Knitting Under the Influence (32 page)

“Bad people can be good kissers.”

“I’m sorry.” Jason pulled on her hand, gently reeling her in toward him. “I just can't think of you as evil. God knows I’ve tried, Sari. For the past few days, all I’ve done is try. I’ve been so pissed off at you … But I keep seeing you throw your arms around Zack because he said ‘more’ one day, and everything else gets lost.”

“I know,” she said and extricated her hand from his, but only so she could slide it up his arm, feel the muscle there and the warmth of his skin. “I’ve been trying even harder to hate you. To keep hating you, I mean.” She was whispering now, not to be quiet, but because it was so hard to find the breath to speak out loud. “But you keep making it almost impossible.”

“Sari,” he said, and it was a question, only she didn't try to answer it, just pushed herself against him, and maybe that was answer enough. She could feel his whole body sigh with relief. She buried her face in his chest. She only came up to his shoulders, and it felt good to just collapse onto him, to let someone else hold her up for a change. “Sari,” he said again. His fingers went to her hair and he stroked it gently for a moment, but then he caught some of the short strands in his fingers and tugged it back—not painfully, but firmly enough to force her head back and make her look at him. His face—his so-handsome-it-hurt-to-look-at-him face—was taut and anxious, and his voice was hoarse when he said, “If this is another one of those times when you're playing with me—if you're going to turn on me again like you did last time—”

“And the time before,” she said, ashamed, remembering how every time she started to like him and let him see that she liked him, she'd force herself to be cold and angry with him again, with no explanation or apology. “I won't. I swear I won't. And I wasn't playing with you before—I was fighting with myself.”

“That's not what it felt like from where I was standing.”

“I was pretty awful, wasn't I?”

“Just a little cruel.”

“Here I was thinking you were the bad guy,” Sari said. “And it was me all along.”

“Yeah.” He kept the firm hold on her hair, kept her head pulled back, his eyes studying her face. “But I forgive you.” He bent over her. There was enough anger left in him that his kiss was hard and violent.

She was instantly aroused, instantly drawn under. She had been waiting a long time for this, she realized, and her body was already tightening with the lust she'd been trying to ignore for all that time. This time, there was no holding back, no wondering whether she was making a mistake. All she wanted was to be this close to him forever, always feeling his mouth and body demanding hers and hers demanding his.

And then someone cleared her throat just a few feet away.

They sprang apart.

“Hi,” Ellen said, standing in the doorway, holding her briefcase across her chest like a shield. “Am I interrupting? Or am I allowed to come into my own office?”

“Oh, God,” Sari said. She felt her hot face flush even hotter.

“I’m so sorry, Ellen. Oh, God.”

Ellen came into the room. “Hey, curie,” she said, holding her free hand out to Zack, who was still lying on his back on the floor. “How about standing up now? It's time to go home.
Past
time, I’d say,” she added with a sharp look at Sari as she hauled Zack to his feet and extended his hand to his father.

“Come over later?” Jason whispered to Sari as he slipped by her on the way to taking Zack's hand.

Sari nodded. She wasn't capable of speaking at the moment.

“Really?” he said.

She nodded again, and he led Zack to the door. “Sorry,” he said to Ellen. “We never meant to—”

“Just please take your child and go,” Ellen said. Jason hesitated, looking at Sari, who gestured with her head toward the door, and he nodded and left. Ellen dropped her briefcase on the floor and turned to Sari. “Tell me why I shouldn't strangle you.”

Sari forced a smile. “You'd be short a clinician?”

“That's the only reason I’m not. But if you ever do anything like this again—”

“I’m so sorry, Ellen,” Sari said. “I—” It was hard for her to get words out, but she cleared her throat and tried again. “I wouldn't. Ever. I never have before, I swear.”

“Well, that's a relief. I’d hate to think you're in here making out with men whenever my back is turned.”

“This was the first time—”

“First, last, and only. You understand?”

“Of course. Of course.”

“The kid was right there,” Ellen said. “God knows I’m no prude, Sari, but the poor kid was lying on the floor and his parents aren't even divorced yet. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn't really thinking,” Sari said.

“That's obvious.” Ellen studied her carefully. “I assume this was connected to the whole ‘I can't work with Zack but I swear his father's not a letch’ thing?”

“Kind of. I mean—”

“Do we want to revisit the question of whether his father's a letch or not? Because it seems to me—”

“Please,” Sari said. She put her hand to her forehead. “It's not like that, Ellen.”

“Really? So tell me what it's like.”

“I don't know,” she said. “Can I get back to you on that?”

“Whatever it is or isn't, keep it out of the office,” Ellen said.

“I promise.”

“And if you ever ask to be taken off a child's case again for personal reasons—”

“I won't.”

“You better not. Or you'll be out of here. You understand?”

“Yes.”

“All right then.”

Sari went to the door.

“One last thing—” Ellen said.

“What?” She turned.

Ellen scooped up her briefcase off the floor and dropped it onto her desk. “Don't forget to go over there later. Might as well finish what you started. Only this time in the appropriate environment.”

Sari managed a nod and stumbled out of the office.

Jason was putting Zack to bed when Sari arrived. She volunteered to read Zack a bedtime story, and Jason sat on the bed and watched her intently through the whole book. It made it hard to read.

Once she was done, she put the book back in the bookcase while Jason tucked the blanket around Zack's little body. Over his shoulder he said to her, “I have to lie down with him until he falls asleep or he'll scream for an hour.”

“You should let him scream,” she said. “Eventually he'll learn to—”

“No,” he said. “Not tonight. I want him to go to sleep quickly tonight.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”

“Wait for me in the family room?”

“Okay.”

She was alone in the family room for almost half an hour. Which gave her plenty of time to wander around looking at photos she would rather not have looked at and then to torture herself by studying them minutely—photos of Jason and Denise getting married (she wore a satin slip dress cut on the bias and was gorgeously slim and elegant), photos of a weary but triumphant Denise cuddling a newborn Zack, photos of the whole family on vacation near a beach, Zack just a toddler in his fathers arms—photos, over and over again, of the perfect family, perfectly happy together.

Jason walked in while she was still studying one of the older photos—Denise and Jason in their college graduation gowns, kissing, each of them holding a diploma up to the camera, but otherwise apparently oblivious to its presence.

“Hi,” he said, coming to stand next to her.

“Is he asleep?”

He nodded then gestured at the photos surrounding them.

“So what do you think?”

“There are a lot of them,” she said, carefully placing the one she was holding back among the rest.

“I know. I’d like to get rid of some of them. Or even all of them. There's something sad and creepy about having to look at them all the time, like nothing's changed. But I don't know how Zack would feel about it if they all just disappeared.”

“Yeah, that might be hard on him.”

“It might.” They were both silent for a moment.

Then Sari said, “She's really beautiful.”

“I guess.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “I like the way
you
look.”

“You didn't back in high school.”

“I barely knew you. If I had ever stopped and really talked to you—“

“It wouldn't have made a difference,” she said. “We weren't in the same place back then.”

There was another pause. Then: “How mad was Ellen?”

“Pretty mad. I don't blame her. We were acting like—” She stopped.

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Teenagers, I guess. Getting carried away by our hormones.”

“That's not such a bad thing,” he said, and he grinned suddenly. “Want to do that again?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I do.” But when he reached for her, she suddenly ducked away. “I’m sorry,” she said, twisting her hands together. “It's just a little scary.”

“What?”

She gestured toward a photo of Denise sitting by a pool and laughing. “Well,
she
is, for one thing. The way she looks … it just makes me wonder how many other beautiful women you've been with.”

“Not that many,” he said. “You'd be surprised.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “In high school alone, they must have numbered in the dozens. All those cheerleaders.”

He shook his head and reached for her hand. Just the touch of his fingers on hers made her want to jump out of her skin in a good way. “You're nuts. I had two girlfriends in all of high school, and they both ended up dumping me.”

“You were always with some girl or another,” Sari said. “Always. You were like this movie star on the campus. All those girls, all over you—they were always giving you massages on that wall behind the cafeteria and—”

“You
gave me a back rub not that long ago,” he said. “That I remember.”

“A back rub?”

“With a hot towel.”

“Oh, right,” she said. “Did you like that?”

“Are you kidding? It was maybe the most erotic two minutes of my life.”

“Don't say that. I was there to work with Zack, not to turn you on.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I did my best to hide it.”

“Anyway, what are you talking about, two minutes? It was a lot longer than that.”

“It was not. You were in and out. Got me all excited and then walked away—telling me to go take Advil. You're a cold, cold woman, Sari Hill.”

“Turn around,” she said and he obeyed her. She pulled up his shirt, put her hands against his warm back.

He shivered. “You really
are
cold. Your hands are like ice.”

“They'll warm up,” she said. She slid her hands all the way up under his shirt, to the muscles of his shoulders and let herself really feel how warm and strong he was, then she slipped them down and around his waist to his flat stomach and up again to explore the broad planes of his chest.

“Ah,” he said.

They stood like that for a moment, her hands pinning him against her, front to back. She rested her cheek against the swell of his right shoulder. And then he turned around, so her hands were caught for a moment in his shirt and by the time she had worked them free, his arms were pulling her tight against him, and then his mouth came down on hers and for once—for
once
—they were alone somewhere private, with no cars or people to stop them from doing what they both wanted to do so badly, and no anger left in Sari to make her pull back and reject something that she wanted with all of her body and all of her heart.

9

Yarn Over

I

A
s the old year gave way to the new one, Kathleen found herself with a lot of free time on her hands.

For one thing, she no longer had a job. After Hawaii, she had never even bothered returning to the office. “You can kiss any references goodbye,” Sam said when he found out she hadn't given two weeks’ notice. It didn't matter: her sisters had asked her to come back to work for them and she had said she would, after a few more weeks of vacation.

So her days weren't busy, but neither were her nights. Although both Lucy and Sari continued to show up faithfully at the Sunday morning knitting circle, once the evening rolled around, they almost always had plans with their new boyfriends. They often invited her to join them, but Kathleen had never much liked being the odd man out, despite—or because of—all her childhood experience in that role.

Getting a boyfriend of her own would have solved that problem, but since the whole Kevin thing Kathleen hadn't felt much like going out to bars and meeting new guys. Sometimes at night she remembered that she might have been married at this moment—
would
have been, if her friends hadn't interceded—and her heart would start pounding with fear. It wasn't the thought of marriage itself that was so scary—just the realization that, left on her own, she was capable of making such a hugely bad decision. How could she have come that close to marrying Kevin, when now she didn't even
miss
him? She felt that, for the moment at least, she should avoid putting herself in the position of making more mistakes.

So she spent her days sleeping late, running until she was worn out, napping, grabbing something to eat, then knitting for hours in front of Sam's TV set, whether he was home or not. Her choice of project echoed her newfound sobriety: she was knitting a fisherman-style throw made out of an expensive brown cashmere mix.

She hadn't intended to make something so uncharacteristic, had, in fact, gone to the yarn store with the intention of knitting herself a little glittery evening bag with lots of fluffy fringe on top, but she had seen the yarn piled up in a barrel and the sight and touch of it had called to her in some weird way and she had leafed through all of the yarn books and magazines at the store until she found a pattern that seemed right for it. It had cost a fortune, but she wasn't spending money on going out, so she figured she could spring for it.

The growing afghan felt warm and soft as it piled up on her lap. She frequently admired how well the color went with Sam's den and thought that maybe she would just leave it there when she was finished—for her own use, of course. She spent a lot of time there.

The afghan was one more element to add to the general comfort and coziness of Sam's den, and Kathleen almost always found herself lingering there on long dark winter evenings, watching TV—turning the volume down or off when Sam was around, since he would only join her there if he could work— and on equally long Sunday afternoons, when she'd lie on the sofa lazily skimming the Style and Art sections of the newspaper while Sam read all the business articles sitting upright in the leather armchair. At some point they would realize they were hungry, and Sam would go into the kitchen, where a half an hour later the smell of garlic or roasting chicken would reach out and pull Kathleen in there with him to chop up vegetables or set the table or do something equally unchallenging and basic that he would still accuse her of somehow botching up and insist on redoing himself.

One late afternoon, early in February, Kathleen let herself into Sam's apartment. He wasn't back from work yet. She foraged through his cabinets, found a bag of pistachios and a bottle of iced tea, took her provisions into the den, and turned on the TV. There wasn't anything good on, but she had nothing else to do, so she stayed where she was, cracking pistachios and dropping their shells on the shiny dark wood coffee table, while she flipped aimlessly through the channels.

She intended to clean up the mess she'd made, but the drone of the changing channels made her sleepy, and she snuggled down into the length of the sofa, thinking she'd just rest a few minutes before getting a towel.

She woke up when Sam came into the den. “I thought I heard the TV,” he said. He flicked on the lights. It had grown dark while she slept.

“Hi,” she said hoarsely, blinking and pushing herself into a sitting position. “What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty.” He looked down at her. “Were you asleep?”

“I’m not sure. But it was five-thirty just a few seconds ago, so maybe.” She yawned.

His eyes fell on the coffee table. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Kathleen,” he said. “There are shells everywhere.”

“I’ll clean it up.” She arched her back in a big stretch that ended with a grunt of pleasure. “I’m hungry. What are we having for dinner?”

“You're on your own tonight,” he said. “I’m heading out in a few minutes. You can stay if you want to, but you'll have to cook for yourself. I think there's some pasta left from last night.”

“Where are you going?”

“A Thai restaurant in Santa Monica.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m meeting people.”

“Who?”

“Patricia and a couple of her friends.”

Kathleen made a face. “Oh, come on.”

“Come on what?”

“Don't go out with her.” She was sort of joking, but sort of not. She really didn't want him to go. She wanted him to stay there with her like he usually did. His going out felt like a betrayal.

“I can't cook you dinner every night, Kathleen,” he said. He adjusted his right sleeve cuff minutely. “Much as I’d like to spend all my free time waiting on you hand and foot, I do occasionally like to broaden my horizons.”

“I don't care about the
food.”
She stood up. “I’m just saying you shouldn't keep going out with Patricia.”

“Why not? I enjoy her company. And it gets me out.”

She took a step toward him. “But don't you think it's time you moved on?”

“’Moved on?”

“To still be clinging to your ex-wife …” She shook her head.

“Come on, Sam. I’ve never seen you with anyone else. But you're not that old.”

“Thank you.”

“You know what I mean.” Her hair had fallen into her eyes, and she shoved a couple of strands behind her ears with fingers that twitched with a sudden nervousness. “You're still in the game. Or could be if you tried. It's time you found someone new, put some excitement into your life.”

“I like that you're giving me advice about my love life,” Sam said, unsmiling. “You sure you're an expert on how to do it right?”

“I never said I was an expert, but at least I know how to move on.”

“You
only
know how to move on,” he said. “From what I’ve seen.

Their eyes met directly for the first time, and Kathleen said, “Don't knock it until you've tried it.”

“It's time for you to go.” She had never heard his voice unsteady before. “I have to finish getting ready.”

“No, you don't,” she said. “Stay with me tonight, Sam.” She came closer, a little scared of him, but confident in her youth and her beauty and the strength of her long arms and legs. They'd never failed her before.

He didn't retreat, but he didn't welcome her, either, just held his ground. “Go away, Kathleen. Before you ruin everything.”

She laughed a little. “I’m not going to ruin anything. This is a good idea. It'll be fun.”

“Go away,” he said again and when she kept advancing on him he turned away from her.

She caught at his arm. She was almost his height and when she made him face her, their eyes were at a level. “What are you afraid of?”

There was a pause. Then: “Losing
this”
he said quietly. “Not having you here to mess up my place and watch TV.”

Her heart suddenly thumped. “That's important to you?”

“Maybe,” he said in a voice so low she could barely hear him.

She drew closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body near her skin. She was only wearing shorts and a tank top, and she was cold, but he would be warm against her, she knew. “You won't lose anything,” she said. “This will be even better. I promise.” She caught him around the neck and put her mouth against his. It felt wrong—like she was breaking the rules.

She liked that feeling.

He responded the way she knew he would, his mouth first closed and uncertain against hers and then finally giving in to her insistence. She opened her eyes just in time to see him close his, and triumph flashed through her. She pressed herself against him.

But then he was pulling back, away from her. He pushed her to arm's distance. “I just can't help wondering,” he said, “whether I left a bank statement lying open around here recently.”

“What?”

“I’m talking about you figuring out that I’m as rich as Kevin Porter.”

She thought he was joking. She laughed a little. “Nothing wrong with that,” she said and reached for him again.

This time, there was real anger in the shove he gave her. “Jesus Christ, Kathleen, what kind of an idiot do you think I am?”

She stumbled but caught herself against the back of a chair.“What are you talking about?”

“You really expect me to believe that a beautiful girl twenty years my junior with no income who's already told me she's on the make—” He stopped and shook his head hard, like he was getting rid of something buzzing around it. “You really expect me to believe that she—that
you
—have anything but money on your mind?”

“It's not like that,” she said. Horrified.
“I’m
not like that.”

“The hell you're not,” he said. “You lay on that sofa, right there—what was it, three months ago, four months ago?—and you told me you were
exactly
that way. Did you think I’d forget? Or were you just thinking that I’m so old and pathetic I wouldn't care? That I’d just be grateful for whatever I got from you? Even if I had to pay for it?”

“Stop it,” she said. “You know I wasn't thinking anything like that.”

“I can't promise you Tiffany necklaces,” he said. “Or whatever else it is you might be hoping for.” “I don't care about that stuff—”

“I’ve always been reluctant to buy myself a girlfriend. There are better investments.”

“You
are
an idiot,” Kathleen said, struggling to find her voice and her balance and something to say that would throw it all back at him. “But not the way you think. You're an idiot because you don't even see that this is for real, that I mean it—”

“I’m
the idiot?” he said. “You're the one who had to ruin everything, even after I warned you not to.”

“You've
ruined everything, not me.”

“We can at least agree that we're done here,” he said. “Say goodbye, Kathleen. And get the hell out of my apartment.”

“With pleasure,” she said and fled.

Back downstairs, her only thought was that she had to get out, had to move, had to do something—anything—to stop thinking about what had just happened. She threw on a jacket and running shoes and left the apartment.

When the elevator door opened, Sam was inside, wearing an overcoat. So he had just calmly continued to get ready to go out, even after all that. It made her hate him.

Their eyes met and Kathleen took a step back, but the elevator man was waiting and gestured her in impatiently. So she lifted her chin and walked in without a word, turning her back on Sam and staring blindly at the display of floor numbers.

They descended to the lobby in silence. Even the elevator man didn't bother announcing their arrival as he sometimes did, just pulled the doors open and signaled her out. Sam stayed on for the parking level.

As she stepped out of the elevator, she heard Sam say, “Kathleen.”

“What?” She turned slightly toward him but kept her head averted.

“It's already dark out. Are you going running?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“I don't know.”

“Keep to well-lit places, will you?”

She didn't bother to respond to that, just walked out.

But it made her furious that he would pretend he cared about her safety—after having made her feel like a piece of shit just a few minutes earlier—and that fury kept her pounding along the pavement for several miles, miles during which blocks and buildings passed in a blur and she didn't even think she had a destination, didn't know where she was or where she was going, until she looked up and realized she was on Sari's block and had been heading there all that time, her feet apparently knowing what it took her brain a few minutes longer to process—that she needed a friend to comfort her.

Fortunately Sari was home from work, getting ready to go over to Jason's house. She immediately called him to cancel their plans. Three hours, a bottle of wine, and a few tears later, Kathleen was able to fall asleep on the floor of Sari's apartment. But the hurt waited patiently all night for her to wake up and was there to greet her in the morning.