If I Could Do It Again (7 page)

And then he walks past me and into the house, and moments later, I hear what I hope is the bedroom door slamming shut.

My stomach clenches. I’m not sure if it’s from the door slamming or the guilt that’s twisting me up.

Did he just look hurt?

I hurt him?

I hurt Richard.

I …

I’m not sure how long I stand there before I head back inside, kicking off my shoes and strolling back upstairs, arms crossed over my chest. I go into my office, kicking the door shut behind me. It couldn’t have been too long because Joshua hasn’t called yet, but it feels like forever.

I glance at the mess before dropping my purse and curling up in my chair, staring blankly out the window, listening to Richard’s muffled snoring coming from across the hallway, feeling more alone than I’ve ever felt before.

I don’t know why I feel guilty.

I shouldn’t, I know.

I’ve been honest with Richard from the start. He knew—he knows—how I feel. He knows I want out. He knows it’s over.

God, I need to get out of here.

When my phone finally rings, I answer it immediately. Grabbing my keys, I head back downstairs, slipping on my shoes and walking out the door, locking it behind me as I wait for my chance to accept the call. As soon as the call connects, Joshua’s voice surrounds me like a warm fleece blanket. “Hey, beautiful. You done yet?”

“Yeah, I’m done,” I say. “He’s passed out now.”

“What’s happening?

“He kind of broke into my filing cabinet and read, then tore up, all of your letters,” I say, walking down the driveway, and onto the sidewalk. I feel restless … uneasy. A walk is exactly what I need even if every step feels like torture. Damn that cycling class. “I think that’s why he decided to destroy my rosebushes.”

“I’m not surprised,” he says. “So what did he have to say about the letters?”

Sighing, I reply, “Nothing really, but he’s under the impression that I’m in love with you.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Are you?”

My blood runs hot at his question. “What? I, uh …” I don’t know what to say. “No. I’m not in love with you. I barely even know you.”

“Baby girl, you know me better than anyone ever has, but if you don’t want to admit your feelings yet, no problem. I can wait.” He chuckles softly, before continuing, “So he’s feeling threatened by me.”

Yeah, and he’s also threatening to take everything from me.

I don’t tell him that, though, instead saying, “It doesn’t make sense. He never gave a shit before. Not about anything I did.”

“Yeah, but now you’ve got another man in your life,” he says lightly, and then his tone turns serious. “I’m sorry he ruined all the letters, baby.”

“Yeah,” I grumble, annoyed and more than a little sad that I didn’t take better care of them. “Me, too.”

“Have you picked a date to come see me yet?”

Taking in the harsh voice that greets me when I accept the call, I turn my desk chair around, placing my back to the computer screen, and I give Joshua my full attention. He sounds on edge today, a little amped up and a little annoyed. I’m not sure what to make of it.

“Not yet,” I say hesitantly. “I’ve been thinking maybe November would be good, but I’m still trying to rearrange my schedule. Um, are you okay?”

The line is stone cold silent for a moment before his voice carries through. “I got a letter today.”

Okay …

“That’s awesome,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and cheery. It’s a challenge. “I’m glad, honey.”

Silence.

“Don’t you want to know about it?”

I don’t respond immediately, my gaze scanning the books on my shelves, the question lingering on the silent line between us. After a moment, I sigh. “No, not really.”

“Why?”

Why? I’m not even sure I can answer that. I’ve thought about Joshua’s other pen-pals a lot these last few weeks, pretty much every single day since that first time we had phone sex, and I can only come up with one logical conclusion: I want to pretend there aren’t any others. “Because it’s really none of my business.”

“Why’s that?” he asks.

“Because it just isn’t,” I say. “Besides, I don’t particularly want to hear about the other women in your life.”

He hums. “I thought I could talk to you about anything. Isn’t that what you told me?”

I sigh again, this time long and loud as I recall that particular conversation. After a long pause, I say tentatively, “You can.”

And I mean it for the most part. I want to know everything there is to know about him, see every side of him, dig deep down and understand everything that makes him who he is. But those letters … I don’t think I can handle knowing what’s in those letters.

“Obviously not,” he says.

The disappointment I hear in his voice makes my chest constrict. “Is this letter really that important?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” My voice sounds snappy even to my own ears, but I can’t help it, can’t seem to smooth it out. I take a breath and then another. It does nothing to soothe the anxiety blooming in my chest. “Okay, fine. If it’s that important, tell me about it.”

“Someone’s getting a little bitchy,” he says almost playfully—almost. “Is your period starting soon?”

His comment startles a laugh from me. Did he really just say that? “You can be such an ass sometimes; you know that?”

“I know.” He laughs, and then stalls for a beat. “Are you jealous of the letters I get, baby?”

I roll my eyes. So, that’s his game here. He’s trying to make me jealous. Even so, it stuns me how easily he reads me, even over the phone. He sounds so edgy, but still so damn confident. I wish I had his confidence, wish I could speak my mind the same way he does, holding nothing back. “I’m not jealous.”

“So that’s how it’s going to be? You’re going to lie to me now?” He hums his disapproval. “Come on, beautiful. If you’ve got something to say, now is the time.”

I hesitate, not sure what to tell him. It’s been nearly a week since Richard went back to work. Nearly a week since he violated my privacy and destroyed my office. It’s been nearly a week since I told Joshua I don’t love him.

Since I told Joshua I don’t love him …

I blink, swallowing down a startled laugh, the pieces falling into place. Jesus, is he feeling insecure?

I take a breath.

And another.

And then another.

“Just tell me about the letter,” I say, although I feel anxiety bubbling in my stomach as the words slip out of my mouth. “Who was it from?”

“Melissa.”

That’s it. That’s all he says as though the name answers all the unspoken questions filling the air between us.

My brow furrows. “Which one is that again?”

“I dated her, remember?” he says. “The one that decided she couldn’t wait for me to get out, and hooked up with someone else. They broke up and she started writing me again. She’s the one I told about you.”

Great. That’s the one that’s been trying to convince him to take her back. The last he told me, though, was that he had sent her a letter using me as an out, telling her he was in a committed relationship.

“Oh, right. The one you lied to about us.”

My response makes him laugh, though it’s not an amused sound. “She said she’s happy that I found you, but she hopes it doesn’t work out so she can be with me. She told me she loves me and wants to marry me. She even hinted that she’d like to get married before I get released.”

I stop breathing at those words, and for a second my heart feels as though it stops right along with my lungs.

And then … it races.

My skin flushes and my eyes begin to sting. I blink fast, banishing away the threatening tears as I suck in a breath.

This man … this man
is
trying to make me jealous.

If I didn’t think it before, I’m convinced now.

This is my punishment for letting my marriage fail. Finding what could very well be an epic love, and then watching it vanish before it has a chance to turn into what it could be.
What it’s meant to be.

“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper eventually.

“Because.”

He says nothing more. Just
because
as though that’s an answer in itself.

Maybe it is.

Or maybe he’s just being an ass.

“Because why?” I ask, although I’m almost certain I don’t want to hear the answer.

“Because you’re my best friend,” he says simply. “Who else am I supposed to tell?”

Anyone.
“What else did she have to say?”

“That she’d be a good wife, cooking and cleaning and taking care of all my needs.”

I’m sure she would.

“Maybe you should give her a shot, that is, if you think she’ll actually stick it out this time around.”

“Is that what you want me to do?” he asks curiously.

I laugh dryly, slipping out of my chair and standing up. My legs are wobbly, my knees weak. Damn this stupid conversation.

Ugh, I need a smoke (or ten).

“It doesn’t really matter what I want,” I say, walking out of my office and down the stairs. “You do whatever it is you want to do.”

“I
will
do whatever I want,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want your opinion.”

I head through the quiet house, letting silence fill the line as I grab my cigarettes off the counter, and then I open the patio door and step out into the backyard. Walking across the lawn, I stop at the pool, sitting down and letting my feet dangle in the cool water as I light one up, inhaling deeply. “I’m not sure what you want me to say here.”

“Are you smoking?” he asks.

“Uh …” I glance down at my cigarette, watching the smoke curl from the lit end. “Yeah, I’m smoking.”

“I hope you’re using the e-cigarette.”

“Nope,” I mutter, taking another long drag, soothing my nerves. “I’m sitting at the pool with my feet in the water, smoking a real cigarette.”

“Why?” he asks, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “I thought you were quitting that shit.”

“I am,” I say, taking another drag. “I just want a real one right now.”

“Baby,” he says, drawing out the word. “Don’t get all stressy. We’re just tal …”

His voice is cut off mid-word, the goddamn recording letting us know that we only have one minute left.

“There’s a line-up for the phone,” he says, once the recording ends. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can get back on.”

“You don’t have to wait in line,” I mumble. “We can just talk tomorrow or whatever.”

“No,” he responds instantly. “I’m not done talking to you. I’ll call you back.”

He hangs up then, and I let out a long sigh, setting my phone down on the travertine pool deck, and swishing my legs back and forth through the water. I don’t know how long it takes for the phone to ring again. It could be seconds, minutes, even an hour. I’m not sure. I’m dazed, feeling lost, and so damn lonely it hurts.

It hurts a lot.

So much so my chest feels constricted.

Is this it? Could it really be over before it even starts? Do I even care if it is?

My expression falls. Yes, I care. I care far more than I should.

When the phone rings, I answer it right away, lighting up another cigarette as I wait out the recording for my chance to accept the call. As soon as the call clicks through, he says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

No
hey, beautiful
, no real greeting at all. I shouldn’t be surprised, the last call was the same, but I am.

Shit.
Two calls and I’m already missing his sweet greetings.

I sigh, rolling my cigarette between my fingers. “I’m thinking that you’re trying to make me jealous. I’m thinking this is your way of digging, trying to find out if I’d give a shit if you start dating someone.”

“Would you give a shit?” he asks.

The question stalls me and I hesitate, frowning. I take another drag of my cigarette. “Of course I would. I care about you a lot, Joshua. But I can’t stand in your way. And it really bugs me that I don’t have a right to say anything about it.”

“You’re right,” he says. “You don’t have a right to say anything about it.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else, although I hear the unspoken words as though he yelled them at me.

You’re married.

You still live with your husband.

“I hate it,” I say. “I fucking hate that I can’t stop you from starting something up with her. But it doesn’t change anything.”

“Aww, how cute. My baby girl is jealous.” He chuckles, but when he speaks again, his voice is serious. “You’re going to leave him, right?”

“Yeah, I’m going to leave him,” I say honestly. “It’ll be months, maybe even a year before I get everything in order, but I’m going to leave.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Then it’s settled,” he says, and I can actually hear the satisfied grin cracking his face. “I’ll tell her I’m not interested.”

“Are you sure you can handle dealing with this?” I ask. “It’s going to take time. It’s going to be hard.”

“You sure you can handle waiting four years for me to get out?” he counters.

“I think so.”

“Then I think so, too.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is playful. “Are you still at the pool?”

I hesitate, my forehead scrunching up at the question. “Um, yeah.”

“Why don’t you take that sexy fat ass of yours back inside and up to your bedroom, and grab your vibrator.”

His words make me freeze. “Did you just call my ass fat?”

“Baby,” he says, drawing out the word. “That’s just how I talk and you know I fucking love that you’ve got a big ass and hips. It’s sexy. You’re fucking sexy. Now, hurry up. I’m horny.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. And I’m not sexy. Not even a little. “Not now. I just don’t feel like it.”

He laughs lightly. “Yes.”

“I’m really not in the mood, Joshua,” I protest. “Can’t we just talk for a bit?”

“If you’re going to be my girl,” he says, “then you need to understand that when it comes to sex the answer’s always yes. Go get your toy, beautiful. You’ll feel better once you come. Promise.”

The words make me stall, my heart thumping so hard that it makes me dizzy.
His girl.
It’s the first time he’s ever referred to me as anything close to that. A silence falls over the line as he waits for me to respond, and I glance toward the house, pulling my legs out of the pool and standing up. “Okay.”

“Good, now hurry up before the call cuts off again.”

He doesn’t say anything else as I jog inside and up the stairs, and doesn’t make a sound as I open the drawer, retrieving my vibrator. Quickly I undress, dropping my clothes onto the floor as I climb up into bed. He must hear the rustling of the bed sheets, because he asks, “You ready, sweetness?”

“Um … yeah, I’m ready.”

“Good,” he says, sounding pleased. “I want you to turn that vibrator on and rest it on your clit. Get your pussy nice and wet for me, baby.”

That does it.

I’m officially in the mood.

I shiver, turning on the vibrator. My lips part, and I let out a small, little gasp, as I rub it against my clit, whispering, “Okay.”

“Good girl,” he says. “Now tell me what you’re picturing.”

“I, uh … I…” I’m nervous, stammering, stumbling over my words. Ugh, if we keep doing this, I’m going to have to call one of those phone sex lines for some pointers. “I … I don’t know.”

“I’m picturing you, hands gripping the bed, ass sticking out. Your pussy is already nice and wet, and I drop down behind you. I start kissing your ass as my hands glide down your thighs. My fingers reach your pussy and I slide a finger inside your tight channel, making my cock nice and hard.”

I moan softly, feeling the wetness gather between my legs. I really don’t know what it is about this man, but he turns me on.

Really turns me on.

It’s electric.

“I pull my fingers out of your pussy,” he says, “sticking them into my mouth, and telling you how good you taste, before I stand up and place my cock at your entrance. With one thrust, I slam my dick deep inside you, my balls smacking against your clit, and you moan nice and loud.”

My heart hammers as I slide my vibrator inside me, letting out a shuddering breath. My eyes flutter closed. I can almost feel his hands on me, his body surrounding me.

I want more.

Need more.

“I reach up, wrapping your hair around my fist and I pull nice and hard, making your back arch and your ass press against me. As I pull my cock out, and slam it back in, your ass starts to shake and your hands grip the sheets. Baby, your pussy is so wet I can feel your juices dripping down my balls.”

A strange thrill rushes through me as his voice fills the line. I’m caught in a whirlwind. There’s really no other way to explain what I’m feeling. I’m moaning, writhing on the bed, barely even remembering that it’s my hands touching my skin and not his.

It’s unreal.

It’s amazing.

“You want more, baby girl?” he asks.