But he doesn’t. He holds my gaze as he takes off my shoes. He sets them on the floor at the foot of my bed. He turns. He leaves. And I experience a sensation I imagine is akin to falling off a very tall building.
As soon as I heard the soft click of the door, I lay back in the bed and stared at the ceiling, restless and overwrought, my center throbbing, aching. I tried to bring my breathing under control as well as the intensity and sharpness of my longing.
And the strangest thought occurred to me.
Really, it wasn’t that strange. I’d touched myself in the past, but not since being with Martin. Before, it had basically been an experiment, an exploration of sorts, born out of detached curiosity. I’d wanted to make myself orgasm at the time because I wanted to know what it felt like, what all the fuss was about. My experiment had never yielded anything, just me feeling immeasurably silly.
But now—the specter of my dream and his lingering scent filling the room—the idea didn’t feel silly at all. In fact, I could still smell him on me, expensive soap and aftershave. My desire, my craving for him felt abruptly overwhelming; I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating with it.
I knew he was in the apartment. I could hear him moving around. I closed my eyes and pictured him. I unbuttoned my shirt, unhooked my bra at the front, then let my other hand drift down my stomach to my pants, under the waistband, into my panties. I was on autopilot, my movements compulsory.
I was already wet. And when I touched myself I was shocked at how sensitive I was, how responsive. I glanced down—my fingers on my bare breast, my smooth stomach illuminated only by the city lights, my wrist disappearing into the waistband of my tuxedo—and imagined Martin watching me, seeing what I was seeing.
Maybe he was sitting on the edge of the bed, telling me to do this. Instructing me, giving me praise and loving—yet dirty—words of encouragement. Just the thought of him seeing me this way and liking it made my breath become ragged, and I felt myself edge closer to release.
Impatient, I unzipped my pants and spread my legs. This time I imagined he was in the chair at the end of the bed; he could see me, all of me, and he was silently watching. Maybe he was dressed in his suit, his pants unzipped and open, stroking himself…
Aaaand, that did it. I came. And I had to turn my head into my pillow to keep from crying out. Though I continued the fantasy, envisioning that imaginary Martin had also reached his release and was holding my gaze as we came together.
I sobered relatively quickly, the experience leaving me spent but unsatisfied. I removed my hands from my body and turned away from the door. I pulled my shirt closed, tucked my knees to my chest and stared out the window overlooking Central Park, at the tall buildings with their twinkling lights in the distance.
A cold lump of nothing settled in my stomach. I finally understood why Abram had been trying to get me to consider a rebound guy.
A warm body. A soft touch. A gentle kiss and whisper. It would have made a difference. True, they wouldn’t have filled the void, but they would have softened the fall.
My chin wobbled and I tried to breathe normally. My eyes stung. I fought the urge to cry by biting my bottom lip fiercely, focusing on the voluntary pain I was inflicting with my teeth rather than the gaping hole in my chest that never showed signs of healing.
But then I started and tensed, because I heard the unmistakable sound of my bedroom door opening. I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut, thankful I now faced the window.
“Kaitlyn?” he whispered. Goosebumps raced over my skin at the sound of his voice, but I couldn’t speak.
Heck, I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want him to see me. I felt certain if he saw my face, the front of my clothes, he’d know what I’d been doing. I didn’t want him to know. If he looked into my eyes he’d know I was still crazy for him. And if there was even a chance he’d look at me with pity, I didn’t want to see it.
So I said nothing.
I felt him move closer. He hovered at the edge of the bed. Martin set something on the side table…it sounded like a glass. My heart was hammering between my ears and I fixated on it, ignoring the urge to turn toward him and make a fool of myself, to tell him I didn’t care if he’d ever loved me. I loved him. I wanted him. I needed…
I was concentrating so hard that I flinched my surprise when I felt a blanket fall gently over my shoulders. My lids opened automatically, startled, and I found Martin standing in front of me, covering me with a duvet from the closet.
“Go back to sleep.” Again, he whispered this, his attention following the line of the blanket, perhaps to make sure I was completely covered.
But then his eyes moved to mine and our gazes collided, or at least it felt that way to me, like a head-on collision. His movements stalled then stilled. He looked surprised.
“What,” he started, stopped, then stared at me. He seemed confused by what he saw. “Are you still angry with me about Willis?”
I shook my head. “No. Just tired.” My voice was rough, uneven.
He frowned, lifted his chin slightly, and I could tell he didn’t believe me. His eyes moved over my body where it was now covered by the blanket and narrowed with obvious suspicion.
“What were you doing—”
I cleared my throat, interrupting him. “I’m tired. Goodnight, Martin.”
I turned my head into the pillow, my hair providing a concealing curtain. Especially right now, looking at him made everything harder, more painful.
He didn’t leave immediately. Several seconds ticked passed, my heart rising higher in my throat with each passing moment. But then I heard him leave—his feet on the wooden floor, the soft click of the door.
And for the first time in several months, I cried.
***
I waited until I heard Martin’s bedroom door close. After another ten minutes, I wrapped myself in a towel and tiptoed to the bathroom. My face was red and splotchy, and my eyes were itchy from my odd bout of tears. Standing under the hot spray of the shower did wonders for my peace of mind. I took my time washing my hair and soaping my body, feeling warm, soothed, and much calmer when I finally turned off the water.
Back in my bedroom I quickly dressed in yoga pants pajamas, one of my Death Cab for Cutie concert T-shirts that had been regulated to sleepwear, and my Abraham Lincoln socks. Just as I was climbing back into the bed my foot connected with something beneath it. I turned on the light and bent to peer under the mattress.
It was Martin’s stocking and presents. I’d completely forgotten about them in my sleepy—then aroused, then depressed—haze. I pulled them from their hiding place and flipped off the light switch. Clutching the gifts to my chest, I held my breath and listened for any sounds of movement coming from elsewhere in the apartment. As far as I could discern all was quiet.
Again, I tiptoed out of my room, this time intent on the fireplace. I figured I could hang his stocking somehow then put the rest of the presents on the hearth. But when I entered the living room I stopped short and my mouth fell open in surprise.
Martin had procured a tree.
It was a small, Charlie Brown type of tree, no larger than four feet tall. The baby tree was in a tin bucket draped in white lights, yet held no other ornamentation, not even a star at the top.
However, the tree wasn’t responsible for my paralysis. The reason why I was standing just beyond the hallway, still clutching Martin’s gifts, with an expression of shock and awe, was because of what the tree sat upon.
His unfussy Christmas tree rested on top of an antique Steinway upright piano. The piano had a huge red ribbon and a bow wrapped around it. I couldn’t move. It was the prettiest picture I’d ever seen. The little minimalistic tree, the classic piano with a big red bow, both sitting next to Martin’s gray stone fireplace in his warm, cozy, bookish living room. Windows on the other side of the fireplace showcased a snow-covered New York City beyond.
I felt like I was looking at an image in a magazine. If I’d seen this image in a magazine I would have paused on the page, maybe even ripped it out and filed it under my ideal life. I couldn’t move because I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay in this picture forever.
“What are you doing up?”
I yelped, jumped, and ungracefully twisted toward the sound of Martin’s voice, gulping in a large, shocked breath. I struggled to keep hold of the packages in my arms, having momentarily flailed and loosened my grip. Martin rushed forward, seeing I was just about to drop a box, and caught it with one hand while steadying me with the other.
“Oh my God, you scared me.” I closed my eyes, my heart hammering in my throat as the rush of adrenaline subsided.
His hand slipped from my waist to my shoulder, squeezing. “I thought you were tired.”
“I was. I mean, I am. But I was waiting for you to go to sleep.”
“I heard you take a shower so I couldn’t sleep.”
“You couldn’t sleep because I was taking a shower?”
He ignored my question and asked me instead, “Are you okay?”
I nodded, laughing a little, and peeked at him through one eye. “You just missed Santa Claus. He dropped this stuff off for you, but left in a huff when he found no cookies.”
He shrugged, giving me a brilliant smile. “Those bloody cookies are mine. Fat man needs a diet.”