“Oh, for God’s sake. There is no other guy. But this juvenile behavior makes it crystal clear to me that we’re done.”
I’ve gone too far. There’s an anger in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
He reaches into his pocket. For the briefest moment I’m worried it’s to get a weapon of some sort.
He pulls out his phone. A few scrolls later, he pushes the screen into my face.
“Who the fuck is this, then?”
It’s Matthew. More precisely, Matthew and me. And to be even more exact, Matthew kissing me.
Jason doesn’t know about Marco. He thinks I’m cheating on him with Matthew!
His discovery is that much more ironic because Matthew and I almost never engage in any public display of affection. In fact, I remember this kiss in part because it was so rare. We were entering the Four Seasons. It was kismet that we had both arrived at precisely the same time, coming from different directions. Without thinking, he greeted me with a kiss.
“Jason, have you been stalking me?”
“Answer my question, goddamn it, or I’ll do a hell of a lot worse than that. Who is he?”
I sigh to show him that I find this to be beneath his dignity. And mine.
“He’s just a friend. And I’ve had enough of this. I’m out of here.”
I move toward the door. Jason runs around me, blocking my exit with his body.
“Just a friend? A friend who you go to hotels with, you mean.”
“Get out of my way,” I say and push him aside.
When I return home, I’m determined to tell Marco it’s over. If Jason confronts Matthew and Matthew believes him, Matthew could well tell Marco. At the very least, I can contain some of the damage by making sure that Marco isn’t living with me when he finds out I’ve been cheating on him with two other men.
Marco’s watching television in the bedroom when I come home, lying atop the covers. Before I can say a word, however, he kisses me. Not a welcome-home peck, but a prelude-to-sex cue.
“Not now,” I say. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“We can talk later,” he says, and pulls me back into him. This time his tongue goes deep inside my mouth, his hand moves to my breast.
“Hey, slow down there, cowboy,” I say. “Let me catch my breath for a second. Okay?”
He does just the opposite, however, pushing himself on top of me so that I fall back onto the bed. I can feel his erection. I push back hard to get free, but barely move him.
“Get the fuck off me!”
He grabs my right wrist, squeezing it tightly. With my free hand, I strike him hard on the back, but it has no effect. I do it again, and this time his only reaction is to laugh in my face.
“It looks like someone needs to learn her place,” he says.
I’m fighting against him with all my might, but from the smile on his face and his stiffness I know my resistance is meaningless to him. I’m trapped.
All I see above me is as sinister a smile as I can imagine. There’s usually a hint in Marco’s eyes that he’s in control. What frightens me most is that I don’t see that now.
“Now tell me,” he snarls. “Who the fuck is Matthew?”
“Get off me and I’ll tell you,” I bark back.
He hesitates for a moment, apparently considering the proposal. Then he rolls away from me and jumps to a standing position, but the sick smile on his face tells me that this is not over. He’s going to turn violent the moment he hears my confession—or my denial, if I go that route. Which means I need to figure out a way to get out of here.
I pick myself up off the bed, and move over to the end side opposite Marco so at least the mattress separates us. Unfortunately, he’s closer to the door, which means I’ll have to get past him to reach freedom.
“I’m off you,” he says, feigning calm. “So tell me. Who is he?”
I’m looking around the room for a weapon. Or my phone, even, to call for help.
“I’m waiting, Clare. And running out of patience. I’m going to ask you one more time. Who the fuck is Matthew?”
Jason must have known about Marco too. Maybe all along. And now he’s exacting his revenge by sending the photo of Matthew and me to Marco.
“He’s . . . just a guy I know.”
“You’re nothing but a fucking slut, Clare. You know that, right?”
“I’m leaving.”
I declare this as if there’s nothing Marco can do to stop me. Then he says the one thing that does.
“I don’t think Matthew Harrison is going to be too happy to see you because the moment you walk out of here, I’m calling his wife. What do you think she’s going to say when I tell her that you’ve been fucking her husband?”
I try to show that the threat doesn’t frighten me, but it’s a losing effort. As I make my way the twenty feet to the door, it feels as if I’m passing through a gauntlet. With each step I’m expecting Marco to knock me back onto the bed.
But he doesn’t. When I reach him, he steps aside as if he’s actually being gracious.
I walk by him as fast as I can and then through the bedroom door and out of the apartment. It’s not until I’m in the apartment stairwell that I break into an all-out sprint.
As soon as I’m far enough away from the apartment that I don’t fear Marco jumping me, I text Matthew.
MARCO KNOWS ABOUT YOU AND YOUR WIFE!!!
MEET ME AT THE BENCH.
Matthew knows the bench. We had sex on it in Central Park one night when there wasn’t enough time for a hotel. Officially, it’s called the Waldo Hutchins Bench, a fifteen-foot white granite sculpture capable of seating at least ten near Seventy-Second Street on the east side of the park. After using it to quench our sexual desire, I Googled it to find out what its inscription meant, which is how I learned that it actually had a name and that Waldo Hutchins was a member of the original board of commissioners for Central Park.
Alteri vivas oportet si vis tibi vivere, it says. “One must live for another if he wishes to live for himself.”
I never told Matthew about the inscription, but I found it more than symbolic. I suppose I didn’t share it with him for fear he wouldn’t find it as meaningful.
Matthew is one of those guys whose cell phone is glued to his eyes. Granted, he might not carry the burner with him at all times, especially when he’s with the missus, but he also must not keep it very far away. I get a response within five minutes.
I’ll be there.
I see Matthew as he approaches. He’s wearing jeans and, even though the weather is warm, a leather jacket. It’s different from the one he wore at the museum that night we first met. This one is brown whereas that one was black, but it looks no less expensive. I’m struck by the thought that I don’t think I’ve ever seen Matthew in anything but a suit and tie since then. Oh, and when he’s stark naked, of course.
He looks over both his shoulders before sitting down beside me on the bench. Then he checks behind him once more before kissing me hello on the cheek.
“Thank you for coming. I’m so sorry.”
He’s clearly in no mood to comfort me. I suppose that’s fair, but then again, it’s not like he didn’t know this was a possibility.