And then, a split second later, we moved toward each other. He had his hands on my hips and lifted me on top of him in one quick movement, and then we were kissing, quickly and with an urgency I hadn’t felt in a long time. He moved one hand to cup the back of my head, and before I realized what was happening, his other hand was under my dress, pushing my underwear to the side, not bothering to take it off before putting his fingers inside me. I pressed back against him, moaned as he said, “You’re so wet,” in a way that felt like a compliment, like it was something I could control.
I could feel him hard underneath me, and he started to unbuckle his jeans, which brought me back to reality for a second and I said, “Wait,” and then he pulled my mouth back toward him and we were kissing again. It was only when he said my name, when I heard him say, “Beth,” in a hoarse voice, that things became clear and I pulled away, sat up sharply, looked at him straight on. It was then that we both heard footsteps above us, and I stood up quickly, realizing as I did that Jimmy’s fingers had still been inside me.
I would like to think we would’ve stopped then anyway—that whatever crazy spell I was under would’ve broken, that we would’ve returned to our senses. That’s what I tell myself, that anyone can lose her mind for a few minutes. But the truth is, I don’t know for sure.
As Matt walked into the room, I was standing next to the couch, where Jimmy was still sitting. There was nothing inappropriate about it—we weren’t in any sort of compromising position—but we were flustered and rumpled and our faces must have given us away, because Matt looked back and forth between us a few times, slowly, and then he said, “What the fuck?”
“Matt—” I started, but he gave me such an angry look that I stopped. I glanced over at Jimmy and could see through his pants that he was still hard and wondered if Matt noticed.
“What the fuck is happening here?” he said.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Nothing,” Jimmy echoed. “Kelly, it’s nothing.”
Matt lunged at him so quickly that I barely realized he’d moved before he was across the room, grabbing Jimmy by the collar, pulling him up off the couch, and pushing him against the wall.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
“Nothing. Look, I was upset and Beth was comforting me and we were a little too close for a second, but that’s all.”
“Don’t fucking talk to me about my wife,” Matt said. Never in my life had I heard him use the word fuck so often in such a short span of time. It was so frequent that it was almost ridiculous, like a teenager who’s just learned to swear and is trying to sound tough. It sounded wrong coming out of his mouth—he was too proper for that. But each time he said it, everything around me sharpened into focus, like I was waking up from a dream.
“Matt, really,” I said. “It was nothing.”
“Nothing?” he asked, looking at me and then turning back to Jimmy. “Were you about to fuck my wife?” He pushed him against the wall again. I’d never seen Matt get in a fight, never seen him get physical with anyone. It wasn’t his style. He was too practical, too levelheaded to act like this.
Even with my heart beating fast and my cheeks burning, knowing I’d just acted in a horrible and stupid way, the scene in front of me was so dramatic, so over the top that I almost laughed. It was absurd. This wasn’t real—things like this didn’t happen to people like us. This was an episode of Jerry Springer, not real life. Certainly not my real life.
Jimmy wasn’t fighting back at all, was just letting Matt push him against the wall, and this seemed more an admission of guilt than anything. Because really, if we hadn’t been doing anything wrong, surely he’d be defending himself.
“No,” Jimmy said. “I wasn’t. Nothing was going to happen.”
“Fuck you,” Matt said, and then Jimmy actually did react, shoved Matt in the chest once with both hands.
“Go ahead and punch me,” Jimmy said. “I know you want to. You’ve wanted to for a long time now, so here’s your chance. Do it.”
Matt shook his head. “You’re such a piece of shit,” he said. “You know that?” And then he turned to me and said, “Let’s go.”
—
It occurred to me that Matt was so angry (on top of having had two glasses of port and drinks at dinner) that he shouldn’t be driving, but I didn’t say anything about it. We climbed into the car—I’d somehow remembered to grab my dress, and I held it in my lap, squeezing the material in my fists. “Matt,” I said. “I’m so sorry. You have to believe me that it was nothing. Jimmy was upset, and—”
“Did you fuck him?” Matt asked. Again, with the word fuck. I felt the urge to laugh, which has always happened to me in inappropriate circumstances (I let out a giggle at my own grandmother’s funeral), but fortunately, it went away.
“No,” I said, trying to make it sound as if that were the most ridiculous thing he could’ve suggested. “We kissed for a second, but it was nothing. Nothing.” Without really meaning to, I left out the details of Jimmy’s hand under my dress, of his fingers inside of me, like I’d already forgotten it had happened. I couldn’t tell him that—it was too confusing, would make the whole thing seem much worse.
“Nothing?” Matt said. He looked over at me.
“Nothing,” I said. “We just got mixed up.”