almost a month,” I said, hating the way I sounded—horny.
“No, it isn’t,” he said with a practicality that did not put me at ease.
“You’ll miss Valentine’s Day.”
He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Denise. Right now I have to focus on this promotion. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
“Want to spend the night?” I asked, not caring that I was being transparent.
He looked over at me and laughed. “Sure.”
I smiled all the way home, determined that tonight Barry and I would have great, boisterous sex. I might even pull out some of the tricks that Redford had taught me that I’d never shared with anyone else. I had shaved my legs to get ready for the dinner, so nothing was holding me back.
Unfortunately, we drove straight into a traffic jam in midtown that left us in gridlock. After thirty minutes had passed with no movement, I began to dwell on Barry’s comment that I was dependable…and loyal. He made me sound like a cocker spaniel.
I studied his profile, noting how preoccupied he was, and realized abruptly that we had fallen into a serious rut. No wonder we’d never talked about marriage—we rarely saw each other and we rarely had sex.
For all intents and purposes, we were already married.
Feeling rebellious, I ran my fingers through my loose hair and whispered, “We could have sex right here.”
Barry looked over at me with a shocked expression, then laughed nervously and gestured to the cars around his silver Lexus. “Are you crazy? We’d be arrested for indecent exposure. A stunt like that would mean my job, Denise.”
I pulled back, humiliated at my own behavior. He was right, of course. The network’s top female anchor had gone out drinking one night and performed a topless dance at a bar where at least one handheld video camera had been rolling, and everyone had been put on notice. Barry couldn’t jeopardize his job just because I was feeling neglected. So we listened to National Public Radio and chatted about the evening.
“You seemed to be having a good time talking to everyone,” Barry said. “Everyone thought you were great. Everyone loves you, Denise.”
Something in his voice made me turn my head to look at him in the semi-darkness. He’d spoken with a sort of wistfulness when he’d said “everyone loves you,” as if everyone else saw something he didn’t. I waited for clarification, but Barry simply scanned the traffic, tapping his finger on the steering wheel to a jazzy song floating from the speakers.
I was imagining things. Barry loved me. He hadn’t changed—I had. More specifically, that stupid wedding dress had made me paranoid.
And reflective.
Because the wedding dress had made me confront the possibility of marrying Barry…was it something I wanted? And if not, then what was the purpose of our being together? Companionship? An occasional sexual release? Were we merely a pit stop for each other on the way to…something else? I was suddenly seized by the feeling that I was looking at someone I’d known for years. Yet…did I really know him?
In hindsight, I’d known little about Redford when I’d married him—beyond his sexual prowess. A sudden stab of desire struck my midsection, but I closed my eyes against it.
During those few days with Redford in Las Vegas, I had been a different person, wanton and hedonistic…a bona fide nymphomaniac. I don’t know what had come over me…okay, admittedly, Redford had come over me a few times, but I digress. My parents—especially my mother—would be appalled if they knew how I had behaved during that time, and my girlfriends would be shocked. I could scarcely think of it myself without being overcome with shame—nice girls didn’t do the things I’d done with Redford. Especially after knowing the man for mere hours.
At the time, I’d thought that Redford DeMoss, with his chiseled good looks, military manners and tantric sex sessions was the most exotic creature I’d ever encountered. I’d only dated city boys who were competitive and frenzied. Redford’s easy confidence and sexual aura had literally knocked me off my feet. Only later, after I’d returned to New York, did I admit to myself that everything that came out of his sensual mouth—words about down-home cookin’, home-grown lovin’ and small-town livin’—came straight out of a country song. He’d been playing a part—hell, we both had. It was a love-at-first-sight fantasy. We’d had no business getting married.
“Denise?”
I blinked myself back to the present and stared at Barry, who was staring at me. “Huh?”
He frowned and rubbed one of his eyes. “I asked if I left any of my allergy medicine at your place. If not, maybe we should backtrack to my apartment.”
While I had been winding down memory lane, the traffic had begun to unravel. I was suddenly eager to get home—to my cozy apartment, not to Barry’s sterile condo. “You left your toiletry bag at my place when you came back from L.A. Are your allergies acting up?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding toward my new coat. “I think it’s the wool.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“No problem,” he said. “By the way, I noticed your new outfit. Good job.”
“Thank you,” I said, unsure whether or not he’d just paid me a compliment.
He squinted in my direction. “Did you cut your hair?”
“Um, no…I left it down.”
“Oh. It looks…mussed. It’s a different look for you.”
I laughed. “I guess you’ll feel like you’re making love to a different woman tonight.”
“Yeah.” Except he didn’t laugh.
While I pondered my state of mind and general mental health, Barry’s cell phone rang—a crisis at the station—and he remained on the call through parking the car near my apartment, the walk thereto, and the walk therein, rubbing his watery eyes intermittently. Still talking, he headed for the bathroom, presumably in search of his allergy medicine. I scooped up the mail that had been pushed through the door slot and tossed it on the end table, then went to the kitchen to fix coffee for endurance (I was still feeling optimistic).
Listening to the distant murmur of Barry’s voice, I watched the coffee drip and gave myself a stern pep talk (no fantasizing about other men—i.e., Redford—while making love this time), and, to my credit, I’d managed to work up a pretty good lust by the time I carried a tray with two cups of coffee to the bedroom.
Not that it mattered. Barry lay sprawled across the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his cell phone closed in his limp hand. His toiletry bag lay open next to him—the allergy medicine had apparently kicked in rather quickly. I retraced my steps to the living room and drowned my disappointment in my coffee, which was a mistake, since it left me wide awake.
I found a grainy old movie on television and settled back with a cushion across my stomach. But my mind, as it is wont to do in the wee hours, spun into isolated corners of my psyche, stirring up depressing questions. Was Barry the one, or was I simply pinning all my expectations
