Page 8 of Picture Perfect

PART TWO

SO I WAS standing in Shane Sanders’s kitchen, mostly naked, definitely vulnerable, in a moment that should have felt like heaven. Instead, his revelation brought me to my knees. “I, uh…I have a girlfriend.”

I felt pain in my heart, an ache that didn’t feel earned because I barely knew the guy. I’d never done something like this before, abandoning all sense of decorum, fucking a total stranger, simply because we’d been unnaturally put in a position where our sexual imaginations had gone wild.

But, whether or not the hurt in my heart should have happened, it was real. Shane’s little revelation felt like a knife in my chest…and I couldn’t find any words.

“I’m sorry, Ivy. I should have told you before.”

Why was he telling me now? I was getting ready to leave, and had he not said a word, I never would have known any better—because no matter how I was feeling after coupling with this man, I knew the headiness and rush of climax would wear off soon enough and I’d realize none of what had happened to us was realistic.

But he was making it real.

He must have seen all that on my face. “Ivy, I don’t do shit like this—and I’m not a cheater.”

“Yeah, you are. You just told me you are.”

He closed his eyes, nodding. “I am now. But what I’m trying to tell you is I’ve never done this before.” Oh, the true words of a cheater. I’d heard this song before. “What happened between us today convinces me that I need to break up with her. We weren’t compatible anyway—I knew that already—but I was trying. And now I see how stupid that is.”

I’d heard similar stories to that one, too. I needed to just get the hell out of there and collect my thoughts. The problem was he’d been my ride here, but I had no desire to spend any more time with him than I had to.

Why couldn’t I say anything? Why weren’t the words coming out? My tongue was frozen.

Because I was hurt, and I was afraid of revealing that.

So I let my emotions turn to anger, twist into something else I had no problems exposing. The venom in my voice was unmistakable. “I don’t understand why you’re telling me. This was a one-time thing, so it doesn’t really matter to me. I don’t need to know.” I yanked up my panties while looking for my bra. I needed to cover myself up because that alone would help me feel stronger.

He got close then, effectively pinning my body against the island, and he stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers. “This is stupid, Ivy. I…shouldn’t be feeling anything for you, but I do. And I want to see you again—so I knew I needed to be honest.”

My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice and I just needed to get the hell out of there—so I could regroup, find myself, feel like normal. Too much had happened too fast, and I felt confused and hypersensitive. I couldn’t trust myself right now.

“Maybe you should have been honest before.”

“I…I don’t know what came over me. Didn’t you feel it, too?”

Was he talking about the crazy attraction, the undeniable desire I’d been experiencing all afternoon in his presence? Or was he touching on the deeper, stranger feeling that had come over me while we’d been in the middle of our animalistic lovemaking?

And did I dare trust myself to talk about it?

Hell, no. “Look, Shane, none of that matters.” Ah, my cold intellectual self was taking over. Good. I needed that part of myself right now. “What happened happened, but do you see me ever trusting you after something like this?” Pulling myself away from his grasp, I affixed my bra, but I forced myself to keep my eyes connected to his. I had to know he was getting the message. “There is nothing here to salvage, Shane, so your little confession served no purpose except to ease your conscience. So mission accomplished.”

“Ivy—”

“No, you don’t get to say anything else.” I touched my index finger to his lips—a mistake, but one I hoped I could recover from. I had to leave now before he could see the bleeding of my figurative wound. I needed to hide somewhere, tend to it, help it begin to heal, and only then could I trust myself to say anything unemotional or safe. I’d managed to do okay thus far, but the longer I was here, the more likely I was to do something I’d regret—like cry or beat on his chest or break something.

I found my camisole and pulled it over my head. So far, he was obeying my last command, that of shutting up. It felt tense and awkward in there but it was better than talking. I could smell the strength of the freshly brewed coffee in the room and I had the fleeting thought that I could use a cup right about now…but no way were Shane and I going to have a friendly mug of Joe together now. In fact, I knew it would be best if I never saw the man again…ever.

Jeans, boots, purse, jacket. I was ready to go. A tiny piece of my heart—the melodramatic girly part I’d buried since beginning more intellectual pursuits—wanted to say something like “Have a nice life” or “Good luck with your girlfriend,” but the rest of my heart, the part that was hurting, barely managed a goodbye as I walked out the door. He actually held it open for me, his jeans zipped so that if a neighbor passed by, he wouldn’t be accused of indent exposure, but he had to try to be a gentleman one last time. “You sure I can’t give you a ride back to your car?”

My lips pursed, I shook my head violently before storming down the hall, and I was barely in the elevator when the tears that had been threatening finally began to fall.

* * *

The good thing about a long walk is it clears your head like nothing else can. Even in the city where you’re surrounded by cars, noise, advertising, concrete, and gas fumes, the motion helps you think. And by the time I reached my car, I had blisters on my heels but I also had resolve. I would cry no more tears over this man Shane whom I hadn’t known before today and would never see again, except maybe on the cover of a book.

And, as the days passed by and I got back in the groove of my structured life, I managed to convince myself that what had happened that day had not only been a fluke, but it was almost like Shane and I been under the influence. Greg’s camera, his words and direction, the poses—they all figured into this weird scheme where we engaged in behavior unlike ourselves. Well, I could say that for myself at least. I couldn’t speak for Shane, but if he was anything like me, he would say the same thing.

So distance from the event gave me several things—perspective, control over my emotions, assurance that I hadn’t completely lost my mind, and forgiveness. I let go of the anger I felt at Shane for betraying not only his girlfriend but even me by not telling me the truth immediately. And I also forgave myself—for my crazy behavior, for doing something I never would have thought I was capable of.

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