For Life (20 page)

November 1997

Grady

I know they’re both asleep by the silence in the apartment when I open the door. On the kitchen counter I see a plate covered with foil and I’m touched that Cassie fixed me something for dinner even though she must’ve been exhausted. Chloe’s been cranky the past few nights and Cassie has been up and down with her. Neither of them is well-rested and it’s no wonder they crashed early.

I creep quietly to the back bedroom, trying not to wake anyone. Cassie is curled up on top of the covers, dressed in flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt. I draw the throw at the foot of our bed over her sleeping form, tucking it around her shoulders. Then I peer around the corner into the walk-in closet that serves as Chloe’s room. She’s on her back in footed pink pajamas, breathing evenly, her plump cheeks rosy and her fists clenched. I’m relieved to see them both sleeping soundly.

Babies kill your sex life. People warned me of that, and I didn’t believe them. But these days Cassie’s either exhausted or knocked out cold. Gone are the nights we enjoyed when she was pregnant and I could practically make her come just looking at her. She used to come home from class and attack me, something I never minded. It was hot to see her so charged all the time, begging to be fucked, so sensitive she came again and again every time we made love. Now I honestly can’t remember the last time we had sex.

Admittedly, I’m grateful for the alone time tonight. I’ve had a song bouncing around in my head for a week now with no chance to work on it. Before Cassie and I were married, I used to teach my songs to her so she could sing them for me - my own voice isn’t as good as hers - and every once in a while I played my guitar while she hummed along, doing her own thing but sharing my music. Since Chloe came along, though, I haven’t played nearly as much, although I sing to my daughter when I walk her around the house.

Tonight I need to play. I close the bedroom door carefully and pull my guitar and practice amp out of the coat closet. Grabbing the headphones from the bin that holds my hats, I set up in the living room as far as I can from my sleeping beauties. And tonight the music flows. I lose track of time as I work and rework the tune until I think I have it where I want it.

I don’t notice Cassie slip into the living room to watch me, her eyes shining with admiration as she leans against the wall. When I finally realize she’s standing there, I have no idea how long she’s been there, just that she’s watching me with a sleepy smile. I lay the guitar down, stretch my arms out to her, and she crawls into my lap, kissing my neck.

“Have I told you how sexy I find musicians?” she murmurs against my throat.

“I know that’s the only reason you ever joined marching band,” I tease. “Not because of your love for the piccolo.”

“The piccolo is a beautiful instrument.”

“You haven’t touched your piccolo in years.”

“Ah, but that’s because I found a much more exciting instrument to play,” she murmurs coyly.

My cock stirs in my jeans at the suggestion in her words. “I should’ve woken you so you could play earlier.”

“Mmm-mm, I needed my sleep. But I’m not tired anymore.” She kisses me and I pin her to the floor, rolling on top of her, sliding my hands beneath her t-shirt where she’s naked and warm. Her swollen breasts excite me, but she swats my hands away because they’re so sore. “Chloe hasn’t eaten in a few hours,” she protests. “I’m gonna leak all over you.”

“I hope so.” Burying my face in her soft belly, I kiss my way around her navel, up to the swells at the undersides of her breasts. Tiny drops bead on her nipples and I rub my thumbs over them before she pushes me away again. Grinning, I kiss my way back down her body, folding the waistband of her pajama pants down so I can nuzzle the downy hairline. Cassie pants and writhes underneath me, and I yank the pajamas down to her ankles and spread her thighs wide.

Her wet, pink flesh sends an instant message to my engorged cock, and I free it from my jeans with one hand while lowering my mouth for a taste. She whimpers softly, bucking against my face, and I use my mouth on her until she begs for me to be inside her.

She doesn’t have to ask twice. I sink into her and she wraps her legs around me, hooking her heels over the small of my back. Her nails rake at me, her teeth graze my shoulder, and I realize she’s missed our physical connection as much as I have.

“Did you need this as much as I did, baby?” I ask and she sobs her answer into my neck. She bucks beneath me, clutching at my thrusting ass cheeks, spreading her thighs wide as she digs her heels into me, and I pound her fast and slow and fast again until she stiffens and whimpers. I pick up the pace, pinning her hips and giving her all I have until she makes the sound I have memorized, the most beautiful sound in the world. Then I let go, filling her until we’re leaking all over the carpet.

Afterward I hold her and sing her the new song, and she picks it up easily, humming along with me. We talk and cuddle until both of us are nodding off, unwilling to surrender this precious alone time we used to take for granted. But then Chloe’s soft cry breaks our reverie, and Cassie scrambles to her feet to get her. I leave everything where it is and follow Cassie to bed so I can watch my wife nurse our daughter, which is beautiful and endlessly fascinating. I drift off with the soft sound of a lullaby echoing in my ears.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Cassie

I steal home like a thief, hyperaware of every sore inch of my body. My lips are swollen, my chin is scraped raw from Grady’s beard, and between my thighs is a pleasurable, well-used ache. I had no idea that much sex was physically possible or that my body would come to life again and again with as much desire as the time before. I lost track of how many times I came. And even after all of that, I’m still in a sex daze.

When Grady kissed me goodbye it felt like a death even though I’ll see him again tomorrow. We’ve decided that a Sunday dinner with the kids wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

Baby steps.

I don’t know when I’ll be back in his bed like that again. I don’t know how many endless days will have to pass before his mouth is on mine or his cock is inside me. All I know is today opened the floodgates and I have no intention of damming this need back up. Nothing that feels so incredible could possibly be wrong.

At a traffic light I’m hit with an erotic flashback so intense I grip the steering wheel and gasp. I’m hot, aching, pulsing between my thighs. I’m almost as bad off as I was this morning and I groan thinking about how long it will be until I can touch Grady again.

Lust has worked its magic on me so thoroughly that it isn’t until much later that I try to wrap my head around the logistics of what Grady said.
Building a new life together
.

We have one child who barely remembers us together and another who doesn’t recall us ever living under the same roof. We have two homes, and though mine is slightly newer and larger, Grady’s is the home the kids have been in the longest, because he bought it soon after we divorced. We’ve got an aging cat prone to puking everywhere and an overzealous guard dog who likes to corner small fuzzy animals and will probably swallow the cat whole the moment he lays eyes on him. And right now the two of us can barely be in the same room with each other without wanting to fuck each other’s brains out. How the hell are we going to manage a blended household with all that going on?

This is all moving way too fast. Maybe not the sex, but the rest of it. Panic grips me, squeezing my chest, making my mind race with all the things that can go wrong. We haven’t even been on a date in over a decade and here we are secretly fucking like rabbits and planning to shack up again.

I have to talk to someone. I’ve been texting Sandra, but I didn’t let on that anything was going on with Grady. I decide to call her and see if I can meet her for drinks after work on Friday to get some perspective on this situation. She knows how to handle men better than any other woman I know, so I know whatever she says will be something I can use to work through things in my head and take some action. Having a plan calms me, and I take a deep breath and try to get myself together.

* * * *

I don’t know how to start this conversation.

Sandra has been very patient with me. We’ve chatted about the weather, her boy-toy, and the menu far more than any of those subjects required. I’ve downed half my margarita. I can tell she’s trying to let me move at my own pace, but she’s getting restless and her patience is running out. She checks her phone, which has been sitting next to her on the table, and then slips it into her purse and focuses all her attention on me.

“Talk,” she orders, flipping her hair back over her shoulder.

My heart plummets. I take another swallow of my margarita and gather my courage. “I don’t know how to start this.”

“Bullet points.” She snaps her fingers. “Now. Quick like a Band-Aid—”

“I’m sleeping with my ex-husband.” It rushes out of me before I can think of a more delicate way to say it, loud enough that a few heads turn at the table next to us.

She looks shocked for a full five seconds before recovering and taking a sip of her vodka and soda. “Well, now I know why you opted for the tequila,” she quips.

“It’s not just sex.” I rake my fingers through my hair and fiddle with my straw. “I think I’m in love with him and I want to get back together.”

Sandra narrows her eyes and sets up straight in her chair. “Let me stop you right there, sister,” she begins, setting down her drink and fixing her fierce amber gaze on me. “No. N-O, no. Don’t even.”

I open my mouth to speak but she cuts me off before I get a word out.

“Look, I get that an old flame is a great place to turn for sex. God knows, it’s efficient. It’s almost a sure thing, unless it ended badly.
Especially
if it ended badly. But you do not,” she pauses and takes a deep, steadying breath. “You do not travel down a road like that twice.”

Wow.
I suppose I was expecting some sort of “Sex and the City”-esque, “You go, girl” type of rah-rah support. Not a flat-out condemnation. She sounds almost angry.

“You don’t understand,” I begin, but I already know how I’ll sound. Like I’m rationalizing.

“Cass. What I understand is that you’ve been divorced forever and you barely speak to each other. You told me he broke your heart and you can’t stand to be around him. And now after spending a week together at a funeral you’re fucking him?” She shakes her head. “I get it. He’s in a bad place. You feel sorry for him. But that’s all this is. You have to know that. Don’t be stupid, Cassie.”

Now she’s just pissing me off. “He’s not in a bad place.” My face flushes and I continue, “That’s not what this is about. We re-connected.”

“At a funeral.”

“Well, sort of, yeah…”

“Where emotions are high and everyone is trying to feel better.”

I see where she’s going with this, and I feel stupid that I haven’t considered that aspect of things as much as I should have. “It wasn’t exactly like that, it was more—”

“And despite not talking in a decade, you had a magical connection that you just
had
to pursue, then and there, without thinking about the consequences.”

When she says it like that, it sounds…
Stupid
. Wrong. Careless. I’m shocked that what we’ve shared could seem like that to anyone. “I don’t think you—”

“He’s an addict, remember?” she counters, looking me straight in the eye, her mouth firm.

“I wouldn’t call him an addict,” I interject, but she bulldozes past me.

“You told me he drank nonstop in the last year and a half of your marriage and was barely there for you and the kids. You told me he neglected obligations, got a DUI, and by the end you didn’t want him alone with the kids. He is a textbook alcoholic, Cassie.”

I did tell her all that. And once upon a time, that’s exactly how things were, but the Grady I just spent a week with in Delaware is different. He’s the adult version of the boy I fell in love with before all the drinking started - steadfast, generous, and protective.

“Let me break this down for you, sweetie. He feels like shit and he wants to feel good again. That’s what addicts
do
. They seek a high - drugs, drinking, gambling, sex - and they chase it. Having sex with your ex is an endorphin rush. That’s what he’s doing, Cass, so don’t think it’s anything more than that.”

Tears sting my eyes. “He hasn’t had a drink in ten years,” I protest softly. “I don’t think he was ever even an alcoholic. He doesn’t even drink at all now.”

Her hand closes over mine on the table. “Now you’re just denying what you knew was true for years and years. You know how this works. You’ve told me about your dad, and you know about my family and my ex. People like that don’t change, Cass. A dry drunk is still an addict.”

Her reaction suddenly makes sense. Horror creeps through my body like ice water through my veins. Is she right? Have I just made some horrible mistake? Have I rationalized everything to the point of delusion? Did I spend a decade recovering from a hell I’m about to step back into?

When I don’t speak, Sandra softens her approach. “How far has this gone, Cass?”

“I’ve— We’ve—” I’m not sure where to begin. “We’re seeing each other again. We’re not ready to tell the kids just yet, but we will, soon.”

She eyes me skeptically. “And you don’t think that’s moving a bit fast?”

“Yeah, sort of, but Grady says—” I hear myself before the words even leave my mouth.
Grady says
. Like the little woman who just steps in line with the agenda of her man. Like the girl I was who bent and bent and bent until I broke.

I down the rest of my margarita without making eye contact with Sandra. The silence at our table is deafening.

“You need to talk to Dr. Gaul,” she says firmly.

“Yeah.” I nod and signal to the waiter for a refill. “Yeah, I had planned to do that anyway.”

“I won’t be the only one who thinks this is a bad idea, either,” she continues. “Be prepared for that.” Her certainty that Dr. Gaul will condemn me makes me nervous. After all, Dr. Gaul was Sandra’s therapist first - she and I met in one of her women’s therapy groups several years ago.

When I don’t look at Sandra she sighs and says, a bit more gently, “Just promise me you’ll be careful with yourself. I don’t want to see you get hurt, and this has disaster written all over it.”

“I’ll be careful. And we’ve already discussed the couples counseling.”

Suddenly saying “we” makes me feel like a fraud, even though it’s true. Grady and I did discuss couples counseling. But if what Sandra says is true, there really is no “we.”

Only me and an addict.

“Just for the record,” she says, “I think this is a huge mistake.”

“This I gathered,” I snap before sucking back the rest of my margarita with trembling hands.

“Please don’t let this come between us,” she pleads. “I’m only speaking from experience. I just want what’s best for you.”

Pulling three ten-dollar bills from my purse and slapping them on the table, I reply, “Well, thanks for your support.” My voice is shaking as hard as the rest of me.

I grab my purse and coat and hurry out of the restaurant. “Cass!” she calls after me. “Cassie, honey, just wait!” But I don’t look back.

* * * *

In an urge to get as far away from Sandra as I possibly can, I head into the mall and duck into a Christmas shop. An overpowering cinnamon aroma assaults my nostrils, so strong I can nearly taste it, but on the off chance she comes looking for me she’d never think to come in here, so I head to the back of the store and pretend to dig through the overstuffed bins of ornaments as I consider what she just said to me.

…moving a bit fast…

…disaster written all over it…

…still an addict…

And the most damning:
You do not travel down a road like that twice.

Is she right? Am I being stupid? I think about the whirlwind in Delaware, the unexplainable lust and tenderness I felt for Grady, the way we naturally turned to each other as if not a moment had passed. I recall frantic need I still felt for him leaving his house when I should have been thoroughly satisfied.

I rifle idly through a box of wrapping paper rolls and think about Adam. Our relationship had been so easy. We didn’t fight like Grady and I fought. I didn’t second-guess anything. Our lovemaking was sweet and respectful and every now and then a bit naughty, but it never had that sharp bite of need that I have with Grady. Adam was dependable, and I stood on completely solid ground with him.

But once upon a time, I stood on solid ground with Grady, too. Our problems came several years into our relationship. Whatever Grady was going through at the time - he changed. He wasn’t the man I fell in love with. I didn’t make a careless, stupid mistake marrying him. I may have been young and in love, but the Grady I fell in love with was a rock.

And Sandra is wrong about our grief making us chase an endorphin rush. We didn’t need grief to make us combust. Sex with Grady always had that same heat. When we were eighteen and getting it on in parked cars, when I was pregnant with both our kids, even the last time we had sex on the morning before I kicked him out, it was scorching, urgent, mind-blowing. Every single time.

But what she might be right about is us basing our current feelings on something that happened because of shared history. Lust is one thing, a life together is another. And although he’s the father of my children and my first love, how well do I really know the man Grady Mahoney is today?