I showed him the G-string, and his eyes lit up. That’s what I’m talking about.
I snap back to the present, collapsing on the bed, gripping the G-string so tightly my fingernails dig into the palm of my hand. I put on the G-string for him, somewhere else, not here. I wore nothing else. He lay in bed, patted the mattress. Come here, right now.
A cloud passes over the sun. I can hear Jacob calling for me, telling me dinner is ready. I’m trembling all over. The memory sharpens. The bed, the light, the curves of his muscles. Were we in a hotel? A bed-and-breakfast? The location, the time, and what came before and after—the context eludes me. But I know for sure what we did that night, what we did for many nights. Shhhhh, don’t make a sound, Aiden said, pressing his hand over my mouth. Someone will hear.
Jacob lit candles for dinner. They waver softly in the center of the table, sending a glow over our plates. He set two woven place mats close to each other, at right angles on the table. Cloth napkins, silver cutlery, two glasses of white wine.
“You went all out again,” I say. “A bottle of wine, too?”
“From Van’s collection,” he says.
“This is lovely, but I’m not all that hungry.” In truth, I’m not sure I could keep any food down.
“Here, sit.” He pulls back my chair, and I sit.
“You’re good at feeding me,” I say, looking at the colorful salad tossed in a bowl on the table. He brings out ravioli and a bowl of tomato sauce.
“Homemade sauce,” he says. “My own special recipe. No sugar. Most tomato sauce recipes include sugar.”
“You’re the healthiest man I’ve ever known.”
“Only a touch of red pepper.” He plunges the corkscrew into the wine bottle. “You don’t like your food too spicy, but a little red pepper is good for you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
The popping sound makes me jump. Jacob holds up the corkscrew with the cork attached to the end. “First time I did this without losing the damned cork in the bottle.”
“Good going,” I say.
He pours me a half glass of wine and gives me a concerned look. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, as casually as I can. The arms of the chair feel like the walls of a prison cell.
Jacob pours his own glass, sits in his chair. He gives me another peculiar look. “There’s something wrong. You’re still angry at me.”
“Why would I be angry at you?” I’m sure I don’t sound convincing.
His face falls, the corners of his lips turning down. “You have to believe I did what I thought you wanted.” He gives me a pleading look. I’ve never seen such a vulnerable expression on his face.
“I believe you,” I say.
He lifts his glass. “A toast to starting again, to trusting each other.” He looks into my eyes.
“To starting again,” I say halfheartedly, clinking my glass against his.
He opens the cloth napkin on his lap, and I mirror his actions. He grabs the salad tongs and places a generous portion on my plate. “When the vegetables mature in Mom’s garden—I mean our garden—we can have our very own salad.”
“That will be nice.” I pick up my fork, put it down. “You went all out to make this a romantic dinner. Thank you.”
“It’s not working, is it?” he says, searching my eyes.
I touch his cheek. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
“That’s what people say when they’re breaking up. Are you breaking up with me?” He doesn’t really think this. His slight smile says that he’s trying to be charming.
“No, I’m not. I’m telling you I’m flawed. I know I’m not perfect. I never was, was I? Even though you keep telling me I was.”
He looks at me. “But you are perfect to me.” His words are laden with a different truth, running beneath them, unspoken. Did he know about Aiden? Is this why he hardly ever talks to him anymore?
I spoon a few squares of ravioli onto my plate. I barely taste the meal, although I smile and tell Jacob how good the food is, what a great job he did in the kitchen, as usual.
After dinner, we share fruit salad, and we load the dishwasher together. This is the part I hate, having to be domestic, Aiden said next to me that night, after I bought the G-string. Let’s leave all this. Life is too short. He tugged me back toward the bedroom. He didn’t mind the piles of unwashed dishes in the sink.
Jacob makes sure the plates and bowls are loaded neatly, then he uses the kitchen sponge to scrub the sink. “Stainless steel is not really stainless,” he says.
Later, after I’ve changed into my pajamas, he stands in the doorway. “Good night, Kyra.” He hesitates.
“Good night,” I say, looking up at him. I’m brushing my hair on the bed.
“Will you tell me when you’re ready for me to move back in here with you?”
“I will,” I say, and I let him go.