(days, weeks, months, and, I assume,
years) you spend in different places,
when you’re finally in the same
room again, it’s like you’ve never left
each other’s side. And you realize
that your hearts have never
disconnected. You still like the same
music. Even though it’s not exactly
California “in,” Darian and I have
been country fans since we were kids.
She turns on Lady Antebellum,
who I much prefer to Lady Gaga.
“Need You Now” plays softly and
Darian sings along. And I wonder
if I ever cross your mind. For me,
it happens all the time . . .
Such a sad song, and somehow
it feels relevant here, where I can’t
find evidence of Spencer. Cole and
I don’t even live together, but there
are pieces of him everywhere
in my apartment—a favorite shirt,
still smelling of his deodorant
and cologne; stuffed animals he won
for me at carnivals; shells and sand
dollars we collected on beach walks;
the dried husks of flowers he gave
me over the years. I never tossed any.
There is no trace of Spencer here—
no flowers, no shells, no shirts.
Framed photographs grace tables
and walls. Dar and her mom. Dar
and her horse. I can see a couple
of Dar and me. But none with Spence.
Not even one of their wedding.
Wonder if there are any in their
bedroom. I’m tempted to go look.
And while I’m there, check the closet
for his clothes. Why am I suddenly
so certain everything inside there
belongs to Darian? And why should
I really care if time and distance
have jacked them apart? Because
I do, damn it. It’s just sad to think
about. There was so much promise
in the two-as-one of them. I’m not
sure how to approach the subject,
other than directly. I take three
strong swallows of tequila, seeking
courage. “How are things with Spence?
Any better?” I’m hoping she’ll say
yes. But it’s just wishful thinking.
About the same, I guess. It’s hard
to know, exactly. E-mail isn’t
the best way to communicate
feelings. And it’s definitely not
the right way to discuss our future.
If we even have one together, that is.
I’M AFRAID TO ASK
But I did start this, so here goes.
“You’re not thinking about leaving
him, are you?” The divorce rate
for deployed soldiers is dependably
high. Something like seventy
percent. Can’t Darian and Spencer
be part of the thirty? She shrugs.
I don’t know. There are reasons
to stay. And reasons to go.
I think about Celine—how she and
and her husband decided to stick
together, no matter what. “Is it because . . .”
It’s so good talking to her again,
I really don’t want to make her mad.
Still . . . “I heard there are rumors.
About you and other men. Don’t get
pissed, okay? I just wondered, um,
if that’s one of your reasons to go.”
She sips her Campari. Considers
what to say. For several seconds,
she retreats so far away she might
have visited another time zone.
Finally, she returns to Pacific
Standard. What am I supposed
to do, Ash? I’m only twenty-five.
Not like I can live without sex,
and no piece of vibrating plastic
is going to cut it for me. Yes, I’ve
slept with a couple of guys. I’m not
as strong as you, and maybe I lack
morals. I don’t know. It’s just every
now and then, I need a warm body
next to mine. I need someone real
and strong and caring to pull me
into him, hold me close, and tell
me he lo—” She skids to a sudden
stop, and certain clarity washes
over me. Why did I start this, again?
“And tell you he loves you? Is that
what you were going to say?” I wait,
but she doesn’t answer. “Talk to me,
Dar. Are you in love with someone else?”
She directs her gaze until it’s level with
mine. Yes. She gulps down the rest
of her drink. I do the same with mine.
Rewind
IT TOOK ME
About two weeks to overtly insert
the word “love” into the Cole-plus-
Ashley equation. There were hints
before I accepted it. Tendrils
of that elusive emotion, infiltrating
our togetherness. Especially our
intimate togetherness. Before Cole,
I never understood the meaning
of making love. My previous sexual
adventures came in two categories.
One: tepid fumbling—no play, no
passion, no real point to the effort.
Certainly, no orgasm, at least not
for me. Or, two: overheated romps—
no concern, no caring, no real
connection. Lightweight orgasm, yes,
and short-term fun, but nothing worth
holding on to. Either way, I always
ended up disappointed. Sex and love
were two distinct entities in my mind,
as separate as east and west.
Cole fused them, and although
I refused to believe it at first,
the merge began right away.
WE SPENT OUR FIRST SUNDAY
Together at the Air and Space Museum.
We even managed to drag Darian and
Spence out of the bedroom for a few
hours. It was fun playing tourist, even
if Darian did complain. What’s next?
LEGOLAND? But she managed to enjoy
the day. We all did. The guys were
attentive. Proprietary, even, holding
us close beside them. A couple of times
I noticed Cole watching children running
ahead of their parents. In a private
moment, I asked, “You like kids, huh?”
He nodded. Yeah. I want a big family
one day. He squeezed my hand. You?
“Considering I work at a preschool
and want to teach, I like them okay.”
That didn’t quite satisfy him. How
about kids of your own? The weird
thing was, I hadn’t really thought much
about it before. Marriage was a distant
target. “Of course I want them. Ask me
how many after I’ve taught for a while.”
THE SHORT EXCHANGE
Spoke loudly to me. Here was a man
with a heart. Not a single previous
boyfriend had ever mentioned
children or wanting a family. Whether
or not I shared Cole’s dream, that he
had not been afraid to talk about it
illustrated an abstract kind of courage.
I liked him. A lot. Already. That scared me.
But not enough to close myself off.
Not enough to send him away. Cole
had roused intense curiosity. This
gentle-souled, to
ugh-hided soldier
was an enigma. A puzzle I wanted
to solve. A stranger who felt like
someone I knew once upon a time.
I didn’t consider the future at all.
Enough, to explore the museum,
hand in hand. And afterward to stop
by Cole’s uncle’s place, where the boys
were officially staying while on leave.
Followed that up with dinner at a little
oceanfront seafood joint, sharing platters
of crab and oysters on the half shell.
And drinking just enough decent wine.
ALL RESISTANCE WEAKENED
All barriers lowered, when we got
back to the apartment, Darian
and Spence were hot and heavy
through the door. They didn’t waste
a second, went straight back to her
bedroom. Which left Cole and me
alone in the front room. I felt like
an awkward teenager, wanting
to kiss him but thinking I really
ought to go brush my teeth first.
“Be right back,” I said. My hand
trembled as I loaded my toothbrush.
“Jeez. What’s up with you?”
I asked the person in the mirror.
She didn’t answer, and I thought
that was good, at least. All
fresh-mouthed, I went back to
the living room. Cole watched
me with those serious eyes,
a question floating in their gold
sea. I slid my arms up around
his neck, invitation heavy in
the kiss I gave him. He lifted me
as if I were weightless. Our lips
never disconnected as he
carried me to my room, eased
me onto my bed. It was romantic.
Sexy. And even sexier when
he stopped, took off his shirt.
Marines have to be fit. But Cole
was a whole different level
of fit—every muscle chiseled
and skin smooth as suede.
I started to unbutton my blouse.
No. Let me. Please? I loved how
he asked permission, all the while
taking complete control. I also
loved how he didn’t hurry. Each
time he loosened a button, he kissed
the skin just beneath it. When
my entire top half was exposed,
his tongue explored it, inch by
goose bump–covered inch. And
by the time he unzipped my jeans,
slid them off my quaking legs,
my panties had soaked through.
Jesus. Some things are worth
waiting for, my California girl.
THE “MY”
Took me over the top. In that
moment, I wanted to be his,
and so gave him things I’d always
resisted. BC (Before Cole), oral
sex had been offered, and received,
with definite boundaries. That night,
we exchanged it with abandon.
I opened my legs wide, pushed
his face in between, urged his tongue
deep inside me, asked his fingers
to follow. I let him bring me right to
the edge. Stopped him. “My turn.”
He was down to boxers by then.
BC, I’d been with a grand total
of four men. And if I were to describe
“size,” I’d have to say three average,
one little. Comparing to breast size,
three B-cups, one double-A. Cole
is a C-plus, and while that didn’t
surprise me, neither did I expect
it. They say size doesn’t matter,
but in my estimation, it makes things
both problematic and sort of amazing.
I quickly learned to relax my jaws,
coax him inside my mouth little by
little. It was intense, and all I wanted
in those moments was to make
him feel like the most important
man in the world. I still had no clue
how quickly he would become that.
SIZE DEFINITELY MATTERED
When he finally slipped inside
me. If I hadn’t been so wet,
it would have been uncomfortable.
As it was, he filled me up completely,
a sensation I had never known.
He flipped onto his back, pulled me
on top of him. His eyes never left
my face as he lifted my hips, slid
me backward, against his critically
hard erection. A gentle push and when
my own eyes jumped wide, he smiled.
There was no pain, but extreme
pressure against that deep internal
spot some people argue does not exist.
It does; at least I definitely have one,
and Cole was the first guy ever to
find it. I am not a moaner by nature
and, in fact, have always believed
all real-life sex-squeals were put on,
some sorry attempt at porn sound-
track noises or something. But, totally
unplanned, unforeseen, and unbidden,
a minuscule ah-ah-ah began in the back
of my throat, grew into a steady ooooh
as I climbed toward orgasm. It swelled
into a small scream as I reached
the plateau. A foreign place. Almost
surreal, and he wasn’t finished yet.
A shift of bodies, and then he was on
top, rocking fast and faster into me.
I locked my legs around his waist,
lifting my hips to make him touch
that elusive spot again. He took a long
time. A very long time. We reached
the pinnacle together. When our bodies
were quite finished, still we stayed joined
until we had no choice but to slip apart.
Then Cole turned me on one side, urged
me into the bowl of his body, held me
there. Exceptional, he whispered into
my hair. Extraordinary. Within a few
minutes, his soft, steady breathing told
me he was asleep. I closed my eyes,
but didn’t tumble straight into dreams.
Rather, I thought about how quickly lives
can change. Because, while intellect
insisted this was likely a transient connection,
a sliver of emotion really hoped it wasn’t.
I AM, BY NATURE
An early riser. Even watery
rays of predawn light will trigger
the built-into-my-brain wakeup
call. So the next morning, when
my eyes stuttered open at eight
oh six, my first thought was, Wow.
That’s weird. And then, in this order:
Who is in bed with me? Cole. Right.
Wait. What day is it? Monday? No!
I’ll never make my nine a.m.
I extricated myself from Cole’s arm,
still resting in the U of my waist.
He moved restlessly, but the depth
of his breathing indicated sleep.
I grabbed some clothes, hurried
into the bathroom to shower off
the remnants of sweat-soaked sex.
I was already struggling a little
in my developmental learning
class and didn’t want to miss it.
I wrote a quick note to Cole: Have
classes until four. Back by five.
Hope to see you then. If not, when?
I left it closed in the bedroom door,
where he’d see it when he got up.
Hurr
ied to class, and managed
to make it with two minutes to spare.
Spent the rest of the day trying
to concentrate. Wondering if Cole
would be there when I got home.
NOT ONLY WAS HE THERE
He and Spence had gone grocery
shopping. The two of them were in
the kitchen, slurping beer and doing
their best to cook something resembling
spaghetti. Darian diverted me to
my bedroom. Thank God for Ragu!
she said, laughing. Now, if they can
just figure out how to do al dente.
I put my books on my desk. Noticed
that Cole had made the bed. “What’s
up with all the domesticity?” I wondered
out loud. “The way to a girl’s heart?”
Just saying it gave the fractured cliché
some weight. “Whose idea was it to make
us dinner, anyway?” I expected her to take
credit. But, no. Apparently it was Cole’s.
He said he owed you. Darian smiled.
He didn’t say what for, but I’ve got
a pretty good idea. Girl, I’ve never heard
you, like, howl before! Then she laughed.
My face ignited, but I laughed, too.
Well, a little. They heard? “Compared
to you, it was more like a whimper. But . . .”
I never shared the details of my sex life—
or lack thereof. But I knew she really
wanted them at that moment. I didn’t
know what to tell her, except, “Cole
is amazing.” In more ways than one.
THE SPAGHETTI
Wasn’t half-bad. In fact, bolstered
by extra onion, garlic, and a fresh
grate of Parmesan, the Ragu proved
pretty darn good. The guys even
seemed to understand the meaning
of al dente. We ate. Drank a little.
Enjoyed dinner-table talk about past
problems and future fears. It was more
domestic than anything I’d enjoyed
since I was a little girl. The guys
cleared and washed the dishes
by hand. It was such a sweet gesture
that later, when I had to go searching
for my favorite knife, finally finding it
in the drawer with the spatulas, it
bothered me only a little. After dinner,
we watched a scary movie on HBO,
and by the evening’s end, the four
of us were solidly a pair of couples.
My homework suffered (in fact,
it languished completely). But sex
that night was even better because