Loonglow (21 page)

When had she come to this conclusion? “So,” he said. “What's the solution?”

“Damned if I know. I just figured
this
out, after all.”

But I love you, he imagined saying, what about me? He shook himself, tossing down a drink. Why? To ruin the friendship they had? To see a flicker of surprise and disappointment, maybe even disgust, on her face? He had better go home before it came to that. “Well, Louey”—he roused himself—“I'd better go before your night is totally shot.”

“You haven't had dessert.” She sounded surprised; was she also disappointed?

“You must be tired.”

“I wouldn't mind getting out of this dress, I'll tell you that.”

He gnashed his teeth; only she could make a comment like that in total innocence, only she would be so blind as to what she was doing to him. “Thanks for a lovely dinner,” he managed.

“Really, can't you stay a little longer? It's been such a nice evening.”

The unvarnished request in her voice was what finished him. She had no idea. She was pressing him to stay because she liked having him around; she had never given a thought to what raced through his mind every moment he spent with her.

“No, dammit, I can't stay,” he said between gritted teeth. She looked at him with such surprise that he found himself glaring; damn her obliviousness! “Don't you know anything at all? Of all people, you should be the first to see the irony here.” He tried to lower his voice. “I can't stay another minute or I'll rip that fucking dress off you, don't you understand? And don't think I don't realize how ridiculous I am. I've been in love with you for months and I'll be damned if I can take another minute of it!”

The room was suddenly quiet. He could hear the sound of his voice echoing, his breathing, every painful swallow he took. He was afraid to look at her now; he wanted to laugh, or scream, but all he could do was stand and wait to hear the cold rebuttal in her voice, now that he'd done it.

“Oh,” she replied calmly. He looked at her, startled. “Well, I guess you should go, then, if that's how you feel.”

He crumbled into a chair, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. “Jesus Christ, Louey,” he said into his hands. “I swear most of the time I didn't feel this way, I really just liked you.”

“Is the fucking dress safe for the moment, or should I go change?”

He looked up, surprised at her dry tone, which she raised an eyebrow to acknowledge. He could feel his face flush under her gaze, but he also felt strangely exhilarated. It was out now, finally, and she didn't seem to hate him.

“So you've been in hell,” she said. “You've hidden it pretty well.”

“I was ashamed of it. It's not exactly the kind of thing you'd approve of, now is it?”

“I guess I'd have taken it all wrong—gotten insulted or something.”

“Are you?”

She looked at her lap, scratching her fingers against the shiny material. “Don't seem to be.” His heart leapt. “So what are you going to do about this?”

“Drink myself into a stupor, I guess,” he answered, glum again—what havoc his emotions were wreaking with him! “That is, unless you might possibly consider—” His voice faltered.

“What?”

She was going to make him say it. “You—uh, giving it a try, you and me.” It lurched out.

“You want me to sleep with you?” She sounded faintly incredulous; what had she thought he was talking about, anyway? Just hearing her say it sent his pulse racing again. Jesus, he was like an adolescent.

“Well,” he forged ahead. “I mean, if you think you could care for me at all, you might—we, we might see whether …” He looked up and their eyes caught, stuck. He swallowed. “Does it make you—when you think about it, do you feel—does the idea horrify you?” He couldn't look away, though he couldn't bear what he was sure to see on her face.

“I never thought about it,” she said.

“Oh.” He sagged, deflated. Now he was going to have to get up and go home, somehow manage to say good night to her. “I just think love is rare enough when you do find it, you shouldn't pass up a chance to—to—” He faltered. The strain of the last few hours, being so close, then losing, was more than he could bear. He turned to go, his head heavy on his shoulders. “Look, your friendship has always been very important to me, and—”

“Clay.”

He stole a glance at her. She was taking off her shoes calmly, gazing at him. Then she put her hands in her lap and looked down at them, her face flushed and bashful, as if she were a little girl. He scarcely knew what to think. When he realized that she was trembling, a wave of heat overtook him; was she actually considering it? He was unable to take his eyes off her. She lifted her gaze to his finally, the unspoken question making his heart pound so fiercely he could hardly breathe. They stared at each other for what seemed like hours; then he heard her swallow. As if it were an activity he'd just learned, he rose and sat beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She closed her eyes, making his pulse race. “Don't expect too much,” she said in a low voice.

When Clay traced the curve of her bare shoulders with his lips, Louey began to shake so convulsively he could hear her teeth rattle in her head. “Jesus,” she muttered under her breath, shifting on the couch so that her back looked even more stiffly upright than it had before. When Clay went to kiss her, she turned her head instinctively, so that he found himself sampling her neck instead; when he cupped one of her breasts, she started from him as if burned. “Please don't do that.” She spoke in the most wretched voice he had ever heard.

Clay's skin went cold. Removing his hand and lips from her as one might retreat from a child whose parent had discovered her in the process of being molested, he studied her in bewilderment. She would not meet his eyes but sat, downcast and miserable.

“I'm sorry,” she managed.

He said nothing, hardly knowing what response would be appropriate. “So am I” would sound more like accusation than self-indictment.

“I thought—”

“You thought you could go through with it, and you can't.” As if he were some punishment she had to suffer—and for what crime?

“I don't know why I just—” The phone interrupted her, and she stared as if she couldn't possibly imagine who could be hounding her. On the third ring she sprang to get it; after her “Hello?” she shifted from one foot to another nervously. “No, it's—how have you been? Me? I'm just—” He watched her stiffen suddenly. “He's—oh.” She seemed to deflate before his eyes. “You don't—didn't anybody tell you—?” she went on in even more piteous tones than those which had rebuffed him. He studied the pattern on her sheets, resisting an impulse to sink back, close his eyes, and will himself a happier conclusion to the evening. “He died,” he heard her say. “No, in his car. It was an accident. Look, can I—? No, but—” She listened for a long time, turning so her face was totally obscured from him. Finally she broke in. “I'm sorry—can I call you back tomorrow?” Abruptly she hung up, but stayed suspended by the phone as if engaged in conversation. He heard a long sigh; still she didn't turn to face him. After a moment he realized she was crying. Unable to help himself, he went to her, rounding her shoulders with his palms. She turned blindly, burying her face in his chest, and his arms came around her. The warmth of her damp, miserable body as she sobbed against him coursed through him like joy. How could her suffering fill him with both pain and happiness?

She lifted a blotched face to his at last. “An old author of mine,” she said, hiccuping twice. “He said it's been too long since he and Kevin and I had a night out on the town.” He tightened his arms around her, astonished at the rage that filled him at the cruelty of the coincidence. “Isn't that the dumbest thing you ever heard?”

He nodded, afraid to risk speech, and she began to sob again, until he was drenched and aching. He tried to soothe her, smoothing circles on her heaving back.

“I'm sorry … put you through … of all the times to …” she gulped, lifting her tear-stained face from his chest once more. Before he knew what he was doing, he was kissing her trembling mouth, her hot cheeks, kissing the tears from her eyes, he couldn't stop kissing her and she was kissing him back as if all the need she had was tumbling out of her, kissing him as if possessed. If he had been able to speak, he would have explained that he hadn't meant to kiss her, hadn't planned—but it was impossible to stop, he was out of control, he would happily die if only he would never have to stop just kissing her. By the time he realized he was on the verge of flinging himself on her, she had broken from his arms and fled her own apartment. He stood, shaken, wondering what he was expected to do now.

One week after Clay had decided he'd be happy if he never heard the name Louey again, he came home to find her seated on the stoop of his apartment. She seemed bewildered to find herself sitting there waiting for him. “What,” she blurted. “You've got nothing better to do than lie around pining for me?” He wasn't sure just how he felt about this turn of events. “Was it something I said?” she muttered, trying not to look too encouraging.

Inside, she pressed her face to his chest and slipped her hands inside his shirt.

They were like two people who had never even met or spoken. She was unaccountably relieved when he stopped her and asked, “Do you mind if we just lie down for a while?” They were both still fully dressed. “It doesn't make sense for us to be this tense.”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded unfamiliar. It was different from Mia—different from women altogether. She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a snort of nervous laughter. Soon she was giggling hysterically. “Everything you'd dreamed it would be, huh?”

“Well …”

“Aaaah,” she caved in, weak from laughter, flouncing onto his bed.

“Are you wearing anything under that?” he asked, collapsing next to her. She was buttoned up from top to bottom.

“What do
you
think?”

“You might be more comfortable in one of my sweatshirts.” He watched her features soften, threatening to collapse again.

“Ever the gentleman.” She rose, walking over to his closet. “Close your eyes.” She sounded annoyed.

“Fine time to be modest.”

“It's finally dawning on me the danger I'm in.” He could hear the sound of clothing rustling, off, then on. She cleared her throat and he opened his eyes to see her coming toward him in a long shirt.

“Do you feel in danger?” he asked.

“If you must know—” She paused, gingerly leaning her body against his. His pulse raced. “It's not that I'm scared of you—” She stopped. “Well—” Again her body was trembling under his hands, even as he tightened his hold.

“Louey?” He couldn't help running his fingers over the curve of a shoulder; the flesh on her arm rose as if from a chill. “We don't have to do anything, you know.”

“I like you,” she said; now her teeth were chattering, and she laughed, embarrassed. “Funny, it never was this much trouble before. You'd think I was a virgin.”

His heart sank; somehow she had the knack of reminding him all too clearly what it was he was actually doing. He loosened his hold on her, sighing. “Louey—” She sneezed. In his mind's eye he was already leaping out of bed and getting her clothes when she reached out to trace the path of his downturned mouth.

“Soft,” she said to herself. With this she did something that halted his breathing: kissed him once, twice, three times softly on the lips. His body seemed unbearably hot; she parted his lips and dipped into his mouth, retreated, dipped again. He groaned, crushing her to him. She kept kissing him, brushing his lips endlessly, her hands stealing over him, then darting away as if surprised by what they found.

It was unbelievable. He had never felt this way from only kissing. He was afraid he would come just from the feel of her lying across him, her weight on his body and her mouth lowering itself onto his as if they'd never come up for air.

“Wait, wait—” he whispered, frantic to stop her before he lost all control—how could anyone kiss like that?—and she sat up, frightened, her face flushed.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing, only—only—” He caught his breath, confessing, “It's too much.”

“That's supposed to be my line.”

“Well, but wasn't it—for you?”

In answer she kissed him, kisses that seemed to go directly to his core, his body screaming as if he'd never had sex before.

“Clay?”

He opened his eyes, unaware he'd shut them, hardly knowing where to look. This was much worse than he'd anticipated. He'd thought getting her to sleep with him, sleeping with her, would get her out of his system, calm him down once and for all. Yet this was a catastrophe in the making, clearly, if a few minutes of kissing could bring him to this point.

“Clay?” She touched his shoulder. “Could I ask a favor?”

“If—sure.”

“Do you think you could take off every stitch of clothing you have on?” She grinned, wicked. “Nothing personal. It's just I've never seen a man naked before.”

Now he was bright red, but he rose and complied, though he hardly knew what to do with his hands when he was done.

“Hmm.” She studied him.

He hadn't been this shy since he was a teenager. “Doesn't seem exactly fair,” he muttered.

“Don't get all hot and bothered.” She tried unsuccessfully to stifle another giggle.

“Am I amusing you?”

“No,” she answered gently, rising to stand before him. She trailed a hand so lightly across his chest it made him shiver. With an effort he kept his hands at his sides, but she inspected him freely, surprised at his intake of breath as she caressed him.