In three years of dating, we haven’t had a single fight. In three years, we have fit together easily, me overlooking any imperfections, and hiding any qualities that I thought he wouldn’t approve of. I love him, but I’ve never been passionate about him; I’ve never obsessed over him. Shouldn’t a woman, at some point, obsess over the man she is going to spend the rest of her life with? Once, when I was looking up an email on Craig’s phone, I had the momentary idea to check his text messages, to see who he was communicating with, and what was being said. I hadn’t, the idea preposterous that Craig would be cheating on me, or flirting with someone else. A waitress once hit on him, and he got so worked up about it that he made the poor waitress sit down and listen to him explain the history of our relationship. We stopped going to that restaurant, just to avoid another uncomfortable interaction with her.
Our hotel room is dark, no lights left on, the curtains drawn. I open the top drawer of the dresser, moving aside my sweater and consider the lingerie set hidden underneath it. I replace the sweater and sit on the bed, listening to Craig brush his teeth, then floss. When he comes into the room and unzips his pants, I watch him remove them, hanging them neatly back on the hanger, his body slowly unwrapped as he removes his shirt and follows the same process. His body is the perfect specimen for a doctor’s office: well-exercised, no flab, but only moderate muscle tone, nothing bulky enough to stress the heart. He comes to me naked, gently pulling me to my feet and we kiss, his tongue tasting of wintergreen, his skin cool beneath my fingers. He pulls at the zipper of my dress and I help him. He goes to his knees, and I lie back on the bed, one leg over his shoulder, his mouth gentle against me, and I dig my fingers into his hair when I come.
I think it’s the alcohol that has numbed me. There is no reason, when he moves to the bed and pushes inside of me, that I don’t emotionally react. No reason why, when we finish and I roll over in bed, my dress still on, hair still up, that I should feel alone.
But I do. I lay my hand across the dark grey sheets, the diamond glinting at me, and I feel the deep certainty that I am making a mistake.
At 4 AM, I wake up Craig and tell him everything.
Him
I end the call and nod to the waiter, waiting for him to replace my drink. I eye the third place setting, and regret, for the hundredth time, allowing her to bring her fiancé along. Initially, I had thought it a good idea. I thought that seeing her happy, seeing her future—it might make everything between her and I a little clearer, a little less tempting. That plan backfired as soon as they arrived. This guy isn’t right for her. Hell, he’s completely wrong for her. But I can’t tell her that. If I do, she’ll dismiss it, and then there will be animosity, and as close as we’ve become during the past nine months, I’m not certain we can bury that conversation and move on.
I run a finger over the tines of my fork, pushing down on the silver, irritated by the fact that he is here, putting a damper on everything. Today, we should be celebrating, the merchandise purchase complete, a chunk of money saved, everything continuing to move toward success. Instead, I’ll be staring across the table at him, and pairing all of the ways he is wrong for her against all of his strengths.
Unfortunately, he does have a few strengths.
He’s attractive, in a Brooks Brothers, men’s catalogue sort of way. Perfectly neat hair, straight teeth, boyish good looks.
He’s successful, assuming she’s happy as middle-class.
He’s smart, annoyingly so, something he has gone out of his way to point out.
He also seems oblivious to the fact that I want to fuck his future wife. He seems to have no concern over our long hours, or casual familiarity, or the moments that our eyes meet across the table, wordless communication in just the tiny movements of a smile or glance.
He shouldn’t be this calm, or this friendly. He should be questioning our friendship, and subtly asserting his dominance. There should be a healthy distance between us, a squaring off of masculinity, a rolling up of sleeves in the fight over this woman. My woman.
That is how all of this should play out. That is the game I know how to fight.
I can’t fight a nice, well-mannered pushover. It would make me look like an ass. It would push her away.
I reach for my glass and mentally correct myself. It doesn’t matter how he reacts, or how the game should be played. I can’t fight him because I shouldn’t have her. It’s the mantra I keep forgetting, the plan that keeps going astray.
The restaurant door opens, and I know it’s her from the smile on the ma?tre d’s face.
“Where’s Craig?” I pull out her chair, glancing toward the front of the restaurant. It’s terrible, but a part of me hopes that he is sick, some sort of stomach bug that will keep him in their room and out of our hair for the next two days.
“Something came up, late last night. He’s on the way to the airport now. He has to go home.” She picks up the napkin and spreads it in her lap, her eyes on the motion. Something is wrong, her voice too forcibly light.
I sit down and smooth my own napkin, keeping my gaze on her. “Do you need to go with him? I can handle the rest of the meetings without you.”