulled my face to his. He kissed me, kissed the taste of himself still on me, pressed his forehead against mine, and spoke:

“If you could live more than one life simultaneously, would you live one of them with me?”

I smiled in the darkness, knowing what he was talking about without my words for it having ever passed between us. He was talking about what I had come to think of as “parallel lives.” I thought about how the mere idea of him had invaded every corner of my existence. He was no longer part of a parallel life; he was my life.

Still smiling, I answered, “I already live all of them with you.”

Apparently, though, my answer was not enough.

“Do you not wish we could be together like this all the time?” he asked.

His words were as insinuating, as insistent, as he had been when in my mouth earlier, but I did not answer.

Instead, I lay in his arms, my hair spread out across his smooth chest, and told him what had happened with Constance, what had happened with John and Constance both.

After a thoughtful pause, Chance spoke. “It does not matter that he did not believe her. In time, he may begin to doubt you, may begin to wonder if there is not some small kernel of truth in her mad ramblings, even if the details are not correct. Not to mention: What will happen when he seeks me out at the prison and finds I am no longer there?”

Again, I did not speak, and into my silence he asked again: “Do you not wish that we could be together like this all the time?”

This time, I answered, at last giving in to the futility. “But that is impossible.”

“I am not asking you about that. I am not asking you about possible, impossible.” And now his voice became almost angry. “I am asking you: Do—you—wish—it—were—so?”

“Of course.”

He relaxed backward, a smile playing on his lips. “Then it should be.”

I sat on the stoop, cloak loose around me now, more than a little damp as I reviewed the night.

“Emma?”

It was John.

“Emma, what in the world are you doing sitting out here this time of night? And in the rain, for God’s sake! You are shivering.” He took me by the hand, pulled me to my feet. “Come to bed.”

I allowed him to lead me back in, back through the dark and sleepy house, but my mind was still back by the lake.

I loved it, I thought. I loved it and I wanted to do it again and again:

I wanted Chance to make love to my mouth.