IOU Sex

“Everyone’s heart gets broken at some point in life,” I said. Facing a fact I’d never really considered. It was always so much more painful when it happened to you. Like no one else on the planet could possibly understand your agony and humiliation. But that was a misconception. Plenty of people had suffered my same fate. I was willing to bet that a good number of them picked themselves up, dusted themselves off and moved on with hopes of finding love again. I’d simply told myself it would never happen a second time.

Lying in Michael’s bed, both of us naked and him holding a condom in his hand, was not exactly the place to have an epiphany. Or maybe it was…

I said, “Sometimes when you call me from the road, I wonder, ‘why me?’ I mean, you’re either jetting about or riding around on your motorcycle, in a different city every couple of days to take awesome landscapes for your books. You have tons of fans. Women fall all over themselves to get your attention. And yet, two or three times a week, you call me when you get to your hotel room.”

He didn’t say anything for a few moments. I was surprised there was no anxiety welling within me as the seconds ticked by and he still didn’t answer. I had no idea what to expect by way of an explanation, but for the first time, I wasn’t wrapped around the axle about it. I genuinely wanted to know, and I didn’t feel apprehensive over what the response might be.

Finally he said, “I like my career. I like that I’ve made a name for myself and can sell books featuring my work. Travel is part and parcel of the gig. I’ve always enjoyed it. But it does get lonely. And I really did miss you more than usual while I was gone this last time.”

He paused a moment and stared at me, searching my eyes for Lord only knew what. Then he said, “Those three weeks we spent together. They freaked me out as much as they did you. I just handled it better.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, a little perplexed by his admission.

“I didn’t once think about cheating on you. No other woman turned my head. I worked on my book. I did a couple of side jobs for you. Every night, we had dinner and a couple of drinks, either here or at a restaurant. Then we’d curl up in front of the fire or soak in the Jacuzzi or play poker. We’d always end up making out and then making love. Exactly what I wanted.”

My teeth clamped down on my lower lip to keep me from saying anything. Or to keep it from quivering, I wasn’t sure.

He said, quite simply, “I loved every single one of those nights we shared.”

Ah, crap.

I felt that prickle behind my eyes again. I squeezed them shut for a moment, then opened them and willed my voice to be steady as I said, “Me too.”

He didn’t press me. A first. Rather, he settled more comfortably against the pile of pillows and stared at me.

I snuggled against him, resting my head against his shoulder. I couldn’t stop touching him, even given the touchy subject matter. My fingers drew lazy circles on his abdomen as I said, “It was different with you. Not like it was with Seth. With him, I was…a Carlisle. In every sense of the word. I had to dress right and act right. Entertain and overachieve. For that period of time in my life, I pretended I wanted all of the things my parents had told me I was supposed to want. A law degree. A wealthy, prominent husband. A huge house in Pacific Heights with a Bentley in the garage. A membership at the country club. Designer clothes and all the latest gadgets.”

I remembered after I’d gotten my bachelor’s degree and was accepted into Harvard’s law school, I had really and truly tried to be everything my parents wanted and expected me to be. Even though, for the first twenty-two years of my life, I’d insisted on being my own person.

I’m not sure what had changed my senior year of college. Something had made me think I ought to at least try to be the daughter the Honorable Mitchell and Briana Carlisle longed to have. The one who would follow in their footsteps. Join a prestigious law firm and then become a judge, like them.

I’d traveled that path for several years before I’d discovered Seth was screwing my sister.

I recalled, quite vividly, the day I’d decided to go into public relations. I had a law degree from Harvard. Had been hired by the top firm in San Francisco, where Seth worked.

“At a family dinner,” I told Michael as I shifted on the bed and partially covered his body with mine, “I announced I was quitting the firm and going into business for myself—in PR. Every jaw dropped. Then, there was this eruption of discontent. My parents were appalled. Seth was mortified. My aunts and uncles were in an uproar.”

“And Lizzie?”

I stared down at him as my palms splayed across his chest. Funny he should ask about her. He knew us all too well. In my mind’s eye, I pictured that night in my parent’s formal dining room, remembering so vividly everything Lizzie had said and done. “She smiled. Because she knew.”

He nodded. “You’d just handed her the trump card she needed to land Seth herself.”

Suddenly, everything became crystal clear for me. My gaze still locked with his, I wondered, “Did I do it on purpose?”

“Chewed your own hand off to escape the proverbial trap?”

“Yes.”

One dark brow lifte

d. That was all he needed to say.

“Wow.” I stared at Michael. He stared back.

In an instant, I was liberated.

He kept quiet, and I was grateful for his silence. I wasn’t exactly up for an in-depth analysis of my sudden revelation from him, or from me. I understood I had things to ponder and reflect upon. Reconcile. For the moment, however, I was only interested in exploring how freed I was of the constraints I’d inadvertently put on myself.