Page 80 of Stay Away from Him

He made a pained look. “I suppose we all have our struggles. But something in the way you were talking back there…” He trailed off, then cocked his head to the side, looked past me into the house. “Are you home alone?”

“I am.”

“And do you…do you feel safe? At home?”

I laughed. Of course I didn’t feel safe at home. Home, Iwanted to tell him, was the place where the people lived who could hurt you the most.

“My family hates me,” I said. “And half the time I agree with them.”

“You have a husband?”

“Oh, he hates me the most.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t deserve that.”

I studied him, struggling to understand what he was trying to do by being so nice to me.

“You don’t know anything about what I deserve.”

“I know more than most,” he said. “I see a lot of things in this job. I know a good person when I see one.”

I was so overcome with gratitude that I couldn’t speak.

Still standing on the stoop, he glanced around, like he thought someone might be watching. “Look,” he said, reaching in his pocket, “I don’t normally do this, but I’m going to give you my card. In case you ever need to talk. Okay?”

He handed it over to me, and I took it from him, and in the instant that my hand touched the card, his finger darted forward and brushed against mine. His face flushed red at his own brazenness, and his gaze dropped to his shoes again. My cheeks grew hot too. He was cute when he was bashful. I glanced at the card. Derek Gordon.

I was still a little drunk and dazed at this man’s kindness toward me, the interest he was showing. But what happened next was my decision, all the same. It was something I wanted, something I made happen. On this, I have no excuse.

I reached across the threshold and grabbed for him. Pulled him toward me by the fabric of that tight polo.

And then we were kissing. I must have tasted terrible, the warm white wine stale on my tongue, but still, DerekGordon opened his mouth, darted his tongue past my teeth. And then we were stumbling up the stairs and ripping at each other’s clothes.

I sat on the bed and pulled down his boxers, took him in my mouth. Above me he moaned, and I looked up to meet his eyes.

“Lie back,” he said, his voice rough. “I want to be inside you.”

I did as he said. “Be gentle with me,” I said. “It’s been so long since…” I trailed off, let the sentence go unfinished as he pulled my pants and underwear off, arranged my legs the way he liked. When he pushed himself inside me, I burst into tears.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“Keep going,” I said, and this, more than anything, is the detail that makes me feel guiltiest when I remember it.

I could have told him to stop. But I asked him to keep going.

***

Afterward, we lay together for a while, then put our clothes back on in silence.

“Can I see you again?” he asked as we crept down the stairs, walking softly even though we were the only ones in the house.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“I need to see you again,” he said, amending his prior question.

“I have your card.”

At the door he stole one more kiss—gentle, affectionate.

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