Then his tongue is inside my mouth, and his hands in my hair…
And all I can think is OH NO.
Because he’s engaged. And not to me. And I—well, really, I am NOT that type of girl. I’m NOT.
But this little voice inside my head keeps going,Maybe this is how it’s meant to be, and Hmmm, I remember how this feels, and Well, he certainly doesn’t seem to mind those added pounds, which makes it VERY hard to do the right thing, which is push him away.
As a matter of fact, well… the little voice is making it impossible to push him away.
I guess all those choreographers were wrong. You know, about me having trouble turning off my brain and just letting my body go. Because my body is humming along just fine, without any support from my brain at all…
It begins to look as if it would behoove us to get indoors, considering the supportive shouts of the drug dealers, so I twist around and finally get the door open, and we kind of fall into the dark foyer…
… where I press both my hands against his chest and use my one last moment of sanity to say, “You know, Jordan, I really don’t think we should be doing this—”
But it’s too late. He’s already pulled my shirt from the waistband of my jeans. Next thing I know, his hands are cupping my breasts through the lace of my bra while he kisses me. Deeply. Like he means it, even.
And okay, yeah, I do think—briefly—of reminding him that just that morning, I had been reading all about his engagement—to someone else—in the paper.
But you know, sometimes your body just takes up where your mind leaves off.
And my body seems to be on autopilot, remembering all the good times it had once had with the body that’s currently pressed up against it.
And it’s pretty much begging for more.
Then it’s like I can’t think at all for a while. Except…
Well, I do have this one thought, toward the end. This thought I really wish I hadn’t had.
And that’s Wrong brother.
That’s all. Just that I’m definitely, positively rolling around on the floor with the wrong brother.
And I’m not real proud of it.
The worst part of it is, it isn’t even that good. I guess the best I can say is that it’s quick—thank God, because the hallway runner is beneath me, not the most comfortable carpet in the house. And it’s safe—Jordan came prepared, like any good Easy Street member.
Other than that, it doesn’t end up being much different than the sex we used to have every Monday, Wednesday, and Saturday…
… with the obvious exception being that, this time,I’m the other woman.
I wonder if Tania ever felt as guilty about it as I do. Somehow, I doubt it. Tania doesn’t strike me as someone who ever feels guilty about anything. I once saw her throw a Juicy Fruit wrapper on the ground in Central Park. She doesn’t even feel guilty about littering.
Another notable difference to our post-breakup sex, as opposed to our pre-break-up sex, is that Jordan gets up almost immediately after we’re finished and starts getting dressed. Back when we’d been dating, he’d just roll over and go to sleep.
When I sit up and stare at him, he says, “I’m sorry, but I gotta go,” like someone who just remembered a real important dental appointment.
Here’s the really embarrassing part: I feel kind of sad. Like there’d been this part of me that had been sure he’d roll over and say he was going to call Tania and break up with her RIGHT NOW because he wants to be with me forever.
Not, you know, that I’d have gone back to him if he had. Probably not.
Okay, definitely not.
But it’s… well, it’s lonely, when you don’t have anyone. I mean, I don’t want to come off sounding like Rachel. I’m not saying that if I had a boyfriend—even Cooper, the man of my dreams—it would cure all my problems.
And I’m not about to start eating salad with no dressing if that’s what I have to do to get one—I’m not that desperate.
But… it would be nice to have someone care.
I don’t mention any of this to Jordan, though. I mean, I have some pride. Instead, when he says he’s leaving, I just go, “Okay.”
“I mean, I would stay,” he says, tugging his shirt over his head, “but I got a real early press junket tomorrow. For the new album, you know.”
“Okay,” I say.
“But I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, fastening the buttons of his fly. “Maybe we can have dinner, or something.”
“Okay,” I say.
“So, I’ll call you,” Jordan says, from the foyer.
“Sure,” I say. I think we both know he’s lying.
After he leaves, and I’ve locked up behind him, I creep up the stairs to my apartment, where I’m met by an extremely exuberant Lucy, eager for her evening walk. As I look for her leash, I glance through the windows of my kitchen, and see the upper floors of Fischer Hall.
I wonder if Christopher Allington has managed to talk his way into Amber’s pants as easily as Jordan Cartwright talked his way into mine.
Then I remember that said pants are still downstairs, and I hurry down to get them before Cooper comes home and finds the proof of my profound stupidity on the hallway runner.
17
You told me/It’s over
I just didn’t/Believe you
You told me/I’m a pushover
I just want to/Be with you
Then I saw you/You were with her
And all I have to say is/Whatever
Whatever/Whatever
All I have to say is/Whatever
“Whatever”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by Valdez/Caputo
From the album Summer
Cartwright Records
I’m right about one thing:
Rachel is totally curious about Jordan, and the nature of my relationship with him.
The minute I walk into the office the next morning—wet hair, mug of steaming coffee from the café in my hand, big scarlet letter on my blouse (just kidding about that last part), Rachel is all “So you and your ex- boyfriend seemed to be getting along pretty well last night.”
She has no idea how true this statement really is.
“Yeah” is all I say, as I sit down and look up the phone number for Amber’s room.
Rachel totally doesn’t take the hint.
“I saw you two outside,” she goes on. “Talking to President Allington’s son.”
