“Yes.”
By now I’m dizzy. If Jonah pulls me into that alley for real, I don’t care about the nearby crowd. I don’t care how shameless it would be. I’m his.
Instead, though, Jonah slowly leans back and takes a deep breath. His knowing smile returns. “We’ll choose a night sometime soon. Extremely soon.”
He got me this keyed up and he’s just walking away? I can see—just from the quickest downward glance—Jonah’s as aroused as I am, so much it’s indecent for him to be seen in public. “We—you and I aren’t going to—”
Jonah shakes his head. “Not tonight.”
“Oh, you son of a bitch.” But I smile as I say it.
“It’s a treat for you.” He untucks his shirt. That’s twice I’ve made him hide his erection in public. I should start putting notches on my lipstick case à la Pat Benatar. “I put you through three weeks of unnecessary confusion. So I’m making it up to you with a few days of suspense.”
Suspense as a treat? Yes. Now that I know how good Jonah and I are together, the anticipation will drive me crazy.
(My shame has faded to a shadow next to Jonah, but it’s still there. Waiting.)
The waiter reappears, eyebrows raised, eager to hear our drink orders. I want to wave him off again, but Jonah says, “A glass of pinot noir for the lady.” He drops a twenty on the waiter’s tray, and instantly the guy disappears, leaving us alone once more.
“Thanks,” I say. “But aren’t you getting anything?” I could remain here all night listening to him talk dirty.
Instead Jonah says, “I have to go.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope.”
I want to ask why he’s going, and I sense Jonah might tell me, but that’s one step over the line. We need to be totally open about our expectations and our limits. Our lives? Those, we don’t share. Otherwise we’ll stop being strangers. The fantasy will stop being what we wanted it to be. It would become . . .
I don’t know what it would become, and I don’t want to know. This is the arrangement, and we’re sticking to it.
“So you’ll pick the night?” I say.
Jonah nods. “And this time you get to pick the setting. The mood. When I call you, you tell me what you want. Be clear. Because once we meet each other—”
“—you’re back in control. Completely.”
Slowly he lifts his hand to my mouth. His thumb brushes the corner of my lips. Then he pulls back. “Good-bye, Vivienne.”
After he walks away, I walk back into the noise and the hubbub of the bar to find the nearest empty chair. My heart is still racing, and I hardly trust myself to remain on my feet. How could I have gone from suspicion and hurt to exhilaration so quickly? But Jonah took me there.
Jonah takes me so many interesting places, I think, and I laugh to myself.
By now the sky overhead is dark, and the heat has faded to pleasant warmth. The waiter manages to find me; the red wine Jonah chose for me tastes earthy and rich. I indulge myself by hanging out on the patio for thirty minutes or so, drinking about half my glass. Once a guy comes over in hopes of hitting on me, but I wave him off. Happily he’s a gentleman who can take no for an answer. All I want is to sit here luxuriating in the memories of Jonah’s touch, and his words. In the promise of what’s to come.
My phone buzzes from within my purse. Who would be texting me? Maybe it’s Jonah, determined to keep me hot and bothered all night long. I bet he’s as good at sexting as he is at everything else.
A sly smile spreads across my face as I fish out my phone. Turns out it’s not a text, just a voice mail. The name of the sender glows on the screen. My smile fades.
All the shame comes flooding back.
Eleven
“Not answering. How surprising.” Chloe’s voice is sharp, precise. Her words could cut diamonds. “I saw Liz at Art for Art’s Sake. Imagine my surprise when she said you’d spent the weekend at her house not two months ago.”
I grimace. Liz usually covers for me; my sister must have caught her off-guard.
Chloe’s voice mail continues. “You know, I can’t ask you to be a better daughter, or even a better sister, as apparently that holds no interest for you. But I wish you could be a better aunt. Libby loves her Aunt Vivienne, and she asks after you all the time. Colors for you, and makes me send them to you, even though I’m sure you just toss them in the trash. Maybe you don’t understand children’s feelings, since you don’t have any of your own. But if you cared at all, you’d at least try to see your niece when you were in town.”
My fridge is covered with Libby’s drawings. I’ve kept every single one. Her photo smiles out from the picture frame beside my bed. On my last birthday, Libby called and sang to me on my voice mail, and I’ve never deleted that message. I play it when I’m feeling blue.