“It’s good to know how many to plan for,” she says primly. But then, with what seems like genuine interest, she says, “I don’t suppose you’ll be bringing anyone? Are you still seeing that adorable Scotsman?”
“Geordie and I decided we were better off as friends. But I’ll tell him you said he was adorable. It’ll make his day.” The one time Geordie and Chloe met, they hit it off. Of course, Geordie hits it off with nearly everyone.
“A pity you two broke up. He suited you, I thought. There’s no one else on the horizon?”
I let the silence go on too long before I say, “I’m not bringing anyone to Thanksgiving.” Jonah and I might be trying to find our way back to normal, but I doubt he’s the holiday-dinners type.
“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Chloe says, but she doesn’t ask further. That would come too close to having a meaningful conversation. “Well, be sure to let us know what night you’ll come in from Austin.”
“Will do. And tell Libby hi.”
“Of course.” In her voice, there’s not even a hint that she recently threatened to keep Libby away from me permanently. “Thanks for being so understanding about the armoire.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say, knowing she won’t.
This makes for a solid three minutes I’ve spent thinking about something besides Jonah Marks. But I don’t make it to four, because as soon as I open my e-mail, there’s a note from Jonah.
The subject reads, Complete Disclosure.
My pulse quickens as I click, wondering if I’m about to read some confession—the truth about Jonah’s fantasy, whatever dark place it comes from, all his inner secrets. The answer proves to be more prosaic than that.
We said we would exchange these. I feel strange sending them after our evening out together, but you need to know now more than ever.
I can’t stop thinking about the way you kiss.
My heart does a dizzy little flip when I read the last line, which softens the moment when I open the attachment to see a lab report—Jonah confirming that he’s free of any STD.
Ah, modern love.
Well, I asked. And I need to get my own records to send to him too. Then we can stop with the condoms. Our fantasies can be even freer—our scenes more spontaneous. More savage.
I remember what I imagined he whispered to me the night of the charity benefit. Next time I’m going to come in your mouth.
Next time can’t come fast enough.
? ? ?
It’s Doreen’s job to be a wet blanket sometimes. That doesn’t mean I enjoy it.
“You’re being obstinate,” I say during our next session. “You were all, ooooh, be scared, this date is going to be the worst date in the history of dating—”
“You know full well those words never came out of my mouth.” But Doreen is laughing.
“No, but I bet you were thinking them. Instead, Jonah and I went out and had a really good time! He’s smart, Doreen. He’s—insightful, and patient, and interesting.” I hug my knees to my chest. “Plus he has great taste in art.”
“I believe you about the art,” she says. Doreen has another of my etchings, one I gave her as a Christmas gift last year. It hangs in her foyer; I walk by it every time I come to a session. “The rest, I’ll take your word for. I’m glad to hear that he’s a person you’re drawn to on levels beside the physical.”
Gloating is too much fun to stop so soon. “You’re glad to hear you were proven wrong?”
“No, I’m glad to hear that you’re having the most honest sexual relationship of your life.”
That stops me short. I hadn’t thought of it that way—but she’s right. “Jonah knows what I want. What I need. It’s what he needs too.”
“Do you still feel guilty about the fantasy? Like it’s something bad you should be ashamed of?”
I listen to her clock for a few moments, the slow tick-tock punctuating the silence. “Less.”
“Less means yes.”
“It also means less.” I readjust myself on the sofa, so I’m sitting up like an adult instead of hugging myself like a girl on her best friend’s floor. “The fantasy feels different when—when it’s shared.”
“Then why do you think you continue to feel some shame?”
We go over this, and over this. I’m so fucking tired of answering this question. “Because I’m getting my rocks off on something horrible. Something criminal. There are women who get raped—even men who get raped—who never want to have sex again after that. I don’t know why it wasn’t like that for me, or why it was the exact opposite. It just is, and now—now I get turned on by the same thing I hate Anthony for.” I have to swallow hard. “If I hate Anthony for raping me, but I keep putting myself through all these fantasy rapes in my mind—and finding Jonah, going into this arrangement we have—maybe I should hate myself too. Because I do it to myself.”