Chapter Eleven

I put all of that away by the next morning. Exhausted. Having stayed up too late with him and then laying in bed ruminating for too long. Rachel didn’t bring up our conversation again, for which I was profoundly grateful. Because after last night, I knew I would become defensive if she did. 

I went to another business seed meeting. Baron patted the seat next to himself as soon as I entered. I got a couple of curious glances for that. Men who hadn’t bothered to take note of me the last time sought out my attention at the close of the meeting this time. I understood, or was beginning to understand, exactly what it would mean to be standing by Baron’s side. 

I was talking to a former mayoral candidate when Baron’s hand landed heavily on my shoulder. I smiled up at him.

“Is she bothering you?” Baron asked him jokingly. “Because if she’s becoming didactic on you, as she’s wont to do, just say ‘hush, Elsbetta.’” 

I rolled my eyes at him playfully as he took over the conversation. He left his hand on me for the last ten minutes or so as everyone drained away. He walked me to my car again and was about to head toward his when I reached out, hooking my finger under the face of his watch. 

“Come over tomorrow,” I said. 

“Same time, same place?” he joked. 

“What would you like for dinner, dear?” I asked back. 

He laughed, “Just your good cooking.” 

I liked that our evenings had settled into a routine. He sat in the golden glow thrown by the lamp, finishing his work, while I made dinner. We ate. We worked together for a while again in silence. Had coffee. Coffee this late wasn’t too good for me either. He stood up at the end of the night and started cleaning up.

“No kiss?” he teased, when everything was back in his briefcase. 

“Would that be too forward?” I snarked back. 

“I believe our intention to be serious has been made clear enough,” he said. 

I stepped to him, suddenly nervous after sitting alongside him all evening. Partially because I’d never stood face to face, this close to him. Reminded once more of the fact that I just came to his shoulder. When I’d first kissed him, he’d been below me, and that made it easier. Also, he made no move, closing none of the distance between us. Going to tip-toe, I rested a hand on his chest and kissed him. I meant to give him a nice, long good night kiss but stepped away again. As if he’d lurch forward and swallow me whole if I made myself too vulnerable to him. Tipping my face up with his knuckles under my chin, he kissed me again, giving me the length I wanted this time. 

“We may have to discuss sleeping together soon,” he said, while still near me.

I felt torn in two directions by this– excited and turned on, and rudely slapped by how clinical that sounded. I’d never ‘discussed’ sex before, not really. I didn’t know what that would entail. I could barely have serious conversations with him now without feeling out of my depth. I couldn’t imagine how I’d have a conversation about intimacy without utterly falling to pieces. 

“Okay,” I said, swallowing. 

Wishing he’d put it another way. Or even brought me to the couch, and then we could just… talk, like two people. I’d only ever had or pursued ‘serious’ and ‘committed’ relationships. I would like to have a conversation with him about the nuances of those things. Expectations, health, what we thought ‘serious’ and ‘committed’ meant anyway. But that isn’t what he seemed to mean. Instead, I was picturing us sitting in his cluttered office, looking over sets of diagrams under the fluorescents as he told me what I’d be doing. 

“Good night,” he said. Leaving me just as cool and uneasy as he had the last time he’d left me standing in a whirlwind in my front room. 

The next day at work was sort of crammed full– nothing difficult, exactly, just a lot of run-around. Going to the courthouse for Rachel to pick up things. Running back in time to hand her things off before a meeting. Having two minutes to take a deep breath before another client came in to give me a debrief while I took notes for Rachel since she couldn’t be here. Rachel immediately breezed in afterward with a new client that she wanted me to take minutes with. 

I was taking another deep breath, wondering where to start on clean-up and post work when the bell over the door tinkled again and I sighed before turning to greet whoever was there. Did a huge sweat-wiping pantomime when I saw it was just Zevi.

“I’ve timed my miraculous entrance well,” he said, shaking a tray of lemonade at me. 

I laughed, and flopped into my chair.

“Lock the door,” I groaned. “No more work today.”

“Never tempt me with no work,” he said. “I’d never return. You and me, darling, on the run-away from responsibility forever… What better paradise?”

He dropped into the chair opposite me. Pulling out one of those reusable hiking straws from his backpack and plunging into a tankard of lemonade before sliding it across the desk to me. My computer dinged and I groaned, seeing a new email. When I pulled it up, however, it was from Baron. The subject line was just Considerations. 

I quickly minimized the screen and smiled at Zevi.

“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?” I asked. 

“Oh, la’ not a single thing,” he said. “What important things are y’all doing?” 

I told him about the day Rachel and I had, to his appreciative ohs and ahs. We complained about bad communicators and peaches that went bad too quickly. Talked about how every once in a while, you just wanted to have a slice of cake, but couldn’t find anything but a whole sheet cake. About how mind-numbingly complicated shipping contracts were for no reason. About Bryan the Idiot GC and the weirdo who came in to clean the ducts of Rachel’s building. 

I pretended to cry when he stood up. 

“What about running away from responsibilities?” I asked him, still faking tears. 

“I wish I could, but I made the mistake of leaving Bryan in charge of the staple gun. I simply must make sure all the walls are still standing and legs are still attached to torsos.” 

“Can a staple gun take down walls and remove legs?” I asked, finger on my chin.

“You don’t know the aptitude of Bryan,” he said, with a dire tone. Leaving me laughing again as he fell out the door. 

Once he left, I opened up Considerations. I saw immediately that this was his forewarned ‘discussion’ and flushed brilliantly red. I could feel the heat across my cheeks and forehead. I began gnawing on my cheek. 

I suppose that I was glad that we didn’t have to do this face-to-face, that he instead did it via email where I could cringe in peace instead of trying to perform for him. Overall, it was practical. The health discussion I’d been thinking of. Specifically, that not only did he not want children in the near future but that he didn’t foresee ever wanting them. That was both fine, and a relief to me. I had no intention of that either. He reiterated once more that if I was with him, there would be no other men. Which was also fine. 

What was rather more worrisome is that he said he didn’t intend to live with me in a non-committed relationship. Which I took to mean marriage. Which he said extended to not spending the night. Either with me at my place or with him. I frowned. While it wasn’t a necessity, to me, it was a taken-for-granted thing that ‘sleeping together’ also meant sleeping together. I didn’t like the idea of having sex, taking a shower, and rushing out the door like a one-night stand. While he didn’t use the phrase ‘living in sin’ I heard ‘living in sin’ all over the writing. He’d never mentioned religion, except in a scoffing way. Or using general terminology that would appeal to the vastly Christian community in our neighborhood. While he hadn’t said as much, he seemed to view it all with a tender derision. That it was something for grandmas and sick men. Not for busy, intelligent, action-oriented people like us. 

I’d have to ask for clarification, I decided. 

The other sentence that I’d have to ask for more information on was I like to enjoy my sex. There was a lot to question there, I thought. For one, didn’t we all like to enjoy our sex? Wasn’t that sort of the point? And also the use of ‘my sex.’ Wouldn’t it necessarily be ‘our’ sex? 

I was re-reading, almost on the point of taking notes, when Rachel walked out of her office. In a panic, I turned off my screen. 

“What in god’s name…?” she asked me. 

“Personal email,” I muttered.

“Well, just so long as it’s not tentacle porn,” she said, shrugging before she dropped another handful of files on my desk. She was turning back around for her office when she paused.

“Was that Zevi I heard earlier?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“Work on the building still going well?” she asked.

“To my knowledge,” I said. 

“Isn’t it nice to talk with a man who can make you laugh?” she asked pointedly, and then made a speedy exit.

I wrinkled my nose and flicked her off under my desk. 

I was walking by Zevi’s building in the evening when I saw him bringing out a garbage bag to a newly added dumpster on the side of the building.

“Hey!” I called from the sidewalk. “Can you take a smoke break?”

“For you, I’ll start a whole cigar habit,” he called back. 

I trotted over to him. He dropped the door down on the back of his truck and we clambered up onto it. 

“It’s good to see you twice in one day,” he said, smiling at me. 

I pulled my water bottle out of my work bag and offered it to him. He took a long slug, and then another. Handing it back to me. I took a sip too. 

“You’re not judgmental,” I said to him. 

He laughed, choking on the water still in his mouth. Wiping his chin on his forearm. Spinning his cap backward and looking at me. 

“I’m glad that’s what you think of me,” he said. “But what did you do? Are you about to admit a terrible crime to me? An embarrassing episode? What have you done, Betta?” 

“Usually, I’d talk to Rachel about this,” I said, letting my legs kick off the edge of the truck bed.

“Oooh, girl talk,” he said, clasping his hands.

I nudged him with my shoulder, laughing. 

“Yeah, I guess,” I said. I folded my hands in my lap. Sensed that I was about to start gnawing on my cheek and literally plucked my flesh out from between my teeth in an effort to stop myself. He saw that but didn’t say anything. 

“Have you ever been… romantically… vetted?” I asked. 

He leaned back on his elbows in the truck bed. Letting his head rock back against a pail of paint. Knocking his cap askew in the way he always seemed to. 

“I think I failed one recently,” he said gently. 

“Oh,” I said, a scrum of tears washing across my eyes. 

“It’s okay,” he said gently, knocking the toe of his boot against my ankle. “It’s really okay. Ask what you were going to ask me.”

“No,” I said. “I’m sorry. I think it’s… I think that kind of vetting may be not very nice.”

“I don’t know, Betta,” he said lightly. “I think it can be. Doesn’t that mean they’re taking you seriously? Isn’t it better than them just fucking you and fucking with you? Or making you fall in love? Aren’t you glad to know they’re being sincere and thinking long term?” 

“I guess…” I said.

He sat up. I could tell he was searching my face rapidly but looked away just as quickly. Not setting a spotlight on my face.

“It can feel bad, too, I suppose,” he said slower. “If it seems like they’re not taking you and the two of you together seriously. If the only thing that seems to be at stake is just them, and they’re barely taking you into consideration at all.” 

“Is that how you feel?” I asked.

“No,” he said, nudging me again. “I felt the first way. Are you feeling the second?”

I paused for a long time. Too long. Could feel myself gulping and near tears. I knew I was just being too sensitive. I was misinterpreting things because it was in text. I couldn’t hear Baron’s tone or feel his hand on me. So it all seemed so detached and unloving. But that surely wasn’t the way he meant it. 

“Betta…” he said. Waiting until I looked at him. Quickly, I threw my head back, willing my tears to return to whence they’d come. 

“Betta,” he repeated. I looked at him again, still swallowing the lump in my throat. “When you said ‘no’ to me, I knew you meant it just as seriously as you’d mean a yes. That it was thoughtful, that it was considered. I get the feeling, though we haven’t discussed it, that you and I are a little alike– at least when it comes to loving. I know what I am. I know I seem impulsive and rushing and frivolous. There’s very little I can’t laugh at. And I find myself the funniest thing of all. But I do take loving seriously. When I say it, I mean it deeply and sincerely and I mean it long term. I can’t tell you what I’ll be doing in five years. Can’t even tell you where I’d be. Couldn’t even tell you if I’d own the same clothes. I’ll admit all of that. I’ve lived in seven countries in the last fifteen years. Never kept a job longer than a year. Never became really good at any one hobby. But when I’m thinking about that one– well, she’s the constant. She’s the fixed and ever-glowing star I’d be in orbit around. Wherever I am, whatever I’d be doing… When I got her, she’d be there. Because that’s the important thing to me. I can’t be sure of anything– but love, I’m pretty sure about. I think you feel a little the same way. That it’s important, that it’s the constant. That it is the hot, gravitational center of who you are. There’s not a thing wrong with looking for the one. And there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be the one.” 

I couldn’t help it, dropping my face into my palms and sobbing. 

“I do,” I cried. “I want that stupid, corny, impossible soul mate thing. I know those aren’t real, I know it doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want this to feel like a… Job application.”

I wept furiously. He gathered me up, leaning back against the side of the truck bed and sliding down the metal until we were both hidden by the sides. Rolling my face into his tee shirt. Further wetting the spot that had been sweaty before he even came outside with me. 

“I’m sorry,” I cried. “I am being just… such a bitch.”

“That’s okay,” he said, hand on my cheek, keeping me right where I was. “I’ll be a bitch to you at some point. Call it payback.” 

I tried to laugh and just hiccuped. After several minutes, I caught my breath. Finally moving away from him. Scrubbing my face with both my hands. Shivering to think what a mess I looked like.

“Can we… Can we still be friends if I’m dating someone?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve never lied to you. I like being your friend, Betta. If another position opens up, though, I might have to throw my name in the ring.” 

I sniffled. Why did he have to be who he was?

“In a competition?” I asked sarcastically, still mopping at my face. 

He gave a look of disgust. 

“I’m not thinking about other men,” he said. “That’s not where my focus is. When I think of you, I think of you. Not whatever is around you.” 

I nodded. Mentally clutching that crystalline “If you’re unsure… I’m not” once more. 

“But Betta… Baby, look at me,” he said. I did. “If he’s making you sob in the back of some loser’s truck… Just… turn on that bright and sparkling brain of yours. Just… think.” 

“I love you,” I said. Knowing he’d understood how I meant it.

“Careful,” he grinned. “I’m only just starting to like you.” 

I laughed again, a little hysterically, falling into hiccups once more. Laughing himself, he handed me my water bottle again while I held my breath and tried to get rid of them. 

Chapter Twelve

I asked Baron over for dinner again. This time I planned to ambush him. Just as before– he worked, I made dinner. Once the table was set and he was snapping open his napkin, I cleared my throat.

“I need further discussion,” I said.

“What about, dear?” he asked. 

“About the ‘considerations’ communiqué,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound sarcastic.

“All right,” he said calmly, scraping knife against fork. “I’m glad. What did you need to discuss? If it’s children, that’s a non-negotiable–” 

“No,” I said, interrupting him for the first time. “On all that– children, safe sex et cetera, we are on the same page.”

“Excellent,” he said, taking his first bite. 

“Why not… why not… sharing a bed though?” I asked.

“Mmm,” he murmured, chewing. “A fair question. For me, I don’t intend to be slinking around like a teenager in the neighborhood. Don’t want to be seen tiptoeing on your porch at four in the morning. Or having you walking barefoot down my stairs on your way to work. If we’re going to share a bed, it will be a permanent situation. I think you’ve gathered as much by this point, but I don’t date without believing there’s a conclusive end to the dating. If this turns out to be worthwhile, I’m heading toward marriage. I’m not looking for a screw, a lay, or a good time. I’m looking for a wife, Elsbetta. I see no point in ‘shacking up.’ Nor do I believe in ‘waiting until marriage.’ I see no particular significance in marriage in and of itself. But I certainly wouldn't marry someone I wasn’t sexually compatible with. Thus, we have sex, but no ‘playing house’ or wasting time.” 

“I like spending time together, though,” I said. “I like sharing a bed. But as far as marriage goes, I tend to agree. I don’t want to be with someone just for fun, I’m looking for the long run. But just like I wouldn’t marry someone I couldn’t be sure of sexual compatibility with, I wouldn’t marry someone I hadn’t lived with. Or at least knew whether they snored.”

“Is this a non-negotiable?” he asked seriously, belying that by taking another bite. 

I swallowed.

“No-o,” I said. “But to perhaps be taken under advisement?”

“I will consider it. But I doubt a massive sea-change in my desires, Elsbetta. Brace for disappointment. What else?” 

I frowned. Feeling very dismissed and as though parliamentary procedure had been used against me to be pushed off for more ‘new business.’ Began chewing on my left cheek, the side he couldn’t see as well from his vantage. 

“What does ‘I like to enjoy my sex’ really mean?” I asked instead.

He laughed that way he did. Then pushed my plate closer to me.

“Start eating, dear. What you’ve made is excellent and it’s getting cold. Let’s talk about something more enjoyable now. I guess I’d start with a question to you. What do you like in sex?”

“I… I don’t know,” I stuttered, incredibly frustrated, right as I was trying to spear green beans. 

“For example,” he said, sounding magnanimous. “A particular position? Maybe you really enjoy oral sex? From your reaction, I couldn’t dare hope you were any kind of kinky, but is there something you’ve always thought of but never got to do?”

“Oh,” I said. Decidedly shocked by this turn of events. “Well… No… I uh… I suppose not. I–”

“Take two bites and think about it,” he said, scooping up a large bite himself. I took five bites before answering him. 

“I like… I like… I like feeling desired,” I said, almost whispering into my plate. “Wanted… really wanted. No, needed. Like a man just has to… Have me.” 

I gulped, choked and coughed until I took a big sip of water.

“Oh, I said there’s no one, just the right one,” he said, sounding delighted. “But then you came along, Elsbetta. You’re the kind of woman I like having sex with. It sounds like we’re almost on the same line. I do desire you. I do want you. I’d like to show you.” 

I looked up at him. Unbearably turned on by his bare forearms resting on the table. When he came in this evening, he’d flung his tie over the back of his chair and unbuttoned one button. Now I was helplessly picturing the rest of him unbuttoned. 

He looked heavenward, sort of twirling his forefinger in the air like a conjurer.

“You perhaps like to be stripped bare? Flung to your bed? Have your man growl at you?” he asked, almost playful for the first time.

“Yes,” I said, still embarrassed, still shocked, but in my private center, thrilled. 

“Let me tell you what I like then. I like rough sex. I like feminine women like you. Some little thing that acquiesces. I like how you dress when you’re out in public– professional, neat. Not like other neighborhood girls at all. No party-clothes, no pajamas, no trashiness. When it’s just us, though, I’d like to be able to see you in an all new way. I like lingerie. I’d like to buy it for you. I’d like to tear it off you. I’d like to throw you on your bed and show you how… needed you are.” 

I gasped, surprised. Mostly surprised by him. I didn’t think he’d be able to talk like this. I hadn’t expected it from him– any of it. I hadn’t expected the honesty or what he liked. There was something particularly delightful about the idea of him buying what he wanted to see on me. I tried lingerie for my first partner. It made him smile but didn’t spark any particular interest. I liked the idea of Baron being hungry. Picturing something on me, getting it for me, and then me putting it on for him. All rather unexpected.

“I like that,” I said, feeling saucer-eyed and stupid.

“Good,” he grinned. “Finish your dinner.” 

The rest of the week settled into a comfortable routine. I stopped by Zevi’s building a few times. Once very early before work, bringing him oatmeal and fruit. Once on the way home from work. I invited him over for dinner again. Feeling a nervous stir somewhere below my heart when I did. Would I be found out, interrogated, told on? I gave myself a mental shake over this. That wasn’t what Baron was. That wasn’t what we were. He knew I had a male friend. I wouldn’t change my life, or not have joy with Zevi. What was I supposed to do, just not let anyone cross my doorway again? 

Zevi agreed easily and happily. 

He stopped by once at the office with a peach and a hotel-sized bottle of hot sauce. Slicing it in half to share with me. Pulling the pit out with his teeth, filling the crater with hot sauce and passing it to me. 

“It’s better so,” he said. “Heat and sweet.”

And he was right– the two mingling together was intoxicating. I wished I had both halves and told him so. He just laughed at me.

I told Zevi to meet me at home the next night. I heard his truck in the driveway. I’d already gotten undressed from work– just down to jeans and a band tee. I was out on my miniscule patio, using the grill. Another lovely and not-too-warm evening, so it seemed like a good idea. Plus, I’d been craving grilled vegetable kebabs, so tonight was the right night to do it. 

“Where’s my bettah half?” he called as he let the screen door wap shut behind him. “I brought dessert since she made dinner.”

I looked over my shoulder at him. He was bobbling a small crate of what I knew were peaches, plus two bottles of hot sauce. I laughed, closing the grill, and crossed quickly to him to unburden him of at least the glass bottles. 

“What do we need?” he asked.

“Go retrieve the chairs from the front porch,” I directed. “Dinner is almost done.” 

I had a wire spindle I kept out back to prop my feet on and use as a table, but I just had the two lawn chairs so I had to drag them back and forth. I sometimes thought of buying another set, but it seemed silly. 

With one hooked on each elbow, he lumbered into the backyard. We sat, each taking up a peach while we waited for kebabs. Letting juice drip with abandon, feet up on the spindle. Gulping water greedily. 

I smiled, hearing what sounded like a small parade of kids going down the street. I didn’t have any nearby neighbors with littler children. They must have been from a few streets over. 

“Oh, that’s nice,” he said, tipping his head toward the street, passing me hot sauce. “Very summer-time.”

“Mm,” I agreed.

“I grew up in a city,” he said. “So I got real used to hearing people all the time. Especially noticing kids when I was a kid, of course.” 

“I grew up right across the street from a park,” I said. “So I became really accustomed to listening to play. It always warms me up to hear it now.” 

“Yeah,” he sighed, leaning back further in the chair. Once more knocking his cap from his head. 

I got up, laughing, whacking his cap against my knee to get rid of dust and cut grass. Grabbing our dinner off the grill. 

“Good,” he growled, tearing portobello off the skewer. 

I had made extra and we still devoured everything, eating another two peaches apiece. We let the embers die down and went back inside. Leaning over the sink together, splashing our faces, getting rid of peachy stickiness. 

His face still wet, slicking his hair off his forehead with a damp hand, he gestured me closer. I stepped closer. He crooked his finger again, smiling devilishly. I kept stepping closer until I was only a few inches away from him. For a second, really only for a millisecond, I thought about kissing him. It slipped away as quickly as it had entered my mind. 

“What are the odds…?” he whispered, still smiling that crooked smile at me. “That you have marshmallows?”

I broke away, the half unthought-thought of kissing him broken up. 

“I do,” I said.

“A queen among women!” he crowed. “Come, bring the mallow, for tonight, we roast!” 

We sat out long past sunset, roasting marshmallows over the dying grill. Talking about books, childhood friends, long-lost favorite outfits, the best urban legends we knew from where we grew up. I nipped at my fingertips, trying to clean off marshmallow.

“We have had a sticky evening,” I complained, always finding another thwacking piece of grossness on my fingers. Places where dirt and foliage and charcoal clung to me. 

“I’ve made many a non-sticky evening devastatingly sticky,” he said, comically wiggling his eyebrows at me. I swatted at him, laughing. 

He tapped his upside down cap against his knee. I slapped my right wrist, then my right knee, then my right forearm. Laughing, he pulled me out of my chair.

“Think that’s our cue to get indoors and away from the skeeters,” he said. 

I didn’t know if he was just going to leave then. 

“Cocoa?” I asked hesitantly.

“If you’re offering,” he said. Once inside he instantly flopped comfortably onto my couch. Digging my remote out from under himself. 

I listened to him muttering and flipping through things on my television as I boiled milk.

“What is this trash?” he groaned. “What do you watch?”

“Better get used to it,” I said. “I need about three hours a week of horrific crime to maintain mental stability.”

“No-o,” he groaned again while I laughed in the kitchen.

And he stayed with me, watching my next episode, hiding his eyes, moaning and pretending to shriek with fear, drinking chocolate with me. 

“Ready for bed?” he asked, as the credits rolled.

Once more my heart came to a rolling standstill before I deciphered what exactly he meant.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“‘Night Betta,” he said, getting up from the couch and heading toward the door. “Sure do appreciate the dinner and dessert.”

“I appreciate the company,” I said. “We’ll do it again soon.”

“Good,” he said. Doing as he always did with me. Smiling over his shoulder, waving behind himself and letting the door close quietly behind him.