Playing Knotty (8 page)

They lay there catching their breath for a few moments, coming down from their highs, before Ian rolled off her with a groan. He sat up to dispose of the condom, and Emma stared up at the ceiling in the near-darkness, trying to control her breathing and make sense of these myriad emotions. Part of her wanted to cuddle, to bring Ian close and wrap herself around him to sleep. He'd probably do it if she asked, curl up with her and let her fall asleep in his arms . . . but she'd only be delaying the inevitable. Men like Ian didn't date women like her. Sex was understandable, a tumble in the dark with no one to know, but either way, he was going to be gone in the morning.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Emma spoke over the lump in her throat. “You should . . . you should probably go. I mean, unless you . . . want to stay or something.” She sat up, too, wishing she were wearing clothes again, and pulled her pillow in front of her.

The light from the window caught one side of Ian's face. He looked surprised at her comment. Maybe he was usually the one trying to make excuses to leave. “Oh. Are you . . . are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah, of course. I'm fine. That was awesome.” And it was, it was mind-blowing, and if Emma wasn't careful, she was going to want what she couldn't have. “But we both have to work tomorrow. You've got stuff downstairs. You should . . . yeah, you should get your stuff.”

“Right. Work.” Ian began pulling his clothes on, and the awkwardness was palpable. Emma tugged the covers around herself, a fluffy shield of sorts. He asked, “Can I get out through the store? I mean . . . all my stuff is down there, so . . . ”

“Oh. Right. I'll let you out.” Emma pulled her clothes back on, trying not to make eye contact. Why was this so weird? It didn't have to be weird, right? People had one-night stands all the time. Ian followed her down the back staircase into the storage room where they'd held the workshop, and at the sight of his bags of rope, Emma felt herself blush. She remembered all the things he'd said to her in the midst of sex, and her skin felt tight and uncomfortable. At the front door, two rolling suitcases behind him, he looked like he was going to kiss her good night. He didn't, though, just gave her a strained smile before turning and walking away.

Chapter 10

W
ith the emotional
—not to mention physical—exhaustion of the previous day, sleep probably should have come easily to Emma, but instead she lay awake half the night. Her bed smelled like Ian, first of all, making it impossible to forget what they'd just done. A glass of warm milk had done nothing. Neither had a shot of cheap whiskey. Eventually, she gave up and turned on the light to read for a while, hoping for the distraction of someone else's problems. Around four, her eyelids finally became heavy enough that she could set the book aside and catch a few fitful hours.

The singing-birds alarm on her phone didn't seem so cheerful after only four hours of sleep. Bleary-eyed, she stood in the shower longer than normal, trying to shake the haze. Her body felt sore, stretched, and deliciously sated, even while her mind raced. Logically, she knew she was overanalyzing last night. People had recreational sex all the time. She and Ian were simply two people who'd enjoyed a pleasurable evening of sex. They had used protection, neither of them had been under the influence, and they'd each wanted it. As she got ready for work, she reminded herself over and over that logically, it had been a fine decision. She could stick with logic.

Monday morning meant shipment; shipment meant double staff so one person could receive and unpack the sixty or so boxes of books that arrived on schedule every week between nine and eleven in the morning. At half past noon, Bethany returned to the cash-wrap area with the receiving scanner.

“Done already?” Emma asked.

“Done and done.” Bethany blew across the front of her receiving scanner like a Wild West gunfighter and slid it back in its cradle to charge. Emma picked a packing peanut from Bethany's thick black hair. “What? Oh, thanks. Damn things get everywhere.” Bethany patted down her hair in search of any more. “You want to take lunch? I'll cover the front.”

Emma looked off to the back room. When she'd put her lunch on her desk that morning, she'd tried not to linger. It was hard to be back there and not think of Ian's hands on her skin. “. . . Sure.”

Her hesitation didn't go unnoticed. Bethany raised an eyebrow. “What's up?”

Emma brushed it off. “Nothing. I'll go eat. Getting late, anyway.” She marched straight into the back room. This was ridiculous. After two years in business, she was not going to be driven out of her own storage room by a memory that wasn't unpleasant. Resolute, she sat down at her desk and unwrapped her peanut butter sandwich and apple. She would eat, dammit, and she would enjoy it.

Not that anyone older than ten could really enjoy a peanut butter sandwich, as she remembered when she took a bite. Sure, it was healthier to eat some quinoa or kale or that organic shit from Whole Foods, but peanut butter was cheap. Now she had fifty dollars extra, though, money in her purse from last night, money she'd earned by letting Ian Cooper tie her up. A shiver of pleasure ran down her spine, and she couldn't help turning her chair to stare at the empty room and remember.

“I don't know why you bring a bag lunch when you live, like, ten feet upstairs.”

Emma jumped at the voice behind her. She spun her chair around to face Bethany. “I like to be in the shop. It makes me feel connected to what's happening. And if you need me, I'm right here.”

Bethany snorted and gave a small smile. “Right. Connected. It's not at all because you're a control freak who's here even on your day off.”

“You say ‘control freak,' I say ‘dedicated professional.' ” Emma resolutely took a bite of her sandwich and grimaced.

“So, you going to tell me what's wrong with you this morning?”

“Aside from this shitty sandwich? Nothing.”

“It's like you're a thousand miles away. What happened? Something go wrong this weekend?” Bethany leaned against the doorjamb.

Emma looked past her into the store. “Don't you have customers?”

“Not right now. Store's empty, and the door's got a bell. So what's up?” She folded her arms across her chest.

Emma looked up at her. Did she want to tell Bethany anything? If so, how much? It wasn't like she could blurt out, “I let a guy tie me up last night and then we had sex, and I can't stop thinking about him, and I don't want to get my hopes up that he might actually want to date me because guys like him don't date girls like me, but I think I want him to tie me up again.” Geez, she didn't even know Bethany that well.

The woman continued waiting patiently, foot tapping lightly, as Emma took another deliberate bite of her peanut butter sandwich and then swallowed. It stuck a little in her throat. When she finally managed to swallow, she asked, “Do you ever wonder why someone would want to be with you?”

Bethany raised both eyebrows. Oh, shit, that came out really insulting. Emma hastened to correct herself. “I don't mean
you
you. I mean . . . like . . . have you ever been in the situation where someone seemed into you, but you weren't sure what his motives were? Or what . . . why he might want you?”

Bethany relaxed. “Is this about a guy?”

Emma shrugged. “I guess.”

Bethany opened her mouth as if she wanted to continue that line of questioning, but at Emma's warning look, she didn't press the issue, changing tack instead. “I think that if you've got the idea that you're not worth much, then it's easy to second-guess somebody's intentions when they seem into you. I used to do that a lot, especially with skinny boys.” She shrugged. “I got over it eventually, realized I'm a hot piece of ass.” She pushed her hip out in an exaggerated gesture, and Emma laughed. “No, I mean it. If you don't think you're worth the guy's time, you'll never be able to trust him.”

Her advice made sense. But was the issue with her or with Ian? When she thought about introducing him to her friends, her palms got all clammy. Not because he wasn't a catch, because
damn
. But . . . Margot and Alina would probably look at Ian and wonder what he was doing with her. She couldn't handle their judgment. And if he were interested in dating her, it wouldn't be long-term . . . because it was never long-term, and then she'd have the aftermath of
that
to deal with.

“But what if you don't know whether it's going to last? How do you know someone is in it for the long haul, or if they just want sex?”

Bethany pursed her lips, looking up at the ceiling. “Well . . . if there's chemistry, I usually just have sex with them right away. Then if they leave, I know they just wanted sex.” She laughed at Emma's expression. “It's only sex. And it's only dating. It's not marriage. You don't really know until you give it a try.”

Emma nodded, thinking. In the ensuing silence, she finished her sandwich and took a sip of water from the half-empty bottle sitting on her desk from the night before.

Bethany watched her, probably waiting for another question. When none came, she asked one of her own. “You want to tell me what's actually going on?”

Emma shrugged and took a bite from her apple. Honestly, she did. Bethany was a neutral person in the situation. “Yeah, maybe. But now's probably not a good time for it.”

Bethany considered, head tipped to the side. “We're both off at four. You want to go get coffee?” Then she hesitated. “Unless that would be weird for you, because you're my boss? I don't care if you don't.”

Emma shook her head. She wasn't worried about separating business from her professional life. “It's fine. We're the same age.” Of course, going to Starbucks today meant she wouldn't be able to go later in the week, but she could make that sacrifice.

Bethany nodded. “Yeah, and you're not crazy.” The bell dinged over the door. “Well, that's my cue. Enjoy your break.”

A
t four, they crossed
the street to Starbucks and got a table in the back corner, the same corner where Emma had browsed Ian's website. Funny what a difference a couple of weeks could make.

Over the rest of the workday, Emma had realized that Bethany was practically a stranger to her, though they'd been working together for almost six months. Emma knew Bethany lived in Chinatown near the Theater District, and that she usually brought lunch from the restaurant she lived above. They both liked reading everything without any real preference for one specific genre, and talked mostly about books when they worked together.

Sure enough, Bethany's first words to her as she slid into the seat opposite, caramel latte in hand, were about the latest novel by Barbara Kingsolver; they spent a good ten minutes waxing poetic about her descriptive style and comparing her to other authors they'd both read.

“I wish I could write like her.” Bethany stared off at the painting above Emma, shaking her head in wistful contemplation. “The woman has talent.”

“You write?” Emma leaned in, interested. She'd never written anything longer than a business plan.

Bethany shrugged. “A bit. I was really into it back in college, but not too much lately.”

“Fiction? Poetry? What?”

“Some of both. Mostly poetry, though. I wrote a
lot
of poetry.” Bethany stared back up at the painting. “Got a few of them published in
Clarion,
the literary journal at BU.”

“No kidding.” Emma looked at Bethany. This was a side she had never seen. “Why didn't you ever mention it? If that were me, I'd be bragging about it to anyone who'd listen.”

“Yeah, well, that's not really me.” Bethany dipped her tall silver spoon into the mug and stirred in a bit of whipped cream drizzled with caramel.

“You ever think about doing more?”

“Maybe.” She set the spoon aside and picked up her mug with both hands, resting her elbows on the table. After sipping, she looked down, her lips curling up a bit. “Can I be honest? Promise you won't laugh?”

“Sure, go ahead.” Emma set down her own mug of mocha.

“I was thinking about maybe going back for my MFA.” Bethany winced. “Is that a terrible idea?”

“Why would you think that's a terrible idea?”

“It seems so impractical.” Bethany looked down into her mug. “I got my degree in English lit, and now I'm working at a bookstore, but what I really want to do is write poems and maybe teach creative writing. I don't know, can someone survive on that? Will I end up living on peanut butter and showering at the Y?”

Emma tried not to think about how closely her real life resembled Bethany's nightmare. The peanut butter sandwiches, at least. “Beats me. But if you go back to school, they'll probably give you a teaching fellowship to help with the cost.”

“I
did
think about that. And my place is rent-controlled, so that's something.”

“Really? Lucky. God, I didn't think they still did that.” Emma picked up her mug and stared down at its milky surface before sipping. “Plus, you'd still work, right? At least part-time?” She couldn't imagine losing Bethany altogether.

“Definitely part-time. I don't think I could manage full-time unless I took all the nights and weekends and stopped sleeping.” Bethany rested her chin on her hand, staring into the distance. “So you really don't think it's crazy?”

“No, I don't think it's crazy. You've got to follow your dreams, right? It's what all the inspirational posters say, anyway. And the Disney movies.” Emma took another long sip. “Have you run the numbers? Seen if it's possible?”

“Not yet. I've been afraid to, honestly.” Bethany bit her lip, and her hesitation was endearing. Emma never saw Bethany as anything other than confident and poised. Maybe she'd been reading Bethany all wrong, and Bethany was as insecure as Emma, at least in some areas of her life. “If I run the numbers, it becomes real. Either I find out I can't afford it, and I don't get to think about it anymore, or I find out that I
can
afford it, and then I have to actually make the decision. So I keep putting it off.” She laughed self-deprecatingly. “God, it sounds so stupid when I say it out loud.”