Perfectly Reckless

Twenty-Nine

#chapter Twenty-Nine

It’s not always about sex. Sure, that’s a big part of it. All I have to do is look at him, and I start to shake inside. When he touches me, I swear it’s like everything I ever read about in those books Shelly and I used to sneak from her mom’s bookcase. All those old romance novels full of heaving bosoms and ripped bodices.

But there’s more to it than that. Ian listens to me. I mean, really listens. You know how I can tell? Because he pays attention, he remembers. If I tell him I like mint chocolate chip ice cream, that’s what he has waiting for me when we find time to meet up some random summer afternoon in a park far away from any place either of us normally ever goes. He knows my favorite color and how my hands get cold so easily, and he brings me a pair of funky gloves knitted from purple yarn. He pays attention, that’s all.

Ian knows me.

Do you know how delightful it is to be…known? To be understood? It’s what we all search for in relationships, that person who discovers every part of you and not only finds each filthy, embarrassing secret acceptable, but wants you because of your flaws and not just despite them.

It’s Ian with whom I share my fears. My struggles. Those long nights when our conversations roam from topic to topic without hesitation, I tell him everything there is to know about me. I open to him like a flower…

I am Ian’s flower.

“Water me,” I whisper into the phone. “I need you to water me, Ian, or I’ll die.”

He knows what I mean. I need to talk to him. To see him. I need to touch him. Ian is my water; without him, my roots will wither. My petals fall away. Without Ian, all I’ll have left is my thorns.

“What do you want?” He asks. “Tell me.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

“I’ll kiss you.”

I close my eyes. The weight of my phone in my hand, the pressure of it against my ear, is no substitute for him. But it’s all I have tonight, all I’ll have for the next week or so until the next time we can be together.

“Will you touch me?”

Ian laughs softly. “Yes. I’ll touch you.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere you want.”

“I miss you, Ian.”

“I miss you, too.” His voice scratches the inside of my ear, low and hoarse, yet buttery. Delicious.

I shiver. “Tell me about your day.”

“Why do you want to hear about that? Boring.”

I want to hear him talk, that’s all. If I can’t fall asleep with his arms around me, I want to enter dreams on the sound of Ian’s voice. “What did you have for lunch?”

I love it when I make him laugh. He describes his lunch to me.Turkey sandwich. It’s always a turkey sandwich. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter what he’s saying, so long as he’s talking to me.

“I wish you were with me right now,” he says abruptly.

“Me too.”

Someday, I think. Already I’ve set the plans in motion, though that’s my secret and I haven’t told him. I’m afraid if Ian knows I’ve started the process of leaving my husband, he will freak out. He’s already told me, more than once, he doesn’t want me to do anything rash. He doesn’t understand this has been a long time coming, it’s something I have to do for myself. Ian is just the bonus.

“I want to sleep with you,” he says. “I mean sleep. Not…well, the other stuff too. But I’d like to sleep with you.”

So far, we’ve only ever made love. I don’t remember sleeping much. But yes, I’ve thought about what it would be like to snuggle into the covers with Ian next to me, to fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. To wake up next to him.

I wonder what it would be like to share my life with him.

“That would be nice.” It’s not everything I feel, but it’s all I can really say.

“Hey, how’s that project coming along at work? The one you told me about?”

I’m touched he remembers my complaint of a week or so ago about a tough project. More moved he bothered to ask me about it. The man who’s supposed to love and cherish me hasn’t bothered. In fact, when I tried to talk to him about it, I had to replay the entire conversation we’d already had about it, and even then he didn’t remember anything about I’d already said.

Ian and I talk until the sun starts to come up. Only then does he ask me, “doesn’t he notice when you’re on the phone all night?”

“I sleep on the couch most nights. He snores.”

“Oh,” Ian says quietly. “How long have you been doing that?”

I chew the inside of my cheek, exhausted and still not ready to disconnect from him even though I’ll be a zombie at work in a few hours. It won’t help me with that pain in the ass project. I don’t care.

“About six months.”

“Oh,” Ian says again.

I wait for him to ask me something, anything, about the state of my marriage. Most of the time this relationship is a boat floating on a deep black lake, and our fingertips only occasionally trail the surface, making ripples as we row. We don’t pretend I’m not married, but we hardly ever talk about it. I don’t complain to him about my husband. It would feel like a worse betrayal than anything else we’ve done.

“That can’t be good for your back,” Ian says when I’m silent.

I laugh, low, pulling the cover to my chin and letting my eyes sink closed. “No. Not really.”

But it’s good for my state of mind. Things have been getting worse, and yes, I’m sure it’s my fault. I’ve stopped wanting to try. I stopped before I met Ian, though I know he doesn’t believe it, and anything I say to convince him will only sound contrived.

“I need to see you,” I say. “I thought I could wait, but I can’t.”

“Hold on.” The wonder of smart phones — Ian can take a picture and text it to me without ending the call.

The photo is of his face, a little blurry. He looks sleep rumpled, though we haven’t slept, and I want to eat him alive. My fingertip traces the curve of his jaw. His mouth. I put the phone back to my ear.

“It’s not enough.”

He laughs, and I imagine his expression. Self conscious, but pleased. Sometimes I think Ian has no idea what to do with me. The other women he’s dated have been sedate, coy. They’ve played the game of push and pull that I don’t see the point of.

“Okay. Hold on.”

Another minute passes. I hear shuffling. The sound of his breathing. My anticipation heightens, growing as I wait to see what he will send me. I know better than to expect something explicit — he can talk dirty but is still sometimes surprisingly shy.

The next photo pings through. It’s a shadowy and off-center photo of his hip, part of his thigh, a hint of his belly. I laugh as my heart seizes, because I know he wasn’t trying to be artistic, even though this picture is.

“I love it,” I whisper. “It makes me want you.”

“Well,” Ian says, “I have to keep my flower watered. And put up a screen, to keep away the drafts and wild animals.”

I curl my fingers into claws. “I have my four thorns to protect me.”

We’ve both read The Little Prince. Ian even read it in the original French. It was one of the first things we discovered about each other. He claims not to like the story, but he humors me.

“It’s almost time to get up,” Ian says. “It’s almost time to get up. We need to go.”

I know he’s right, but that doesn’t make me want to leave him. “Yes.”

“Goodnight, my flower,” he says, then, “Good morning, too.”

“Goodnight, Ian. Have a great day.” I love you rises to my lips, but I keep it locked behind my teeth, bittersweet on my tongue. I haven’t told him yet. I’m not sure I ever will.

I love you, Ian.