Page 46 of More Than Words

ISOBEL

Boston

As the door to my apartment clicked shut, the gravity of what had just transpired between Adrian and I felt like a weight on my chest. I wasn’t sure I was prepared for what he was asking. Two months ago, I would have laughed at anyone who suggested I was even attracted to him more than physically, much less that I would know what his face looked like when he came, or what he tasted like, or the sinful things I now knew he could do with the tip of his tongue.

Grant hadn’t been like this, he hadn’t been spontaneous or passionate, and he’d certainly never told me to sit on his face. I knew that we’d been young, but my track record with relationships had left a bad taste in my mouth. It was easier to hide in the books I edited and live vicariously through women who had exciting sex lives. It’d never bothered me, at least not until Adrian had awoken this dormant side of me.

I knew women in their late thirties were supposed to have an insatiable sexual appetite, but I never expected that to apply to me. After the divorce, I hadn’t anticipated anyone coming in to sweep me off my feet like this. I was damaged goods. Used up and spit out during my mid-twenties and left to become an old maid.

The handful of dates I’d been on had been lackluster. Men my age were looking to settle down and have a partner by their side while they started a family. It hadn’t been appealing to me, especially since I was unsure if I could deliver on the providing a family part.

When I’d suggested fertility testing before I was served with divorce papers, Grant had made our inability to conceive seem like it was my problem, not his. After he left, I was too afraid he was right and pushed the idea of having kids out of my mind. I focused on my career, dated when it was convenient, and built up a life where the only bedroom adventures I seemed to have were explored through the pages of a book.

I envied Chase and her ability to have this big, open heart, to believe in love and men who were supportive of their partners and the happily ever after I wasn’t convinced existed.

Adrian wanted to date me. It was the last thing I expected when he invited himself over tonight. I expected him to try to fuck me, since we hadn’t the last time, and then ignore me in the office like I’d been futilely trying to ignore him for the last several weeks. But he seemed to like me, and when we were alone, I found myself returning the sentiment.

We’d had our disagreements recently, but those didn’t seem to faze him. He wanted me, and God help me, I think I wanted him too.

Isobel: I need to talk. Are you in town? Can you meet me for a drink?

I waited impatiently as I saw the three dots appear on my phone screen, taunting me as I waited for a reply to my text. This was an emergency. I needed someone neutral to tell me I wasn’t being an idiot by considering this.

LJ: I am in town. But I think you need to make it worth my while. How about dinner at my place? You buy and I’ll supply the booze.

Placing my phone down on the coffee table, I pulled my shorts up, running my hand over the top of my head and cringing when I got to the disaster of what was once my artfully messy bun. I must have looked like a hot fucking mess when Adrian left. Real attractive. It was a wonder he kept coming back for more.

Isobel: I’m available tomorrow. Does around 6 work for you?

LJ: I can make it work. Come hydrated and ready for tequila shots. Sounds like it’s time for the truth serum.

Isobel: We’re not twenty-five anymore, Lei.

LJ: You can handle a few. I have a feeling it’s the only way I’ll get the truth out of you.

Isobel: No withholding. Trust me, I need someone else to talk this out with me.

LJ: Is this about Grant’s post?

I paused, frowning as I looked at the message. Grant hadn’t even crossed my mind when I texted Leila. And I hadn’t looked at any of his social media in years, deciding to hide his posts for my own mental health. Sure, we were still ‘friends’ on Facebook and Instagram, but I wasn’t exactly keen to revisit the man who left me.

Isobel: I haven’t spoken to Grant directly in nearly a decade. Why would one post bother me?

LJ: Just checking.

Now I was burning with curiosity over what this mystery post said. Last I heard, he was dating a yoga instructor who was into holistic medicine and was going to some kind of wellness center for a few months with her in the mountains of Colorado.

LJ: You know he’s different now, right?

Isobel: I don’t want to talk about Grant.

LJ: Okay. I’m here if you change your mind. See you tomorrow. I’ll send you my order. Don’t be late or I’m making you take extra shots.

I closed out of my text messages, my fingers hovering over the icon for Instagram, knowing it was a bad idea to go snooping. But if Leila thought his post was going to upset me, I knew I needed to put on my virtual big girl panties and find out what it said.

Typing in his familiar username, I blinked when I saw the thumbnail above his stories. It was him, the tiny yoga instructor, a dog at their feet and a little bundle in his arms.

My stomach bottomed out as I clicked on the colorful ring surrounding the picture, a boomerang coming up on the screen of two large hands cradling a little head, the soft features of a sleeping baby pulling the breath right out of my lungs.

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