I loved making love with Pete. I always had, from that first earthquake magic in his tiny room on Clarke Avenue in Champaign, Illinois, to the later years, when it became slower, deeper, a melody I knew as well as the curves of my own body. Making love with Pete was all-encompassing. It was pure sensation and total detachment. I needed that now. I needed the familiar and comforting, the shattering of my consciousness, the stopping of time.
I thought of my silent apartment. I thought of Larke and his “powerful people,” of Ryan and the unknown Danielle, of separation and distance. Then Pete's hand slid to my breast.
“Fuck 'em,” I thought.
Then I thought of nothing else.
I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF A PHONE. PETE HAD DRAWN THE shades, and the room was so dim I needed several rings to locate it.
“Meet me at Providence Road Sundries tonight and I'll buy you a burger.”
“Pete, I—”
“You drive a hard bargain. Meet me at Bijoux.”
“It's not the restaurant.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“I don't think so.”
The line hummed.
“Remember when I wrecked the Volkswagen and insisted we push on?”
“Georgia to Illinois with no headlights.”
“You didn't speak to me for six hundred miles.”
“It's not like that, Pete.”
“Didn't you enjoy last night?”
I loved last night.
“It's not that.”
I heard voices in the background and looked at the clock. Eight-ten.
“Are you at work?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Why are you phoning?”
“You asked me to wake you.”
“Oh.” An old routine. “Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“And thanks for keeping Birdie.”
“Has he made an appearance?”
“Briefly. He looked edgy.”
“The old Bird has become set in his ways.”
“Birdie never liked dogs.”
“Or change.”
“Or change.”
“Some change is good.”
“Yes.”
“I have changed.”
I'd heard that from Pete. He'd said it after his tryst with a court reporter three years earlier, again following a Realtor episode. I hadn't waited for the trifecta.
“That was a bad time for me,” he went on.
“Yeah. Me, too.”
I hung up and took a long shower, reflecting on our failings. Pete was where I'd always turned for advice, comfort, support. He'd been my safety net, the calm I'd seek after a day of tempest. The breakup had been devastating, but it had also brought out strength I'd never known I had.
Or ever used.
When I'd toweled off and wrapped my hair, I studied myself in the mirror.
Question: What was I thinking last night?
