Should Have Known Better

He took a deep breath and sighed.

“I heard you and Sasha fighting at the office,” he said. “I know your husband’s living with her.”

“Oh, no,” I said, feeling as if I suddenly shrank to a nickel.

“I didn’t want to say anything. I wasn’t going to say anything. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again, but—”

“So you knew this whole time? Who I’ve been talking about? What I’ve been going through?” I don’t know why, but this, the idea of him knowing something so personal about me, was humiliating. I knew he’d know soon or that it would come out at some point, especially if we were to continue being friends—I mean, he’s Sasha’s coworker. He sees her every day. But I thought I’d have a chance to do it on my own terms.

“Yeah. CNN isn’t the Pentagon. Those walls are paper thin. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry about what?”

“That she did that to you. That she took him.”

“She didn’t take anything from me. And really that’s none of your business,” I said, walking out of the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” He chased behind me. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t think it would be this big of a deal.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here.” I bent down and reached under the chaise to get one of my shoes.

“Wait, Dawn. Let me explain. I wasn’t trying to trick you or whatever you’re thinking. I just wanted to get to know you.”

“What am I, some kind of charity case? Hum?” I sat on the chaise and put my shoes on. “You felt sorry for me and you wanted to save me? Help me? Have sex with me?”

“No! No! You’re taking that too far,” he said. “None of that. I’m not like that. I keep telling you. Look, all I wanted to do was get to know you. I knew that the first time I saw you.”

He sat beside me on the chaise.

“And I’m supposed to believe that? You wanted to date me, and then you found out my marriage is a disaster and your coworker is having an affair with my husband. And you still thought it was a good idea to date me? Highly unlikely.”

“I didn’t think of it like that.”

“So how did you think of it? You wanted to get me into your home so you could romance me? Hum? Get me to cry on your shoulder? Maybe sleep with you? Kiss you? Is that what you wanted? To kiss me? To make out with me like we’re some kind of pubescent teens? Or a—”

A. J. grabbed my arm, turned me to him, and kissed me. I was still talking, but my words stopped immediately. And as I felt the heat from his lips on mine, I knew this was something I’d have to do again and again. I think my shoes shot right off my feet. Or did I kick them off? Or did he take them off?

We sat there and kissed forever. And I loved it.

But I had to stop it. Sex was far from my radar. Feeling that kind of intimacy was probably the last thing I wanted. The kiss was enough.

I thought A. J. would be annoyed or upset by my limitations, but he just smiled and kissed the palm of my right hand.

“When you’re ready,” he said, “I’ll be here.”

A. J. drove me to my mother’s house with the windows down and the music up high. We listened to those old romantic songs they play at night on the radio, sneaking looks at each other and smiling at whatever we saw for no apparent reason.

It was so late that it was almost early and although I hadn’t been anywhere but to his house, I felt like I had been on a date. And that feeling was exhilarating. I felt new. Or maybe not as old as I had that morning when I woke up. I wanted to go and buy some new perfume. High-heeled shoes. I thought of Mrs. Harris.

Before we left the house, A. J. explained that he’d always been a sucker for brown skin and when he saw me in Sasha’s office, he’d thought, she’s cute. Then, when I spoke, he’d thought, she’s smart. Then he’d noticed my wedding band and thought, she’s taken. He’d given up the idea of trying to talk to me, but when he got to his office and heard the fight with Sasha, he couldn’t get me out of his mind. The attraction had nothing to do with my being vulnerable, and everything to do with the prospect of me being free.

“Next week?” A. J. said, pulling in front of the house.

“What about it?”

“Can we hang out again next week? Maybe we could make lasagna next time!”

“Oh, no. Please don’t mention lasagna,” I said, remembering Sasha slipping her recipe into my hand. “And why would I want to come to your house next week to cook? We did that tonight!”