So close, p.17
So Close, page 17
Older trees line the interstate, their broken and vine-covered branches occasionally revealing pockets of homes that have lost the optimism with which they were built. Paint peels from warped siding, windows sit cockeyed in their frames. Power and phone cables stretch across sagging roofs, lifelines attempting to keep the American dream of homeownership alive. Thousands of eyes pass over these houses every day, yet they might as well be invisible.
The landscape begins to blur, and my eyes close. I think I know where we’re going, but I’m afraid to hope.
On the radio, Kansas begins to sing to a wayward son, and I sing along softly at first, then you join in. A smile bursts across my face before I can stop it. Creedence Clearwater follow with their ode to Suzy Q, and our voices rise in unison. I lower the window to feel the breeze, tilting my chin so air flows over my face.
Your laugh is deep and genuine. You reach for my hand, linking our fingers before lifting them to your mouth. You kiss my knuckles. “I missed you, Setareh. So much.”
I don’t know what’s altered to make you so easy and affectionate. I don’t know how long your mood will last. You are like the sun, warm and enlivening when you shine on me but transient. I have been hopeful and hopeless too many times over the past several weeks. And the simple truth is that you couldn’t stay away from Lily, couldn’t stop yourself from loving her, but it’s been all too easy to keep your distance from me. I thought I could don her skin and slip into her place in your life – a place you left unfilled. But that skin doesn’t fit, and I am only my inadequate self.
The view outside has changed. The towns are bigger, the houses no longer ramshackle and sad. Soon, they are farther apart, less visible, larger and set farther back from the side roads. I search for the unfamiliar and strange, landmarks that are recent enough to be new to me.
“Are we there yet?” I ask.
“Less than fifteen minutes.”
I wait a beat, then tease, “Are we there yet?”
You shoot me a droll glance, and the warmth in your amusement thrills me.
By the time we exit the interstate, my spirits are buoyed. With every turn, I grow more excited. Soon, you’re pulling into the driveway of a two-story cottage covered in cedar shingles that have weathered to gray. The white trim is crisp and bright. The yard is beautifully landscaped, with massive hydrangeas and thickly planted perennials in every hue and height boarding the flagstone paths. The home blends with its neighbors yet could never be similar. I feel the pull of it, have been feeling that pull the whole drive.
The quarter-arch windows on the second-floor stare down at us like eyes. There is the unmistakable sense that the beach house waits impatiently for our return.
“Kane,” I breathe, “have you been leasing this place the whole time …?”
“It’s ours now.” You put the car in park and turn off the engine. “When your estate lawyer told me it was a rental, I couldn’t believe it. And I couldn’t let it go. It took me nearly two years to convince the owner to sell, but they came around.”
When your beloved face blurs, I realize I’m crying.
Unbuckling your seatbelt, then mine, you tell me, “We met here. We were married here. If we have children, I want them to spend their summers here. I couldn’t walk away from it.”
I’m made speechless by a throat that aches like a throbbing wound. I meet the house’s watchful gaze again, and that unblinking stare arrests me, so much so that I jump with surprise when you open the passenger door to offer me your hand.
With your arm around my waist, you lead me up the steps from the driveway and unlock the front door with a numerical keypad. You step back as if to let me enter first, then scoop me up like a bride and carry me across the threshold.
Snuggling into your embrace, I note how much bigger you are now, how your strength cradles me easily and makes me feel safe.
The curtains in the living room are thrown wide and light floods the ground floor. Everything is just as before, like a time capsule. Every surface shines. There isn’t a single dust mote in the air, yet there is a sense of hollowed emptiness, of pervasive abandonment.
“When were you here last?” I ask.
“I left at dawn the morning after the Coast Guard called off the search.” Your voice is even and untroubled, but your dark eyes reveal darker emotion. “I haven’t been back.”
You set me down by the sofa and embrace me from behind. The walls are painted a matte black with a semigloss trim in the same shade. There is a cluster of green velvet sofas in front of the fireplace and a dining table made from richly stained wood with an extravagant grain.
Throw blankets and pillows of charcoal fur and green crochet cover the couches. Potted plants and crystals of various sizes and shapes are everywhere, displayed on gray-washed rattan end tables and shelving units.
The rear of the house is entirely open to the veranda, with a folding glass wall that can be slid open to its outermost points. A framed print on one side cautions against letting anyone steal your magic. A matching print on the other side says Lily was one hundred percent that witch.
Outside, hills of sand grass part in the middle to form a pathway to the public beach.
Lacing my fingers over yours, I lean into you. My gaze roams. Unlike the penthouse, personal photos are everywhere here, framed on every shelf and table. Above the mantel is the only change I note. A single large image replaces the random-sized art pieces previously displayed there, dominating the space.
It’s a watercolor over pencil, the image of a siren seated on a rocky shoreline, her back to the artist, her face hidden. Flowing black hair falls to her hips and flutters in the breeze. Her tail begins as pale pink at her waist, the hue deepening into progressively darker shades of red until the fins at the end are as inky as her hair. With her left hand, she beckons a three-masted schooner with black sails and hull; she calls forth a storm to wreck it with her right.
Such a fanciful image. I’m curious as to why it speaks to you, although I agree it’s striking and perfect for the space.
Your lips touch my temple. “I need to prepare for a meeting I have in a few minutes. Will you be all right?”
“Of course.” I steel myself to be alone for however short a time. It’s worse because I have begun to hope we’ve turned a corner.
I straighten, digging for inner strength, and you step back. Then you round me, coming into my field of vision, staring at me with firestorm eyes. I watch, apprehensive and expectant, as time slows. Your eyelids grow heavy as your dark head lowers and tilts to find my mouth. I clutch your waist.
There is no one to see us. This is not a performance.
This moment is for me. For us.
Your lips brush mine. The caress is light and so very gentle. A silent sob of longing escapes me, and your hand at my hip flexes fitfully, tightening and releasing.
Your tongue strokes the seam of my lips, and I open to you, my fingers twisting into the fine weave of your shirt. The deep lick you reward me with makes me shiver.
Pleasure floods me in a searing, drugging rush. Strength melts into languor.
You tighten your grip, pulling me fully against the hard column of your muscled body.
Oh … you taste like honeyed whiskey. The flavor of your kiss is extraordinary and intoxicating. I’m already addicted, desperate for more. My lips circle your tongue, and I suckle softly, seeking your smoky-sweet essence. We’re aligned from chest to thighs. Your deep groan vibrates against my breasts.
With one hand curled around your nape and the other holding the back of your head, I won’t let you retreat, although you’re not trying to. I drink from you, devouring, my tongue following yours into the heated depths of your mouth. Your embrace tightens, your body begins to quiver … or perhaps I’m the one trembling. Soft, desperate cries flow from me, my hunger so great I can’t stop them.
You drench my senses. Your skin has warmed with lust. As your scent deepens, I breathe deeply and surge onto my toes, responding instinctively and fiercely to your silent demands.
Your hand at my hip dips to the lower curve of my buttock, and you tug me into your straining erection. Your penis is hard and thick against my lower belly. My tongue plunges into your mouth as I need your body to plunge into mine. Your honeyed flavor grows deeper, stronger. Your returning kiss is feverish, your tongue a velvet lash. It strokes into my mouth with furious licks, your hunger ravenous. We’re fucking each other’s mouths, our tongues frantic and tangling.
You break contact first. We’re both breathing hard. My fingers weave into the heavy silk of your hair as your forehead touches mine. Your rough gasps betray the limits of your control.
“Kane …”
“You shatter me, Setareh.” There is erotic heat in your words. “I’m in pieces.”
Covering my hands with yours, you pry my fingers open with tempered strength so you can pull away. You press soft, lingering kisses to my knuckles. Then you let go.
I watch as you walk backward a few steps before turning to take the hallway to the only downstairs bedroom. Restless, anxious, filled with vibrating energy, I take in my surroundings and debate what to do. I’m aflame, bright and burning. I feel like running, dancing, screaming, spinning, fucking you until I can’t move, can’t think, can’t torture myself anymore.
Kicking off my shoes, I untie the bow of my blouse and pad on bare feet to the patio doors. I unlock them and push each side open. The house feels like it takes a big deep breath, the stagnant air inside dispelled by the salt-laden breeze.
Here, in this house, we are a couple. In the penthouse, there is only me without you.
Moving to the bookshelf, I study each of the photos in turn. I pick up the large silver frame that holds wedding photos. Lily wore floor-length red lace with a high-neck halter secured by three pearl buttons at the nape. The back of the dress was open and plunging, falling into a short train. Her hair was worn up with sprigs of baby’s breath tucked within the black strands and elaborate pearl earrings dangling from her ears. The bouquet was Blacklist lilies and red roses.
And you, my love. No man has ever been as gorgeous in a tuxedo. Even in a photograph, you take my breath away.
So young, so radiantly in love. No hint of the secrets behind the smiles.
I return the frame to its place and move on, studying them all. I hear laughter echoing through the house, snippets of conversations, sensual cries entwined with pleasured groans. I know that’s why you haven’t returned. You hear the ghosts, too.
When I reach the stairs, I ascend. Two guestrooms are at the front of the house with their window eyes. The master bedroom at the back overlooks Long Island Sound and smells like you. Your colorful kantha quilt is folded over the foot of the bed.
Lily’s clothes still hang in her closet, and when I move to yours, I see all your clothes are there. Not the bespoke garments of the Kane Black I woke up to but the thrifted clothes of the man I first met.
I change, stripping to my underwear sans bra and then dropping a red slip dress over my head. It’s slightly too big, which randomly reminds me that lunchtime has passed, and you haven’t eaten.
In the kitchen, I search the cupboards, pantry and fridge, finding them well stocked, which I’d expected, considering Witte. I weigh the options and decide to put together a charcuterie plate for you: various salumi, crackers, olives and peppers, and sliced cheese. I drizzle a bit of honey over the cheese and add a splash of chili garlic-infused olive oil over the meat. I arrange a cocktail fork atop a linen napkin so you can keep your hands clean and finish it all off with a glass of sparkling water.
I carry everything to you on a wicker tray, stopping in the doorway of the former bedroom to take in the space. For several moments, I just absorb you. You’re leaning back in a navy-blue leather office chair, talking into a headset while spinning a basketball on the tip of your finger. You’re confident and relaxed, speaking with assurance and occasionally listening. I smile.
Your desk is a mid-century antique, with signs of both age and frequent use. The rug is also vintage, with bare spots, and the battered leather sofa in an avocado hue looks like it weighs a ton. Even the accessories and wall art are clearly secondhand. You have racks of dumbbells and medicine balls in one corner, kettlebells, a jump rope, resistance bands, and a TRX strap anchored in the wall.
It’s so you; I’m instantly in love with the room.
The space is far removed from your home office in the penthouse, which – while certainly the most cheerful and colorful room in that residence – is unmistakably upscale and lavish. The only similarities between that office and this one are the pale walls and the small basketball hoops affixed above the trash cans.
You glance toward me and immediately straighten, a tension in your frame that wasn’t there before as if I’ve caught you doing something you shouldn’t. You set the ball on a clear acrylic base on the corner of your desk and wave me in, even as you continue speaking. I come around to your side, setting the tray down. There is a framed snapshot of Lily by your monitor, this one of her laughing, her eyes meeting the camera lens through splayed fingers as if she’d just covered her face to hide her amusement at being photographed.
I squeak in surprise when you catch me by the wrist and tug me into your lap, tapping a button on your headset mid-sentence before giving me a quick, hard kiss.
“Thank you,” you tell me, lifting me off you and sending me away with a swat of your hand to my rear. You tap the button again and pick up your discussion right where you left off.
I look at you over my shoulder, so startled I trip over my feet and stumble. You felt like a stranger just then. I feel suddenly chilly and apprehensive, my hands rubbing goosebumps on my arms.
A smaller version of the siren portrait is hanging on the wall beside the closet. The room is yours in every way. It’s only you who inexplicably seems strange and vaguely sinister as if the sea breeze banished an enchantment, revealing something dark and previously veiled.
Dr. Goldstein is fucking with your head.
I leave the room abruptly, shivering.
I’d hoped the change of location would free us of Lily’s seductive, all-consuming hold on you. Instead, we’ve moved into a home with something worse.
It’s not Lily’s ghost who fills this house with savage, unchecked rage.
It’s yours.
31
LILY
I turn on the living room fireplace using the remote on the coffee table, then settle back into the deep-seated sofa and pull one of the faux-fur throw blankets over my legs. It takes me a minute to figure out that the siren painting is like the mirrored television in the sitting room of the penthouse; with the push of a button, the image fades into a screen.
“Hey.”
Your voice turns my head toward the hallway. Leaning your shoulder against the wall, you’re relaxed and breathtakingly handsome. For a heartbeat, I see the younger man I once knew overlaying the man you are now. His lanky body is narrower than yours, his hair longer, his smile open and cocky. His eyes gleam with humor, mischief and love. Then I blink, and he’s gone.
“Hey,” I rejoin.
“What are you up to?” Your gaze is dark and watchful.
I release my grieving for the young man I once knew and focus on you now. “Well, it looks like I’ve missed a new Jack Ryan film, two James Bond flicks, and one Mission Impossible. I figured I’d start catching up.”
Your mouth curves in an indulgent smile. “Mind if I join you?”
“It would make my night if you did.”
“Oh, I bet I could up the ante.” You straighten. “What are your thoughts on pizza?”
“When are my thoughts not on pizza?”
“When I’m inside you.” Your smile widens at my startled reaction to your naughty playfulness. It wells from a place of long-standing intimacy, and I must accept that. “I’ll make the call. Give me ten.”
You leave, and I feel the weight of night settle around me as you turn the lights off on your way out. Focusing on the television, I scroll until I find Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit. I start, then pause the film, catching the distant sound of your voice as you place our order.
In the first few weeks after you found me, I just wanted you to accept me with open arms. We’ve moved beyond our former impasse, and now it seems I can have my desire. But nervousness makes me shift restlessly. I’m a woman who reads people well, but you’re a mystery now, so different from the bereaved widower I’ve been living with.
There’s only one woman I want, you said. Is it me? Or her?
This cycle of ecstasy and misery, desire and dread, began long before we met. Women damaged by the men in their lives raised us, unfit mothers who were incapable of providing consistent kindness and attention. Because of them, we expect and crave unrequited love. Neither of us is emotionally mature. If we were, we would’ve known to stay far away from each other. We’d crave security instead of this mad game we’re playing with our hearts and minds.
I know falling in love shouldn’t feel like falling off a cliff, but you and I have never stood on solid ground at any point in our lives. Would we still want each other if we established safe boundaries, or would we miss the full-tilt spin of our dizzying obsession?
You come down the stairs and move into the kitchen. “I’m grabbing a brew. You want something? Water, maybe? A soda?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
I hear you move around in the heart of the home, but I don’t watch. We’re strangers in more ways than one. I can’t shake my apprehension. We are very much alone here. The beach house cocoons us together, away from the world.
Rounding the sofa, you fold gracefully into the deep cushions with a bottle of beer in hand. You’ve changed into striped pajama pants and a black T-shirt. Your feet are bare, and your wedding band is your only adornment. My body tenses pleasurably. The faint scent of your cologne arouses me, and the radiating power of your body stirs my inborn feminine awareness of your virile masculinity. You tilt your head back as you drink, your throat working on a swallow, casual and relaxed, while I sit inches from you, suffering the ache of wanting you.
