Consenting Adults (4 page)

***

The doctor hands me a pair of crutches after showing me how
to wrap the bandage nice and tight. The verdict: a nasty sprain, some swelling
and a bruise, but nothing broken. I'm supposed to avoid putting pressure on it
for a few days. When the swelling goes down, I can wear sneakers, but nothing
else. No heels.

“Mom, I'm so sorry.” Macie apologizes for the fiftieth time
since we arrived at the Urgent Care center. She grabs my purse while I fumble
with the crutches. We manage to get out to the car in twice the time it
should've taken.

“Macie, baby, it's okay. It's not your fault.” I know she's
thinking the same thing I am about Saturday's gala. “You drive, okay?”

Not even the prospect of flexing her new driving rights
brings a smile to her face like it usually does. She slumps into the driver's
seat and takes her time adjusting the mirrors.

I had Macie during my senior year in college. Her father
chose not to be involved. So besides my parents, whom Macie visits in New
Mexico for two weeks every summer, she and I have been each other's constant
companions. She's tuned into my moods and thoughts the way a husband might be,
if I had one. There have been a couple serious relationships along the way, but
nothing that ever stuck. It's just Macie and me. I never realized before just
how strong that's made our silent bond. She knows it was never really about The
Shoes. Nonetheless, those shoes won't go to waste.

“I'm going,” I say.

She glances at me for a second, but keeps her focus on the
road. “What?”

“I'm going to that damn dinner if it kills me.”

She grins, and that grin stays plastered across her face the
whole way home.

***

I work the rest of the week from home, treating my injured
foot with ice and ibuprofen, using my crutches as much as possible. Carter
drops off some of my supplies from the office and stays for dinner at Macie's
insistence. She's mesmerized by the dimple, which she coaxes into permanent
position on Carter's face with an endless supply of jokes and wisecracks. Maybe
I should bring Macie on dates with me. I'd never have to worry about having a
dull time.

Saturday morning, I wrap my foot tight to keep any swelling
at bay. Those shoes
will
fit tonight.

That evening, in the shower, I flex my foot and ankle. Feels
okay. A little tight from lack of use, but okay. Macie zips me into my gown:
sleeveless, with a low scoop neck and high waist. The soft chiffon layers fall
to the floor in the back, but are slightly higher in the front, perfect to show
off The Shoes. While I finish my hair, Macie dabs concealer over what's left of
the bruise on my foot.

Before I leave, my daughter gives me the once-over and
announces me fit for public consumption.

“I already know you're awesome,” she says, kissing my cheek.
“Now everyone else will have to notice, too.”

Her vote of confidence chokes me up a little. Isn't this
supposed to happen the other way around? She sends me off, joking that if I'm
not back at a reasonable time, I'll have to let her stay out late on prom night.
At least I think it was a joke.

The fundraiser is at the Convention Center in downtown
Baltimore. Judging by the traffic, there's also a Baltimore Orioles baseball
game about to start. By the time I park and find my way to the right room, the
festivities are in full swing and most of my coworkers are there. I head toward
our table and Carter falls in step beside me.

“Nice shoes,” he says.

“Thanks. Nice
—
” I'm struck by the
sight of him in a crisp tuxedo. Clean-shaven, too, not the usual five o'clock
shadow he sports at the office. “Is that gel in your hair?”

He flashes the dimple and extends his elbow to escort me.
Our usually ultra-casual crew looks surprisingly debonair. I'm not the only one
who cleans up well. As Carter and I sit down, Frank lets out a low whistle,
staring past us. I look back to see Nicolette, looking like Audrey Hepburn,
coming toward us. I smack Frank on the knee.

“Have some class,” I say.

“What? She looks good.”

“So say that, don't whistle. And try to say it without using
a stupid nickname.”

He holds his hands up defensively. “Okay, sorry.”

Carter raises his eyebrows at me. I shrug. Apparently my
inner princess has a stiff backbone.

Nicolette seems nervous, shifting her eyes from one person
to another as she approaches. She's wearing a fitted black sheath dress with
elbow-length gloves, and her hair is done up in a sleek ponytail adorned with a
rhinestone clip and her trademark pink streak. She's traded her usual nose ring
for a tiny diamond stud. She looks like a Nicolette tonight.

She comes to a stop in front of me. I smile warmly because
she looks like she might pass out.

“Is this okay?” She motions to her dress. “I've never been
to a black tie event.”

She's asking me? Really?

“You look amazing, Nicolette.” I have to resist calling her
honey, because her sudden vulnerability makes her seem even younger, and I
can't help but think of my daughter. “Beautiful, really.”

She smiles and there's no hint of the animosity she'd shown
me last week.

“Oh, and thanks for that CD, Georgia. It's great.” She walks
around the table to her seat. Frank stands and pulls out the chair for her.
It's funny how some people can change when you put them in fancy clothes.

Carter leans in close to me and whispers, “I guess she
finally realized she can never compete with you.”

I'm flattered he thinks so. I look at him for a long moment.
It's also funny how your perception of others can change when they're wearing
fancy clothes. I turn away, blushing.

“It's not a competition.” That's one thing people get wrong
about women. We're never really trying to compete with each other, only
ourselves, our own insecurities.

“If it's not a competition, why are you killing yourself in
those shoes?”

I lean to the side so my lips almost brush his ear. “If it's
not a competition, why'd you slick your hair back like James Bond?”

He laughs rather loudly, drawing looks from the rest of the
table. He stands and extends his hand.

“Think you can stand to dance in those shoes?”

I know I can.

After a few dances, dinner is served, then the music starts
up once more. Carter takes my hand again, but when I stand this time, my foot
protests. During dinner, my instep has swollen so that the strap of my shoe is
painfully tight. Sasquatch is down for the count.

“Did you bring your crutches?” he asks. I shake my head. “Do
you want me to take you home?”

“No, I'm fine.”

“You should get some ice on that.”

“I said I'm fine.” I'm not ready for the night to end yet.
It's been too much fun.

“Who are you trying to impress?” He asks it with a smile,
but it still irritates me.

“You wouldn't understand.” I struggle to stand and walk
gingerly away. Hardly the indignant huff I'd intended.

Carter slips his arm around my waist and supports part of my
weight while I limp. “You can explain it to me on the ride to your house.”

He drives and I stare out the window. Neither of us speaks
for a while. Something's been simmering between us all night, but where it was
pleasant at the beginning, now it's not. I'd give anything to start over again.

“I'm sorry,” he says finally.

“You know, it was never about you, or them, or trying to
impress anyone. I don't have anything to prove to anybody.” I pause for a
moment, then add, “Besides myself.”

He glances over at me, a serious look on his face, no dimple
in sight.

“I don't care if Frank or Nicolette can't see it, or if you
can't see it, but I'm not the mousy mom people think I am. I'm a lot of fun.
Maybe I'm a little crazy, too, I don't know. I'm pushing forty and I still like
going to rowdy concerts, okay? I'm not all sneakers and pantsuits.”

I take a deep breath, embarrassed at my outburst. My hands
tremble.

“Maybe I'm a little quirky, but I know how to have a good
time. I'd even say I'm kind of cool, and my daughter would agree
—
”

“I know, Georgia.”

“Well I didn't! I had to prove to myself that I'm still the
exciting, interesting person I used to
—
wait. What do
you mean you know?” How could he know when I wasn't even sure?

We pull into my driveway and Carter helps me out of the car.

“How could I not know? We've shared an office for almost a
year now. You think I could sit across from you five days a week, listening to
your Irish punk bands, seeing the kind of creativity you put out, and not know
all that about you?”

We stand on the front step and he pushes a stray lock of
hair from my face.

“I like that you wear sneakers and skirts.”

“Shut up.
I
don't even like it.”

“Maybe you don't, but you don't care if anyone else does,
either. The best part about you is that you never apologize for being who you
are. I never thought you bought into the idea that beauty is pain, so I was
surprised you did tonight.”

I try to support all of my own weight on my feet and cross
my arms over my chest.

“I
don't
. The shoes fit before my foot swelled up.”

Carter grins and I'm glad to see the dimple again. “I know.
But I like the way you stick your chin out like that.”

He leans down and kisses my cheek, his lips lingering for a
few seconds.

“Oh.” I'm a bit dumbfounded. He's right. We've been working
together for almost a year. Somehow I missed the signs along the way. “I guess
I've been a little oblivious.”

“Only a little.”

I open the door and invite him in. I have every intention of
hobbling around the kitchen to make coffee, but he points to the chair and I
don't argue. He takes an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a towel for
me before starting the coffee. I slip my shoe off and prop my foot up on
another chair.

“Sasquatch Plays Cinderella,” I mutter softly.

“What?”

“In high school, my best friend named my life The Adventures
of Sasquatch, and different events got chapter headings. Like Sasquatch Goes to
Prom, Sasquatch Fails Chemistry. I was trying to figure out what tonight would
be called.”

Carter lifts my foot off the chair and rests it in his lap
after he sits down.

“How about Sasquatch Finally Notices the Guy Who's Been
Trying to Pursue Her For Months and All It Took Was James Bond Hair?”

I tilt my head back and laugh. It's an unselfconscious kind
of laugh that usually only Macie can get from me. I'm laughing so hard that I
don't hear Macie come into the kitchen.

“I've got one,” she says.

I stop laughing long enough to listen.

“Sasquatch Snags a Hottie.”

Carter looks at me and shrugs. “I'm fine with that.”

“Of course you are.”

He grins that good-natured grin, the one with the dimple,
and Macie gives me a look that says what I'm thinking. It doesn't matter what
this chapter is called, because it's only just beginning.

(
The
Adventures of Sasquatch
was first published in the 2012 anthology
Spring Fevers
,
from Elephant's Bookshelf Press.)

Kara gives me a quick
hug-ohmygoshyoulookgreat-hangonI'llberightback as she lets me in, then
disappears, leaving me in a room full of strangers. Something tells me she
won't make it back to me any time soon. There are a lot more people than I
expected.

I take a deep breath and a hesitant step into the open
kitchen area, scanning the faces for one in particular.
I can't believe
you're here. Are you nuts?
That inner voice has nagged me for days, but I
shut it out then. It's getting harder to shut it out now. I step farther into
the room.

“Meg!” Kara calls to me from across the room and points
toward the refrigerator. “Beer, liquor, whatever you want. Help yourself.” And
she's off again.

As she leaves the room, a pair of blue eyes catches my
attention. My stomach tightens. Electricity snakes down my spine, lifting my
chest, tilting my hips back involuntarily.
Oh god, I can't look him in the
eye.
I barely remember to smile before turning away and heading in the
opposite direction. I need a drink.

He's the reason I came, not Kara. I haven't seen her since
our high school reunion a few years ago, and we only talk occasionally online.
But I accepted the Facebook invitation to her New Year's Eve party anyway,
knowing he'd be here. And now I can't bring myself to approach him.

Just talk to him.

Just talking was how it started in the first place. Kara
introduced us online because we work in similar fields. Turns out we have a lot
in common, but he was little more than a networking contact. At first. I have a
habit of saying more than I should from behind the safety of my computer
screen. He responded sweetly to my silly online flirting. After a short time I
found myself going out of my way to see if he was online, or to say something
mildly suggestive, knowing he'd play right along.

I don't remember exactly when or how we slipped past a PG-13
rating, but once our conversations took that turn there was no going back. I
told myself there wasn't anything wrong with opening up that way to a stranger
I would never meet. We live hours apart and there was no excuse for either of
us to make the trip. I was seeing someone anyway, and although it wasn't a
serious commitment, I wasn't looking to date around. It was safe. I could tell
Josh my secrets.

Just thinking about those conversations makes my cheeks burn
now. The chill of the open refrigerator cools my face as I choose from a
selection of mostly cheap beer. There's a six-pack of his favorite beer with
one missing. I slip one out of the pack and stand.

“Should I take it personally that you ran the other way when
you saw me?”

I nearly drop the bottle at the sound of his voice.
Oh
shit. You should've known he would follow you, genius.
I turn slowly to
face him. A smile that's nearly a smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth. I bite
my lip and try to remember how to breathe. How am I supposed to greet him?
Hi
seems so asinine. We've had conversations much more intimate than just a
handshake and a
Nice to meet you
. But a hug is out of the question. I
don't trust myself to get that close to him without losing control. Not yet.

“Why didn't you tell me you were coming?” He makes no move
toward me, like maybe he senses my anxiety. He probably does. He senses a lot
of things I've never said and would never say if he didn't say them first. Or
maybe he's having the same struggle with self-control that I am.

I didn't tell him I would be here because I wanted the
option to chicken out. If my conscience – or my nerves – got the best of me, I
could forget the whole thing without any resentment or hurt feelings. No
turning back now.

“Nice choice.” He takes the beer from my hands and pops the
cap off for me. I must look like an idiot.

Of course you look like an idiot. Do you know how long
you've been standing there without saying a word?

“Surprise.” The word falls flat from my lips, landing like
an egg—
splat!
—between us.

Oh god, I really am an idiot. He doesn't seem to mind,
judging by that ever-present half smile. My fingers brush his when he hands my
drink back and the thought of all the different places his hands could venture
steals the breath from my lungs. Still, I manage a weak “Hi.”

He steps closer. If only he knew how his mere proximity
makes my pulse quicken and every muscle below the belt clench with long-held
anticipation. I lift the beer to my lips to avoid having to think of something
else to say.

“Josh, there you are.”

We turn to see Kara approaching. The center island separates
her from us.

“I was going to tell you Meg's here, but I guess you found
her.”

“Yeah.” He steps closer still, then slides his hand to the
small of my back. “I definitely found her.”

“I'm so excited you guys finally get to meet up in person.”
She leans against the counter and sips a glass of red wine. “Too bad you live
so far away, Meg.”

I nod. My voice is gone. It's caught in the back of my
throat because Josh's hand is sliding down over my ass. He gives a gentle
squeeze. I've lost my hearing now, too, completely oblivious to whatever Kara's
saying. Thank god she can't see his wandering hand. Josh keeps up his end of
the conversation, no problem, all while tapping, caressing, groping. He finds
the elastic of my garter belt through the satin of my skirt and pauses.

You've intrigued him. He wasn't expecting that.

He probably would've preferred me in jeans and a t-shirt.
Better to admire my ass that way. But jeans can't adequately express the
sensual feelings he arouses in me. He makes me feel...vixenish. No better way
to describe it.

I am not a vixen. I’m timid. And passive. But Josh managed
to coax some of my most intimate, well-hidden thoughts into words. Even in the
cold, impersonal glow of the computer screen, those words sizzled. They
promised fireworks should we ever find ourselves in the same room. And here we are.
Jeans and a t-shirt would have been way too anti-climactic for this meeting.

“Meg?” Kara waves her hand in front of my face, laughing.
“Are you okay?”

Josh gives my ass a final squeeze, then moves his hand away.

“Oh. I, um...” I blink a few times in an attempt to clear
the haze of arousal. “I think I drank my beer too fast. Where's the bathroom?”

My head feels slightly detached from the rest of my body as
I climb the stairs to the second floor. He makes me feel that way, beer or not.
It's strange that I should be spending so much time avoiding the man I came to
see.

You mean the man you came to fuck? That is why you came,
isn't it?

Of course it is. I can't deny it. But is that all?

I'll never forget the first time he seemed to reach right
into my brain and come up with my exact thoughts. I nearly had a stroke.
Feeling bold in my online flirting, I pressed him to try to guess my secret
kink. There was no way he'd get it right. I was more interested in hearing what
he might guess because I thought it would say something about what he thought
of me. It was an instant deluge of shock, embarrassment, arousal and disbelief
when he told me rather calmly,
I think you like to be spanked.

I couldn't figure what gave me away. He just seemed to know.
And he was willing to oblige. In fact, he seemed as keen on the idea as I
secretly was. That wasn't a reaction I was used to. We talked about the rhythm,
the sting, the sharp sound reverberating through the room. The discussion alone
that day was enough to get me wet.

I don't actually have to use the bathroom, so I run some
cool water over my wrists when I get there. It helps with the flushed feeling
burning up my neck and into my cheeks and ears. When I’m certain I’m thinking
clearly again, one thing becomes clear.

I want him. Bad. It's practically a need.

It's more than the allure of his body on mine. He stimulates
me emotionally. Psychologically. Pushes me to think and say things I'd never
dream of admitting out loud, and to reassess whether they're really worthy of
any guilt or embarrassment. I've lost count of how many times our conversations
have ended with me rushing to my bedroom and spending a good hour with the
vibrator. And I trust him. I can't explain why, but I trust him.

After drying my hands, I open the bathroom door and step
into the hallway, almost running into Josh.

“Oh! I—Hi.” Why can't I form a complete sentence tonight?

“I'm sorry if that was too much back there,” he says.

“No, I... I like when you come on strong.” It saves me from
having to initiate anything.

It was his idea, not mine
makes it easier for me to
give into what it is I really want
.
It's a fallacy, but it works for me.
He stands so close to me in this little hallway. The tension that's usually
strung across a few hundred miles over the internet is now packed tight between
us.

“Would it be rude if we left right now?” he asks, stepping
toward me. I move back. It isn't that I don't want to be close. I've wanted
that for so long. I just want to stay perched on this edge a while longer,
enjoying the surge of anticipation as it continues to build higher than I
thought possible, until I feel like I might erupt in a flash of light and cease
to exist if he doesn't hurry up and touch me.

“I think so, yes. Besides,” I maneuver past him,
intertwining my fingers with his as I do, “you've been teasing me for months.
It's my turn.” With a gentle tug, I lead him back to the party, letting go of
his hand just before we descend the stairs.

We spend the rest of the night engaged in an elaborate dance
of innuendo and surreptitious touches. I’m sure he doesn't even realize it half
the time, but words innocent within their context hold hidden messages for me.
Rhythm.
Taste. Hard. Sweet.
The brush of fingertips, the accidental bump of
shoulders or knees, sends a thrill through my body each time. Josh tries a few
times, but I don't let him kiss me. Not on the mouth. Not even when the ball
drops at midnight and everyone toasts and cheers and locks lips with their
partners, or whoever happens to be standing nearby. But I do wrap my arms
around him in a full-body hug, hips and breasts pressed firm against him, and
whisper
Happy New Year
with my lips close to his ear—close enough to
catch his earlobe between my teeth for just a second and laugh at the way his
whole body tenses. It's a boldness that surprises even me.

Kara wants me to stay for a few more drinks and chastises me
for paying for a hotel room instead of crashing at her place like half of her
friends. I politely decline the drinks and make some excuse about not being a
very good house guest. She's pretty tipsy anyway, so she doesn't insist for too
long before retrieving my coat. When Josh says he's leaving as well, Kara looks
at me and even through the haze of alcohol I know she knows. I slip out the
door with laughter on my lips while Josh gets his coat.

The cold air hits me like a brick wall, but my blood is so
hot it feels good. Josh's footsteps crunch behind me in a quick pattern and he
catches up to me as I get to my car. I sidestep another attempt at a kiss.

“Not yet.”

“You're killing me.” He pushes a stray lock of hair away
from my eyes and grins.

“I know. But you still have to wait.”

He leaves his car and rides in mine. Without the buffer of
other people, I’m overwhelmed by the sheer proximity of him. No one else to
fill in conversation or distract me from my thoughts. I push the speed limit
cautiously, trying to get to our destination faster and shorten the time we
have to spend in this strange silence.

“Are you cold?” Josh asks.

“What? No.” I adjust the heat in case he is.

“Your hands are trembling.”

So they are. “I'm a little nervous. Is that stupid?”

“No. Definitely not stupid.” His smile reassures me a little
bit. And those eyes. A darker shade of blue. Kind, but mysterious, as though
they mask the potential for much more than anyone ever bargains for.

He's always been considerate of what I think or feel,
stopping our conversations or steering away from certain topics when he sensed
I was uncomfortable. He never made me admit to anything I didn't want to, but
I’m sure he always knew the truth. He was gentle with me in that way, and yet
he never hesitated to ask the challenging questions. He didn't believe in
feeling guilty about whatever made you feel good. He knew about my
not-quite-boyfriend from the start, and he flirted with me anyway, and
encouraged me when I reciprocated.

Stop thinking! You're just trying to talk yourself out of
something you want. And for no good reason.

I pull up outside the hotel and shut the car off. I can't
help but overthink things.

Josh has his seat belt off and his hand on the door, waiting
for my cue.

“I don't want you to be disappointed,” I blurt out. “I'm not
as bold in person as I've been online. I find it really difficult to say what I
want, or what I like.” There are plenty of things I want from him, but I don't
know if I could ever speak the words.

“I think you've been very bold tonight. You're a good
tease.”

My cheeks burn and I can't meet his eyes.

“Is that embarrassing to you?”

I nod.

“Why?”

I don't know why.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of. I've liked it. You've liked
it. Why be embarrassed? Wait there a second.” He gets out and walks around the
outside of the car to open my door. “You don't have to say anything except yes
or no, how about that?”

I can manage yes and no.

“I won't lie and say I'd be happy about it, but if you want
to forget tonight ever happened, I'll leave right now.” He extends his hand to
me. “Is that what you want?”