The Lovers (15 page)

A poor choice, maybe. Because I could really feel something for Jack.

Fuck.

This is not the man to fall for.

But I know already it's too late. Too goddamn late.

Dinnertime is a little weird. Audrey is still gone, with Charles, I suppose, and everyone pretends not to notice.

I have no idea how to act with Jack. He's off at one end of the kitchen with Leo, talking, laughing as they make an enormous salad. Every now and then he glances up and smiles at me for a brief moment, making me warm inside. But I have no idea what it means, what I'm supposed to do, how I'm supposed to respond.

I feel as though what's happened between us is private, it's
our
thing. And because I don't know what else may happen—or not happen—I don't want to make it public.

As I set the table I watch Jack through the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, the easy manner he has with everyone, even Patrice. He seems compelled to hug her, to loop an arm around her shoulders, which she pretends annoys her, but which I can easily see she loves.

Who wouldn't love Jack?

Not me.

I am being ridiculous. Even more ridiculous over him than I was over Audrey. Because no matter what I say, aloud or to
myself, I am having these entirely girlish fantasies about him. About permanence.

I have never done this before. Why now? Why him, Mr. Unobtainable? I really must be some sort of masochist.

Viviane comes through the door, a fistful of knives in her hand, Sid trotting at her heels.

“I forgot we'd need these—steak for dinner.” She goes around the table, setting one at each place. “So, Tina, want to tell me what's up with you?”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

“Okay.” She lets me get away with this for about ten seconds. “Now you want to tell me the truth?”

“Not really.”

I sigh, straightening the silverware bit by minute bit, going from one place setting to another, until each one is perfectly lined up on the cloth napkins, relaxing into the small ritual. And after a few moments I look up and realize Viv is still there, watching me.

“I…I do this when I'm stressed,” I explain, feeling a bit embarrassed.

She shrugs. “We all have our coping mechanisms,” she says, making me feel a little less neurotic. “So, are you worried about the Jack and Audrey equation?”

I'm relieved that she knows, that she isn't beating around the bush. That she isn't judging.

“I'm confused. I just don't know what's going to happen next. With them. With Jack and me.”

“With Audrey?”

“I feel like I'm pretty much out of the picture at this point, as far as she's concerned.”

“Do you want to be?”

“I'm not one hundred percent certain, but…I'm really more
focused on Jack. I know that's not good. I mean, to be focused on him at all.”

“Maybe not.”

“Why do you say maybe, knowing what you know about him?”

“Because it's all growth, isn't it? Jack, Audrey, coming here.”

“Yes, I guess so. Although I don't know that sleeping with half the group is exactly what my therapist meant by coming out of my shell on this trip.”

“It's only one-third.” Viviane grins at me.

I laugh. “And that's so much better.”

“Could be worse. That's all I'm saying, doll.”

“Thank you, Viv.”

“For what?”

“For making me lighten up a bit.”

“Lord knows you need it,” she teases.

I groan. “I know!”

“So, all joking aside, what do you plan to do now?”

“Just take each day, see what happens. I feel like none of it is really up to me.”

“Sure it is. You can decide if you want to be with him. Or not. You can turn him away if it's going to hurt you, Tina.”

“Maybe.” I fiddle with the silverware again. “Viv, the thing is, I'm not sure I can. If he wants me, I don't think I can say no.”

She's quiet a moment. Then, “Tina, you do what you need to do. I can't say that's the best course of action where Jack is involved. But you can't help how you feel.”

“I'm discovering that. I guess I've always thought I could. That I could just shut down. And I have, for a very long time. But since I've been here, really since things started with Audrey, I'm figuring out that I can't do that any longer. But
maybe it's good for me. Maybe it's what I need. To feel
something,
even if it's not all good.”

“Then maybe these experiences are worth something, no matter what happens.”

“Yes. I think you're right. I think maybe this is what my therapist, Terry, wanted for me. Not to go through a terrible time, but just to experience…
something.
Because I think if we are really interacting with the world it can't all be good. But that's what life just
is.
And I need to learn how to deal with it.”

Viv is smiling at me and nodding in agreement when Patrice comes in and sets the big wooden salad bowl on the table. “What's with all the gabbing? We have a hungry crew to feed. Steaks will be up in a few minutes.”

Viviane gives her a grin. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Viviane, I could use your help with the potatoes. You always give them a special touch.”

“We can talk later,” Viv silently mouths at me, and I smile and nod.

It felt good to talk with her, even if I didn't really get anywhere. I am no less excited to see Jack coming into the dining room laden with an armful of salad-dressing bottles. And when I sit, I am all too excited when he sits next to me. In fact, my body is blazing, my cheeks hot. I hope the others will just mark it off as sunburn.

Everyone finds their places at the big table, and we have our usual long, lazy meal, punctuated by conversation about the latest publishing industry gossip.

During dinner Jack's thigh rests against mine, and I have no idea if he's doing this on purpose. He is talking, animated, arguing with Leo over the psychology behind some horror comic book figure, sneaking bites of food to Sid, who has parked himself behind Jack's chair. And when I glance over at
him, he smiles, but he smiles at everyone, doesn't he? It tells me nothing.

I can't eat much. My pulse is racing, my stomach in a small knot. My sex damp. Excruciating. But also lovely in some odd way. Exciting.

I can't remember the last time I had this sort of butterflies over anyone.

Dessert tonight is ice cream with a sauce made from fresh raspberries, but I can hardly touch mine.

“You're not eating your ice cream,” Jack says.

“I can't,” I tell him. “I'm too full.”

“Mind if I have yours?”

“No, of course not.”

I slide the bowl his way while he grins at me.

God, his teeth are beautiful. Perfect. And his eyes are dancing with the reflected light of the pillar candles Viviane always places in the center of the big table. And I'm on his left, so I can see the dimple in his cheek, the tattoo wrapping around the tight muscle of his upper arm. I want to run my fingers over the ink. I want to sigh in pure girlish admiration, but I don't.

Instead, I watch him eat the ice cream, spooning it between his lush lips, licking the raspberry sauce from the back of the spoon, his tongue darting out, pink and wet. I bite back a groan.

“We should do something special tonight,” Viviane announces.

“What do you have in mind?” Kenneth asks. He's on his second bowl of ice cream, too.

“We should have our Exquisite Cadaver night.”

“Oh, yes, let's!” Patrice chimes in, more enthusiastic than she usually is about anything.

Leo nods. “Sounds awesome. Let's do it.”

“Everyone?” Viviane raises her brows in question, and Kenneth, Jack and I nod our agreement.

Even though all I can think of is getting back to my cottage, being alone with my vibrator. Or with Jack. But I know better than to expect anything.

As we stand up and start clearing the table, Jack brushes past me and whispers, “I'd rather take you back to bed and fuck you until you scream.”

Lust is like a sunburst, lighting up my system, dazzling me momentarily. He's gone before I can answer.

We all help clean up, then sit back at the big dining table. Viviane has handed out pads of paper and pencils to each of us. Jack is beside me once more, distracting me with his presence, his whispered words echoing in my head.

“…fuck you until you scream.”

Oh, yes…

“Okay, do you all know how this works?” Viviane asks, pouring more wine for everyone.

I seem to be the only one who hasn't played it before.

“I know it's the old parlor game played by the surrealists, but I could use more information.”

“Yes, exactly,” Patrice says. “It was started by André Breton and his group, sometime around 1925. Someone begins by writing a word on a piece of paper, then folding it before passing it on so the next person can't see what they've written, building a sentence. The surrealists believed you could create expressionistic poetry in this way. Nicolas Calas characterized this as ‘the unconscious reality in the personality of the group' resulting from what Ernst called ‘mental cognition.' The surrealists always said that poetry must be made ‘by all and not by one.'”

Patrice is as passionate as I've ever seen her, her dark little bird eyes lighting up.

“Didn't they do it with art, too?” Leo asks, and I'm a bit surprised that he knows anything about the surrealists. Maybe I shouldn't be. Maybe everyone has more layers than anyone can easily see from the outside.

“Yes,” Patrice answers, really warming to her subject now, I can tell by the flush in her sharp cheeks. “Some of them used drawings, rather than language, using the surrealist principle of metaphoric displacement. The results were fascinating.”

“Tell us how you create the sentence again, Patrice,” Kenneth says.

“The usual sequence is to write an adjective, a noun, an adverb, a verb, the word
the
and then an adjective and a noun. Thus the famous line
‘The exquisite corpse drinks the new wine.'
”

“Thank you, Patrice,” Viviane says, smiling to her and patting her hand. “That was very educational.”

Patrice beams, her eyes glimmering.

“So, who wants to begin? Kenneth?” Viviane asks.

“Certainly.”

He writes on a piece of paper, folds it, hands it to Leo, who does the same, then passes it to Jack. He pauses to consider, taking a long sip from his wineglass, scribbles something in pencil, then passes it to me. I add mine, pass it to Viviane, who hands it off to Patrice.

There is a sense of quiet anticipation around the table. A bunch of writers quietly geeking out over the written word. I love it.

“Okay,” Viviane says, “here we have our first one.” She reads, “‘The fragrant gangster strokes the lovely earth.'”

Everyone laughs.

“Wow,” Kenneth says. “That's almost beautiful. Except for the gangster, perhaps.”

Leo blushes. “I'll try to be more poetic, keep up with the rest of you.”

I'm laughing, too, but all I can think of is that Jack's contribution was the word
strokes.
Why does that make me all shivery inside?

We go again, this time ending up with “The slumberous monster kisses the angry lion.” And one more time, the sentence reading “The timeless library releases the lambent fire.”

These seem to become increasingly sensual to me, even sexual, particularly Jack's additions:
strokes, kisses, releases.
Or perhaps this is simply where my mind is going. But on the next round the result is “The imprisoned archer arouses the incredulous fire.” And then “The imperious neophyte fucks the slumbering harvest.”

“Jesus, Jack, are you sure you're not an erotica author?” Leo asks, laughing.

“Maybe I should be,” he says, trying to look serious, but his dimple is flashing in his cheek.

Or maybe he should just take me down to his cottage and fuck me senseless.

I squirm in my chair. But I don't say this. Of course I don't.

I turn to Jack and smile, as in on the joke as anyone else at the table. Maybe more so. And he winks at me, a sly wink no one else can see, with his head turned in my direction.

I don't know what to think.

I am on fire.

Even worse when Jack strokes my thigh beneath the table. And it is no innocent touch. Oh, no. His fingertips trace a line over my knee, upward, then dipping down, up my inner thigh. I jump a little, turn to look at him, and he is still smil
ing at me, but he stops, moves his hand away. I turn away, my cheeks heating.

Unbearable, the ache between my thighs, in my breasts.

We play a little longer, switching places at the table, and therefore our parts in constructing the sentences. But Jack manages to use sensual language, the language of sex, every time. I can hardly stand it.

Is he sending some message to me? I'd like to think so, but probably this is just Jack being Jack. I have no idea now how serious he was when he whispered to me earlier, or if he was simply teasing me.

His brief touch was a tease. But again, I have no idea how much intent is behind it, if any.

Torture.

We play for nearly two hours before Kenneth begins to yawn.

“I've had too much wine. I need to get to bed,” he says.

“Probably a good idea.” Viviane stands up. “I want to hit the big farmer's market in Santa Barbara early tomorrow morning. Anyone coming with me besides Patrice?”

“I was planning to sleep in, but I might make it.” Leo says, gathering our discarded bits of paper from the table.

“Wait, let's save these.” Jack takes the folded scraps from Leo's hand, who shrugs and hands them over.

“Tina? You coming tomorrow?” Viviane asks.

“Yes. Sure.”

“I'll come,” Jack says, surprising me.

“I'll stay here with Sid, if you don't mind, Viviane,” Kenneth says, yawning once more.