Itisthe same man, and that’s the problem. I love my relationship with Julian. He’s reliable, and brilliant, and so tooth-achingly sweet. But gone are the days of splaying me out on conference tables, bouncing me on his lap in back seats, and eating me out against slammed doors. Celibacy was easy when I had limited access to men I foundattractive. But now that there’s a strapping young man who Iknowhas A-one stroke game making a habit of walking around my apartment shirtless, wrestling with my dog, and anticipating (almost) all my needs, I feel like I’m about to burst.
“He won’t even really make out with me anymore,” I lament. “It’s giving…church kisses. Giving ‘leave room for Jesus.’ ”
I tell her about our recent trip to the Red River Gorge in Kentucky, the glorious Wednesday we’d spent hiking the quiet trail and learning about each other that ended in a king-sized four-poster bed in our boutique hotel. A kiss so hungry that it seemed destined for more, hands that had finally started to wander from their respectable homes at my hips. I’d reached for the hem of his shirt—
“And this man had the audacity to grab my wrist and tell me thatactually, he was too tired,” I say, my cheeks red-hot at the memory.
Thankfully, Winona doesn’t laugh at this.
“Wow,” she says. Then, matter-of-factly, “You think he’s cheating?”
The thought has crossed my mind. I’ve heard of cheaters who behave the way Julian is now, ramping up romance to assuage their guilt. But in our case, it doesn’t really make sense for him to.
“He’s the one who wanted to put a label on it,” I say, then, biting my cheek, “And…I don’t know. I just really don’t think he is.”
Maybe because the tension is still there. Even if we aren’t acting on it, I can feel it in his lingering looks, how his pupils dilate as I change into my (increasingly skimpier) pajamas before bed, the desperation in his hold, how it sometimes feels like he thinks I’m going to fly out of his arms. I remember that evening when Brandon missed the STEMI, what now feels like a lifetime ago, the queasy expression on his face as he told me that he just wanted totake things slow. Of course, he’d flipped me like an omelet just a week later, so I’d assumed that particular bit of insanity had passed. But it feels, strangely,like Julian is afraid of being intimate with me again. Like he’s running from it.
“Box was too fire,” Winona says solemnly, and that makes me crack a grin. It immediately falls from my face at her next question. “So…have you talked to him about it?”
“Oh god, no.” When Winona raises her eyebrows in a silent but heardReally, bitch? I pout back. “Come on, Winny. You know I would rather die than beg a man for dick. I’ve still got some pride.”
“Pride won’t get your back cracked,” Winona notes. “But also, you’re right. I do know you. You are so incredibly direct, and the only time I’ve ever seen you hold back is when you’re scared. So what are you scared of? That he’ll call you desperate? He’sobsessedwith you.”
My wince is as good an answer as any. Leave it to my best friend, the therapist, to see right through me. The truth is, even though I want to believe that Julian’s desire for me is undeniable, there are moments when I’m not so sure. It doesn’t escape my notice that he went from clawing at his enclosure to get to me to slamming the brakes immediately after seeing me fully naked for the first time. Most mornings when I look in the mirror after a shower, I like what I see. But my body isn’t the same as it was at twenty-two. It’s grown-woman juicy now, with cornbread-fed hips and divots and slightly uneven tits. I look good, but no one will be asking me to be on the cover ofSports Illustrated. Compared to Julian, who looks like he was carved from marble by a particularly libidinous Grecian sculptor, my beauty feels…mundane. And then there’s the matter of my hair. Initially hardly noticeable, the band of new growth is now so stark white that Pamela asked if I’d purposely bleached my roots. Every now and then, I catch Julian staring at the crown of my head, as if he’s traversing the chasm of the eleven years between us.
I tell Winona as much.
“He knew how old you were when you met,” Winona reminds me.
“Yes, but things were less serious then,” I say. “We’re thirty-eight and twenty-seven now, but someday we’ll be forty and twenty-nine, fifty and thirty-nine…” As Winny raises her brow, it occurs to me that I’m thinking of the distant future with Julian, and I drop my face in my hands, defeated. “God, I do just need to talk to him, don’t I.”
Winona cuts a piece of her berry French toast, dips it into its condensed milk topping, and holds out a bite for me to eat.
“You do,” she insists. “Now say ‘ah.’ ”
There in ten, Julian says.Though I admit to being very, very curious about what lies in wait for me. I brought Pepcid just in case.
Don’t be a jerk, I respond.See you soon.
Julian has every right to be suspicious. The cookware that has been hanging from the ceiling above my kitchen island for the last several years still gleams silver, and I once spent five minutes rooting around my cupboards while he was over in search of a cutting board. In Julian’s eyes, I am not a woman who cooks. And thus, he has made the critical error of assuming Icannot.
Which is silly. I was raised to be a good Southern woman who can throw down in the kitchen, and my earliest lesson was that the quickest way to a man’s pants (okay, maybe it was heart) is through his belly. I’ve watched Julian devour a plate of overpriced, soupy mac and cheese knowing that my grandmama’s recipe would put it to shame. I spend far too long puttering about my kitchen, tossing together a Caesar salad and pan searing lamb chops while dinner rolls bake in the oven, then even longer cleaning up the disaster I make of my kitchen. Even Onix is confused, padding after me and licking upthe scraps as they hit the floor. If only Winona could see me now.Sean Ernestine Sullivan, she would say.I said talk to him, not cosplay as a tradwife.
By the time Julian has arrived, the scene is set. Lights dimmed to medium low. Food waiting on warm in the oven. Bikini line trimmed, underarms shaved, and entire body exfoliated and then clad in a little black velvet dress, a white apron, and cheap sheer tights that I desperately hope he rips off.
Onix knows Julian is here before I do. He plods to the door and sits, releasing a slow expectant whine seconds before I hear him knock.
“He likes you more than me,” I say in lieu of a greeting when I throw open the door.
Julian always looks good to me, but today, he looks particularly delectable. He’s been hearing pitches from aspiring entrepreneurs all day, and so he’s dressed for business in a well-fitted suit and a crisp white shirt that only helps emphasize the taper of his waist. Only his tie is doffed, probably tossed into the passenger seat on his way over to mine. I have a ridiculous image of him calling out, “Honey, I’m home!” and dropping his briefcase onto the floor before wandering in and asking me what’s for dinner.
Me, I would say.
By the way his eyelids flutter as he looks me up and down, Julian would probably respond to that by tying a bib around his neck and saying, “Bon appétit.”
“Wow,” he says, clearly caught off guard. “You look—”
Onix lunges between us, somehow regaining enough grease in his joints to leap onto Julian’s legs, and he falls out of my trap. I watch as Julian drops into a squat right at the door to lavish him with pets and coos, and I find myself a little jealous and not a bit ashamed of it. Igive Onix a look that says,You are definitely going in the crate for dinner. He gives me a look back that must meanHa! Got your man.