Page 28 of Off Limits

After a while, I get up and finish my homework, watch TV on my laptop, and text Christine for hours about nothing. Jean-Luc never knocks on my door.

Around midnight, the house deathly quiet, I creep downstairs and find a plate of chicken, rice and asparagus carefully wrapped up in the fridge for me.

I feel abandoned by Jean-Luc, and sad. But at least it’s better than the apartment, I think, digging into the chicken. At least here there’s food.

Jean-Luc

FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Jean-Luc

FOR THE REST of the week, I’m unable to face Danica. I’m paralyzed by what happened, and ashamed. My little girl saw me come.

I should have locked the bathroom door. I shouldn’t have been jerking off in there at all. And, although I know she can’t read my thoughts, somehow it’s all the worse for knowing that I was jerking off fantasizing about her on her knees in front of me.

Fantasizing about my stepdaughter begging for my cum.

At night I make dinner for her, but don’t call her to the table. How could I dare tell her what to do, after everything I’ve done? How could I expect her to spend time with me?

But she needs to be taken care of. So I make her meals, and drive her to school in strained silence, and on Saturday Gisele the housekeeper comes and does Dani’s laundry for her, washing all those little pairs of white cotton panties I’m far too interested in and can’t let myself touch.

All the while, I’m consumed by a raging, uncontrollable lust. It’s like a dam has broken inside of me and once released, nothing can contain the powerful tide of desire that’s coursing through me.

On Sunday night, I walk over to Bob’s house for drinks. As business partners, we probably spend enough time together as it is—especially considering that Bob isn’t even a particularly close friend. But being able to walk four doors down to Bob’s house is convenient, even if the walk is made longer by the sheer size of the houses on Southwest Marine Drive.

It was Bob who convinced me to buy out here, Bob who knew about the listing for my house. He knew the original architect. Maybe because of the age difference between us, Bob is in many fundamental ways so different from me. Different values, different humour, different interests. It’s odd to think that when we met at my first architecture job, I could never have imagined that we’d end up going into partnership together, starting our own firm, becoming neighbours.

Maybe Bob is a close friend after all, it occurs to me. Just by default.

We sit out on his back terrace, enjoying the perfect, early June weather, and his wife, Cynthia, brings out a tray of cocktails and joins us for one round. Cynthia is a sweet woman, beautiful and accomplished, a loving mother to their daughter, Sarah, and son, Robert, but I feel a little sad for her, knowing how little Bob cares for her. She’s dressed smartly, in a blouse and skirt, and her martinis are as perfect as their beautifully-appointed house. Everywhere are signs of Cynthia trying, and Bob not trying at all.

After the first drink, she excuses herself, clearing the glasses and bringing two more martinis out for Bob and I before politely disappearing into the house.

“She’s lovely,” I say to Bob—purposefully goading him, I think. Or at least trying to put in a word in her favour.

“Hmm?” He refocuses his eyes on me. “Cynthia? Oh yeah, she’s great.” He’s blasé and indifferent.

We talk about work, and his daughter’s upcoming wedding, and the other Cynthia, the one from the office.

“She’s a real firecracker,” says Bob, his eyes lighting up with interest. “Speaks her mind, you know? Really keeps me on my toes. Too bad things didn’t work out between you.” He winks.

“Oh yeah, well, she’s great,” I acknowledge, tipping back my drink. “Just wasn’t a fit.”

But on the walk back home, I can’t help but think about Cynthia, office Cynthia, wondering if maybe I haven’t given her enough credit. I’d been kind of freaked out about the way she was calling me ‘Daddy,’ yet wasn’t that exactly what I wanted? Had she intuited that in some way?

Feeling lonely, and horny, and loose after three martinis, I decide to call Cynthia when I get home. It’s only ten o’clock. Danica is in her room, and I brush my teeth and get undressed and climb into bed before trying Cynthia’s cell.

She answers on the third ring. “Jean-Luc?”

“Hi. Is it too late to call?”

“No,” she says, after just the slightest hesitation. “It’s fine. How are you?”

“I’m all right.” I don’t know how to say what I want to say. Don’t know where to start. “I…I just wanted to talk. Is that okay?”

“Okay.” Still that questioning uncertainty in her voice. “Sure.”

“I want to apologize again about our date. I haven’t felt comfortable talking about it with you in the office. But I still feel like I didn’t handle it very well, didn’t think it through. I’m sorry.”

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