Triangles (31 page)

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cupped slightly, as if for something fragile.

She takes two small backward steps, halts him with a quiet plea:
Why?

A QUIET PLEA

May seem understated,

but when called into play

at the proper moment, it

can

serve as a power move—

like a pawn placing a king

in check. A wise player will

take

great care to interpret

the future, near and far,

before initiating action.

Where a straight-on

charge will force

a man

to plant his feet and raise

a strong defense,

a quiet plea could convince

him to lay his weapons

down.

Holly

QUIET

Shrouds the kitchen this morning,

everyone sleeping off my birthday

party, even though Andrea, Jace,

and I were the only ones drinking

anything stronger than lemonade.

Jace’s parents only drink at home.

Pretty sure the only reason they bothered to come was that Brianna asked

them to. I glance at the scrumptious orchid, sitting beside the crumb-covered cake plate. It is lovely.

But I have no idea how to keep it

alive. Which makes it the perfect

metaphor for my marriage. All

I could think about on my run

today was Bryan. Everything about

him is new. Exciting. Fearless.

Things I want to be too. And

I can be, with him. The only time

I’m scared anymore is when I try

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to figure out the bottom line.

I love Jace. But I’m in love with

Bryan, who loves his wife but says

he’s in love with me. “Love” is

safe. “In love” is reckless. Alive.

TONIGHT WILL BE RECKLESS

Bryan and I are going to the Topaz.

Who knew Reno had such a place—

a club for couples, with a few single women allowed in the mix.
They lock
the doors at ten,
Bryan told me.
So
we need to be there a little before.

At ten, there are no rules except

everyone must agree to participating in the debauchery. “No means no.”

But everyone is there to say yes,

unless there is no attraction to whoever happens to be attracted to you.

If I said I wasn’t nervous, I’d be lying.

But it’s a good kind of nervous,

anticipation prickling tiny goose bumps all over my body. I’m almost afraid to drink this cup of coffee. Don’t think I can handle much more stimulation.

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And I’m not even there yet. The weird thing is, in the early days of my love for Jace, I would never have considered doing something like this with him. In fact, had he wanted to, I would have died from humiliation and jealousy.

Somehow, with Bryan, there is no

jealousy. Maybe it’s because our love already carries us beyond the bounds of “normal.” (Is jealousy normal?)

Maybe it’s because I’m more mature

and better equipped to understand

the concept of taking pleasure in

my partner’s pleasure, even if it’s with someone else. Maybe it’s just because I’ve turned into a regular pervert.

I really don’t know why. I really don’t care why. It’s enough that I feel

this way. Now I just have to make it through the day—a regular Saturday, 606/881

with my husband and kids. I hear

stirring now. A drowsy buzz of voices, headed this way. I stash all thoughts of the Topaz. Consider breakfast.

IT’S A HOMESPUN AFFAIR

Pancakes with strawberries

and whipped cream, left over

from last night. (Only teenagers

would want whipped cream

on top of chocolate cake with

chocolate icing.) All sleepy-eyed,

Jace saunters in to help.

He sidles up from behind,

wraps his arms around me.

Forty looks great on you,

he says.
And I bet fifty

will look every bit as good.

He kisses the back of my neck,

drawing squeals from Harley

and Bri, a long sigh from me.

“You’re full of it, but thanks

anyway.” I offer the spatula,

and he takes over the flipping.

Despite everything, a large

measure of love sifts down, blends

with a heaping bowlful of guilt.

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Surrounded by my family,

soaking in pleasant banter,

I think about calling tonight off.

BUT AS MORNING GIVES WAY

To a crazy-hot August afternoon, tempers flaring, along with the temperature, I am happy that common sense did not prevail.

I need diversion. I need escape. I need to lie to make my getaway. Somehow, the “night out with my writer friends” gets easier every time I use it. The plan is to leave my car in the Walmart parking lot. Inside it is the loose-fitting dress I wore to conceal the critically short skirt and sheer blouse I greet Bryan in. He takes one look, whistles through his teeth.
I think I just changed
my mind about sharing you.
He kisses me with such intensity I want to climb into his lap, urge him inside me right here on the front seat, like a couple of kids.

Instead, I move his hand to my exposed thigh. It begins a slow upward crawl, explores the edges of my stockings.

Garter belt?
he exhales.
Oh, you are my
kind of girl. What else are you hiding?

I WON’T KEEP

A whole lot hidden at the Topaz.

It’s pretty much a dive, all done

down in red Naugahyde and

brown linoleum, with low, low

lighting to disguise cracks, chips, and wrinkles. It smells old.

But the place is crowded—maybe

twenty-five couples mill around,

waiting for the ten o’clock lock.

Most are older than me, but some

are attractive enough, and all assess us with blatant interest, including the bartender.
Ooh. Someone new.

He checks me out openly.
Nice.

I’m Paul. What’s your poison?

Bryan orders mojitos, and when

Paul sets them down, he says,

Flash ’em, this round’s on me.

What the hell. That’s what I’m

here for, right? My scooped-neck

blouse is stretchy lace. One quick

tug and the tits of a stranger

spill out. (Someone who calls her

breasts “tits”!) This is a whole

new Holly, one I wasn’t really sure existed until this moment. But she

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does, and she’s just getting started.

At ten on the nose, Paul goes to

the door.
Anyone want to leave?

No one does, so he pushes

the lock and the party begins.

IT GOES IN MY JOURNAL

As “fiction” titled Bitter Orange

At the Topaz, they lock the doors at precisely ten every Saturday night. Tonight the place is crowded

with couples. Hungry. Starving. Thirsting, despite the flow of alcohol. At ten-oh-five, the quenching begins.

I am half of a couple. The other half is a relative stranger, though one I am oddly comfortable with.

And because we have nothing vested in our relationship, there is no jealousy when a woman, younger than Iand quite beautiful in a leonine way,

approaches us. “I’m Lorraine,” she says. “Do you party?”

“That’s why we’re here.” My partner pulls all his attention away from the peripheral action—

already becoming quite hot—and directs it toward

Lorraine.

Her own other half watches from a table near the back of the room. She nods toward him.

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“That’s Micah. Go say hi. What are you drinking?”

A sudden shimmer of nerves makes me reconsider,

but a big gulp of rum-flavored courage pushes me toward Micah, who is every bit as beautiful as Lorraine, in a completely masculine way.

A short round of introductions is all that’s required.

By the time Lorraine joins us, drinks in hand, Micah

has already made his intentions quite clear.

“Let me make you more comfortable.” He pulls off my blouse with a practiced hand, and before I can think about what might come next, he has lifted my breasts from the confines of my bra. “Lovely,” he says.

“Don’t you think so?” he asks Lorraine.

In answer, her lips, cool and silk-smooth, wrap around my nipple. Oh, God. This girl is not like the other. She is not gentle, her actions almost like a man’s. Lorraine licks and pinches, right, left, and Micah moves into director mode. “Sit up on the table, facing me,” he says. Then, to Lorraine, “I want 614/881

you in panties only.” The two of us comply.

Micah eases a hand up under my skirt, slides the thong of my own panties to one side, and as his thumb begins a slow, slippery ride, Lorraine stands over him, facing me. And now I kiss a girl for the second time. She tastes of orange

peel—bitter, sharp. I bury my head between the plentiful rounds of her breasts. Inhale.

Her skin is warm and softly scented with ginger.

And now, as if I’ve done this a hundred times before, I move my mouth to taste her nipples.

They are larger than mine. Luscious.

My partner’s hands pull me backward to lie across the table. He kisses Lorraine as Micah’s tongue finds the sweet spot between my legs.

It all becomes a heady mix of men. Tongues.

Hands. Fingers. The unique brine of woman.

The heat of cock. Condoms. Don’t forget those. And, God, orgasm. Mine. Hers. Theirs.

I think other people are watching. Touching themselves because this foursome is amazing.

Beautiful people doing incredibly sensual things. Segue to dirty, nasty things. And …

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And for a second—but only a second—

I flash on Jace, at home with the kids.

The disquieting thought makes me ask myself: what kind of wife and mother has group sex with strangers in public?

PUBLIC SEX

Is a curious thing.

Many who participate

aren’t exactly porn-

star quality.

Not

every swinger is

one of the beautiful

people, and yet,

not only do they

bare it all

for

strangers, they do

it with panache.

Imagine you and

a fifty-something

beer belly, doing

the

dirty, live, in front

of an audience while

the one you love

performs with some-

one who bears a

faint

resemblance to

your great-aunt Jo.

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That takes a sense

of humor. And it

takes an eclipse

of heart.

MARISSA

ECLIPSED

An apt description of this Sunday—

shadowed by uncertainty. Curtained.

I don’t even know how to feel.

I stopped being angry at Christian a long time ago. Anger requires energy,

something I don’t dare waste on

what cannot be altered. Five years

of deception—nothing can change

that. I’m hurt, I guess. But it’s more like a dull throb than a brilliant bolt of pain. And somewhere, I knew.

Yet I chose to ignore every sign, too sucked into my own little closet

of sorrow. Hey, how can a spouse’s

affair compete with witnessing

your child’s valiant battle to live, 619/881

knowing she’s destined to lose

it? It’s all a matter of degree, really.

I’m sure I will never forget this.

Could I forgive it? I don’t know.

FORGIVENESS

Is the last thing on my mind, however.

Right now, I just want to get through today. Christian handled Shelby’s morning CPT, took her out for a walk. He went to the grocery store to buy stuff