Skin Deep

singlehood. She’d call him in the morning, hoping he’d forgive her.

When they returned to the marina, Max was waiting nearby in the limo. “Thank you. This was wonderful.” And she leaned up and kissed Aaron on the mouth.

He was attractive, charming, brilliant, and disturbingly wealthy. Yet he did not seem arrogant or taken with himself. In fact, quite the opposite. He said very little about himself or his accomplishments, so often touted in the media. He was a good listener and said the right things; though at times he appeared awkward, she decided that he was probably not used to dating or dating someone like her who felt the compulsion to be on, to fill the silence. Maybe that was why he seemed so removed. Her only regret was that he lacked a sense of humor or perhaps her sense of humor—what she shared naturally with Steve. But that was fine. Maybe big-time cosmetic physicians didn’t joke like ordinary mortals.

“You’re welcome, and I hope we can do this again,” he said. “But it’s not good night just yet. Max is taking me home, too. So I’ll be riding back with you.”

73

They rode side by side in the rear seat without saying much, both exhausted from the long evening of sea air and champagne.

“Thank you again. I had a great time.”

“You’re welcome.”

After several minutes, she wondered if he was going to take her hand or put his arm around her. When he didn’t, she slipped her hand on his. It felt warm but limp. Deciding that he needed a little encouragement, she rested her head against his shoulder.

They rode that way for another few minutes until her head felt as awkward as a bowling ball. Suddenly it occurred to her that maybe she was being too forward, possibly violating some blue-blooded protocol against anything physical early in a relationship. Or maybe he was offended by her presumptuousness, especially after seeing his multimillion-dollar yacht—his coolness merely a self-protected shield against opportunism.

Then she wondered if she wasn’t his type of woman. Or that maybe she simply didn’t turn him on. Or maybe, as she and Steve had speculated, that he was, in fact, gay. But he did ask her out this evening.

After another few minutes it occurred to her that he might not be attracted to women whose faces he had operated on—knowing what she looked like under her skin. But with that logic, male gynecologists wouldn’t sire babies. What the hell, she thought, they’re seasoned adults. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

His only reaction was a slight flinch as if taken by surprise. He stared at her without expression.

“Are you in there?”

“Yes.”

Perhaps it was the champagne, but she kissed him again. The stiffness yielded as he slipped his arm around her shoulder and kissed her back.

Relief passed through her until she became aware that he wasn’t kissing her in the regular way but making little pecks on her mouth and cheeks. It was bizarre, as if he was practice-kissing. What the hell is he doing? she wondered. It was like making out with a child.

Then she realized. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It doesn’t hurt.”

He nodded then kissed her, letting his mouth linger on hers.

After a few moments, she opened her eyes to see Max adjust the rearview mirror as a signal that they were out of view. At a level barely perceptible, she heard the sweet refrains of Brahms flow from the speakers. Dana rested her head on his shoulder. She could smell his cologne, a flowery scent she didn’t recognize.

“I’m glad you had a good time. I hope we can do this again.”

“Me, too.” She kissed him again, liking the fullness of his mouth against her, thinking about the subtle differences from Steve, the only man she had ever really kissed in the last seventeen years. She shifted in her seat and her hand landed on his thigh. Only half aware, she began to caress him as they kissed.

As if she had hit a power button, he suddenly pressed his mouth to hers and began to deep kiss her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, sliding across her lips until it began to hurt. His breathing became quick and he started to writhe in place. She removed her hand from his leg, a bit startled at his response. His breathing turned into deep-throated groans as he pressed his open mouth hard against hers, as if trying to swallow her. She broke his hold, and he sprung back.

At first she thought he was retreating to catch his breath. But in the light of the street she noticed his eyes and the expression on his face. He was struggling with the heat of his own sensations, as if he were trying not to do this, trying to suppress arousal.

“You okay?” she whispered, hardly registering the fact that they had arrived in her driveway and that Max had turned off the headlights. The motor was still running and the music still played.

“Aaron?” she whispered.

But he did not respond. Instead he pressed his mouth to hers for more, and with his tongue against her teeth tried to wedge open her mouth, and failing that he began rubbing his face against hers, licking her lips and cheeks, all the while making tiny whimpering grunts.

With some effort she pushed him off her because the pressure had exacerbated the tenderness around her nose. “You’re hurting me.”

His eyes were large and glassy and his breath came in pants. Then as if snapping back, he muttered, “Sorry.” He pulled his hands together and straightened up. “I guess I got carried away.”

“Guess you did.” Her mouth was sore.

“I’m really very sorry.” Then he took her face in his hands and examined it in the light as if checking for damage.

She dabbed her nostrils to see if she was bleeding. She wasn’t. “I’m okay.”

He shook his head. “I feel…sorry.”

She put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay, I’m fine.”

His face struggled with expressions. “You better go.”

She nodded and got out.

As the car pulled away, she gave a little wave and headed up the driveway, digging in her bag for her keys and wondering what had happened in there.

74

“Happy Independence Day,” Steve said to himself, and downed the rest of the scotch.

It was past midnight, and he was standing in the dark of their bedroom, looking out at the empty street. In the distance he could still hear the crackle and booms of the fireworks that had rolled up from the Charles River across the lowlands of Cambridge and up the hills of Carleton. Just above the tree line small starbursts had lit the horizon in colored fire. In a dull sector of his brain he had counted the seconds between light and sound, thinking how they were out of sync. Like his life. Seven months ago this wouldn’t be happening.

He had arrived at six fifteen as agreed. He had made reservations at Flora in Arlington, her favorite restaurant—where they celebrated special events. His plan was to tell about what had happened while walking on Hampton Beach—how something had snapped and he had felt a flood of certitude and resolve. He was ready to assume the commitment. More than that, he wanted to be a father. Yes, the prospect was still daunting and full of unknowns, but he also felt exhilarated—and the thought of a child of their own filled him with warm imaginings. Even if Dana was not yet ready to get back together, he wanted to share with her the fantasies of taking a son or daughter—or both—to the fireworks, the beach, the zoo, of reading to them before bed, of playing ball, of watching