Page 54 of Off Limits

Appalled, I yank the covers back over me, covering my erection, and turn on the lamp. “Get out of here, Melanie.”

“I can’t sleep.” She stands up, tousling the roots of her hair with both hands, making the curls bigger and wilder. She’s wearing little sleep shorts and a tank top, the strap of which is falling off one shoulder, and I have to admit she looks positively luscious. It would be so easy, I think for only half a second.

She’s a grown woman—my wife, for Christ’s sake—and the only person in this house I actually could have sex with. But I don’t want to. I don’t want any part of Melanie. Not now and not ever.

She turns and leans against the dresser, crossing long legs that are so like her daughter’s. “That was our bed,” she says curiously, looking at the mattress like she’s just noticed it. “You still sleep on your side.”

It’s true, I never started sleeping the middle of the bed even though I’ve been sleeping alone for almost a year. “Old habits,” I shrug.

“I’ve missed sleeping beside you.”

“Don’t, Melanie.”

“Why not? Is there someone else? Someone else you wouldn’t be surprised to have touching you in the night?”

For a terrifying moment, I think it’s an accusation, but then I see the imploring look on her face, and understand the innocence of the question. It’s just Melanie performing jealousy to try to get her own way. She could care less if there’s someone else sharing my bed.

“Maybe there is,” I tease. “This isn’t like before, Mel. I’m done.”

She tilts her head and traces a finger over her shoulder, deliberately drawing the other strap of her tank top down. Her breasts, still full and round without a bra on, are temptingly obvious under the skimpy shirt. “How about a final hurrah, then? For old time’s sake?”

“No. I said I’m done. Go back downstairs.”

She pouts, rolling her head back in frustration. The gesture is so like Danica it makes me ache for her. Then she flounces back over to the bed and throws herself down on the unoccupied side. Her side.

“I can’t sleep downstairs, J.L. It’s too quiet. And you’re going to wake me up when you start using all that heavy gym equipment. Can’t I just sleep here?” She wriggles under the covers and pulls them up to her chin with a cute smile. “We don’t even have to touch each other. Unless you want to.”

“Goddamn it!” I stand up and stalk towards the door, unconcerned by the fact that I’m naked. “Sleep in the damn bed. Just leave me the fuck alone, Melanie.”

I storm into the hallway, flinging the door back angrily behind me, but none of the fucking doors slam in this house. It floats slowly, with an infuriating dignity.

Downstairs in the basement den, I lay down on the sectional and try to ignore the subtle and familiar scent of Melanie on the pillow. One night she’s been in my house, one night, and already she’s in the master bed and I’m sleeping on the couch. I turn over on my side, tense with anger, and try to force myself to fall asleep through sheer force of will.

Jean-Luc

“IT’S JUST A week,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face. I’m tense and tired, in a way I can’t hide, and I can see that Danica is frustrated and angry, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Yesterday it was just one night, today it’s a week?” she says accusingly. As if I wanted this to happen.

“She’s your mother, Danica. I can’t turn her out on the street. No matter how you may feel about her right now, you’d never be able to forgive me for that.”

“Yes, I would,” she answers, impassioned, “and you know it. What is she doing here, Dad? Why is she staying?”

“Your mom’s friend is away and she has nowhere else to stay. We just need to give her a few nights.”

“She slept in your room last night!” she keens, and her vulnerability surprises me. I didn’t realize she might be feeling jealous.

I close my eyes for a moment. “She slept in my room, but I didn’t. It just makes sense for her to sleep there, and for me to sleep in the basement since I use the gym so early in the morning.”

She rolls her eyes. “This is bullshit, Dad.”

“Language,” I correct her, out of habit, but I can’t deny she’s right. It’s bullshit on every level, but I’m trying my best to do what I think is right.

Melanie insists on cooking dinner that night, creating the kind of chaos in the kitchen that drives me nuts and leaves me puttering and restless, not knowing what to do with myself while she’s in there. When she’s done, she presents us with a pasta dish with bacon and rapini that I could have prepared with one hand tied behind my back—in half the time and with half the mess.

Dinner passes much the same way it did the night before, with Melanie talking about her art and her self-discovery, never saying much about the man she went to New Mexico with, Jack—except to insinuate it ended badly. Only tonight she’s touchy and flirtatious, batting eyelashes at me and brushing my arm as she talks. She only speaks to Danica to make her feel unwelcome.

“It’s about time you got your own place!” she says out of nowhere, pointing her fork at Dani. “You could sell that diamond necklace for a few months’ rent on a nice place. You’re what now? Eighteen? Too old to be living with my husband—get your own!” She barks with laughter at her joke, and I glower at her.

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