The Vanishing Year(20)
He tugs my blouse free and his hands inch up my rib cage. His touch is electric, every feather-light graze sends my skin zinging. He knows this and his lips curl up in a satisfied smile. But I am happiest when I’m the tormenter. He grips my shoulders and his head falls to my lap. When he lifts up again, he stares into my eyes, his hands cupping my cheeks so tight it borders on painful.
“I can’t lose you, too.” His voice rumbles, low and keening. He runs his thumb across my bottom lip. I bite it softly.
“Henry you’re not going to lose me.” I clear my throat.
“I know you want your freedom, to fly and do your own thing. I know I hold you back. I’m sorry. Just . . . have patience. Wait for me.”
“Henry.” I touch under his chin with my index finger. “You were with Tara when she died, right? Holding me back won’t stop anything from happening to me. Do you realize that? We all have to live our lives.”
“I never thought I’d love anyone again. I’m not a lovable man. I thought I had my one chance and it was over.”
I slide off the counter onto his lap and face him. I kiss his cheeks, his closed eyes. “Nothing will happen to me.” I can feel him through the thin fabric of his suit pants, hard and insistent, and I put my hand there, lightly scratching with my nails. His eyes flutter back.
I untangle myself and take his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.” We leave the dinner plates on the counter, the wine untouched. Almost like we were never there.
? ? ?
Later, our legs woven together, Henry’s hand caresses my belly. His face is in my neck. His breathing is sporadic, sometimes regular and steady like he is sleeping, but then he startles and pulls me into him, like he can’t get close enough. My stomach rumbles and I think of our salads, wilting on the island.
“I want pizza,” I blurt out. He lifts his head sleepily.
“Pizza?”
“Yes. From a pizzeria.”
We don’t do that.
“Hmmm, okay. Order pizza, then.” He wraps his leg around me, pinning me to the bed and pretends to doze. I struggle to push him off and giggle.
I extract myself and slide into one of Henry’s workout T-shirts. He pushes himself up on his elbows and watches me, bending his head to glimpse the crescent of bottom peeking out from beneath the hem of his shirt. He gives me a low whistle and a quick pat on the bare skin. I wave him off.
From the bathroom, I order delivery. My chest is bursting with a skittered giddiness. I realize I hadn’t finished telling him about my visit with Lydia. The afternoon feels so far away, like it happened to another person. I have a sudden stab of pity for her, with her scoffing superiority and preconceived notions about what makes a loving relationship, with no concept of the give-and-take. She would likely never feel full with love like this. She’d never allow herself to see the flaws of a man, to accept them, to bend herself in any way to accommodate them. She’d never realize it was a two-way street, the way the right man would bend to accommodate her, molding himself around her until they fit together, just right.
When the pizza comes, I pull on shorts to answer the door and then scamper back to the bedroom with paper towels. Henry sits up in bed, wrapping the sheets around his waist, and stares at me in wonder.
“I honestly think it’s been twenty years since I ate pizza in bed.” He pulls up a slice and takes a large bite, cheese dripping down his chin. I situate the box between us. I’m suddenly famished. We chew in silence. I realize I have no idea what time it is.
“So. About Lydia.” I study the box in front of me, wondering what his response will be. He is sufficiently plied with pizza and sex, his legs in a loose V, our ankles crossed.
“The punk girl, right? I remember Lydia.”
Was he not listening at all in the kitchen? I try not to be exasperated.
“I miss . . . having a girlfriend. I don’t talk to her much anymore.”
“Well, you have different ideas now. You’re a rich woman, in a different world. She’s not. It drives a wedge between a lot of people.”
“It’s more than that.” I pull my ankle back and cross it under me, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. I pick imaginary crumbs off the blankets.
“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow.
“Henry, do you like her?” I choose my words carefully, picking through the minefield that is a delicate subject with Henry. Again, I sense the closing door before its confirmed.
“I have no feelings about her whatsoever, Zoe.” He sits up straighter, his face pulled in, becoming Henry again. “You can do as you like, with whomever you like.” The kind of person who says things like as you like and whomever versus the guy who smacked my bare bottom twenty minutes ago. All these quick-changing people, like stage actors in a play.
“You’ve never seemed to approve.” I put my pizza down and touch his hand. He looks at it blankly.
“I approve, Zoe. It’s fine.” He stands up, gathers the pizza box and the crumpled paper towels, and sweeps crumbs from the white comforter. He mumbles something that sounds like crumbs in bed.
I feel panicky; I’m losing him. I make a calculated decision.
“She reminded me of something I forgot about.” I straighten the pillows, going for nonchalant. “When you and I met, I had just started digging, trying to find Carolyn. I was striking out.” He is staring at me, his eyes wide, his expression a marble wall. I rush on. “I wonder if you can help me now. You’re rich, powerful, connected.” Henry loves more than anything to be a hero, and a celebrated one. Nothing gets him going quite like can you help me.