Granted, they didn’t have a “sound” yet because they were still forming the band, but Oona didn’t point that out. Instead, she glanced around the store, tamping down her desire to hold one of the acoustic guitars, run a hand along its polished wood, strum its strings, and whisper her secrets into it.
Dale put a hand on the small of her back to steer her away, his resolute palm saying, This is my dream, not your dream. And she shuffled along, too indifferent to think of any new dreams, trying to block out the herky-jerky opening notes of “Hotel California” being plucked out behind her.
Until Dale came to an abrupt stop. “Hey, how about this?” He swept his hand across a silver Yamaha keyboard like a game show model. Before she could reply, he took her by the shoulders and coaxed her behind the instrument. “This is exactly what our band needs. You could be on keys and backup vocals.”
“I … I never thought of myself as a keyboardist.” One last longing look at the guitars as Dale continued to plead with her.
“Early Dawning needs you, Oona. Please be our keyboardist.”
It was easy to look into his intense brown eyes and agree to anything. So she bought the Yamaha, took lessons, and got pretty good. She grew to love being in the band (which Dale described as “edgy rock with a post-punk soul”), but playing the keyboard was a marriage of convenience, and she never grew to love her instrument.
I do love these beauties, though.
She reached out to one of the guitars when there was a knock on the door.
“Oona, are you there?” Edward called out.
“I’m here.” She opened the door.
“Is everything all right? I thought you might’ve gotten hungry, so I made you some lunch.” He held up a tray with a domed lid covering a large plate.
“Everything’s fine.” Her expression of pleasant gratitude was a mask, tight at the edges. “I just got lost in thought. Come in.”
“I made panko fried chicken and truffle mac and cheese with soppressata.” He set the tray down on an end table and lifted the lid to let the rich food smells fill the room.
With all Oona was processing, there should’ve been no room for hunger, but her mouth watered as her appetite betrayed her. “This looks great.”
“It really doesn’t.” A smirk at the beige, yellow, and brown meal. “I have a tendency to make food that tastes good but looks like a dog’s dinner.”
“I’m sure it’s delicious. Thank you.”
Edward nodded at the record player as the tinkling notes of “Sunday Morning” began. “This is my favorite song.”
“It’s sweeter-sounding and catchier than their usual stuff, but I love it, too.”
“What’s funny is that it’s essentially a song about paranoia, warning you to watch out because the world is behind you, but I’ve always found it strangely comforting.”
Her smile, now genuine, broadened. “Me too.”
It was a diaphanous bridge, yet firm enough for Edward to step forward, push past her invisible boundaries, and embrace her. The hug was not perfunctory or patronizing, but tight with sympathy. A hug that superseded platitudes like “I’m here for you” and “everything will be okay” while still conveying those things. As if her body remembered what the rest of her had forgotten, her arms lifted up and tightened around him. She fit her head into the crook of his neck, which smelled of freshly baked bread and campfires.
That’s when her body betrayed her for the second time: her muscles coiled with a desire for sustenance, a larger appetite surfacing, as she pressed closer to her husband.
Sensing the shift, Edward moved his mouth to the curve of her ear, breathed warm air against it. He ran a slow hand up her back, looking for red lights in her body language. Her small sighs told him Go, go, go.
She lifted her head until the sides of their faces were pressed together, her smooth cheek against his soft stubble. All the numbers trickled out of her brain like a window open to clear out a smoky room. There was only the geometry of her mouth and his, inches apart, then centimeters, then—
Their kiss was soft, tentative, filled with question marks. Is this okay? asked both sides. Yes was the answer. Yes on both sides.
Oona clutched Edward’s sweater, responded to his kiss by opening her mouth. The tips of their tongues touched, asking more questions, but the resounding answer was always affirmative, the lights all green—Go, go, go.
Not since the stranger at the club had she felt such a dizzying attraction. Was it natural chemistry or a deeper need to satisfy her loneliness? Whatever the reason, she wanted him. She was coming off a year of parties and drugs and trysts, some of which had been fun, but all of which had been meaningless. Sex had been lost in a haze of chemicals that heightened or anesthetized or disassociated. She hadn’t had sober sex—or sex signifying a deeper connection—since Dale.
Edward helped her out of her sweater and all worries of the year ahead faded. She needed his skin against hers.
He drew her into another deep kiss, pulled her down until they were kneeling on the shag carpet.
Her knees creaked, a backward echo of future aching.
Up above, mouth to mouth, their tongues did the exploring; down below, their hands took over. They shed layers of clothing with the same unspoken courtesy of their initial kiss. Their hands like gentlemen with top hats, asking, “Pardon, but do you mind if I remove this brassiere for you?” “May I cast aside these boxer-briefs?” And always the answer was yes, always the answer was go.
Kneeling above her, Edward offered a questioning smile. Even though her body was responsive—her skin experiencing déjà vu, eager for him—before he entered her, he asked, “Is this okay?”
She nodded, and he began slowly. But she craved a bit of pain, always did, found it gave a counterbalance to her body’s pleasure receptors, the way spicy food hurts but can be so delicious. So she thrust her hips to be filled completely in one abrupt motion.
“I didn’t know if you’d still want it a little rough.” A low, throaty chuckle.
“I do.”
She was less pliant than she’d been in 1991, but equally receptive. It helped that Edward knew when to slow down and when to tantalize her tender spots: a light scratching along her rib cage, biting beneath her collarbone, licking right behind her earlobe. He worked as if from a blueprint, privy to her hidden corners.
As she got close, he kept withdrawing, to build it up, tease. When she finally did come, it was unbearably intense, a prelude to multiple orgasms. His own climax followed.
Edward rolled off her. They lay on their backs several inches apart, breathing hard.
The carpet felt like fur against Oona’s naked skin. “Wow. So that’s what married sex is like.”
“That’s what it’s like for us.” His index finger sought hers out; their digits linked together.
But were they monogamous? Once again, the name Peter invaded her thoughts. “Do we have any special arrangements in our marriage I should know about?” She remained still. Could he read her murky thoughts, decipher the pounding of her blood like Morse code?
“Special arrangements? As in, do we have an open marriage? God no. Why would you wonder that?”
“I mean…” She scrambled for a reason. “We have this age difference.”