“I don’t even know where we are,” he says. “Are we five miles from town?”
“We’re off Route 238.”
“That’s a long route.”
“Just past where it crosses Bitterroot Creek.”
“That’s the opposite direction from town,” he says, like he’s mildly surprised.
I flip a page, pretty sure he’s not expecting an answer.
“I didn’t think this part through when I drove here last night,” I admit. I don’t make eye contact. Instead, I read an ad for the Golden Dynasty Pan-Asian Buffet like I’ve never heard of mediocre Chinese food before.
“But you were thinking enough that you didn’t want to go to my house?” he says, still lazy. I can feel his glance, though, and I read about the buffet’s hours for the fifth time.
“I like this place,” I say. “It’s cute. It’s rustic. No neighbors.”
“My townhouse has very thick walls and a pantry,” he says.
“Of course it does.”
The instant it’s out of my mouth, I squeeze my eyes shut and wish I hadn’t said it. I know better than to passive-aggressively snipe at someone, but old habits die hard.
“You say that like I built the place myself,” he says, pushing himself to sitting.
“I say that like it was on your list of must-haves in a home,” I tell him, and finally meet his eyes.
We hold the gaze for a long, long moment, and I’m the first one to look away. I manage not to say anything else bitchy, like I’m sure your neighbors are glad to be spared the sound of you humping an endless parade of women.
Even so, now is when I start to hate myself. Now is when I start to come down from the high, when I start to remember the reasons that we don’t do this all the time.
The reasons have names, like Mindy and Danica and Laura and probably dozens more. The last time I saw him I was dumb enough to ask how many and who, and Seth told me in that brutally honest way he has.
And then I fucked him one more time, even after he told me, as if I thought a few more orgasms would make me forget that I knew. They didn’t.
I take a deep breath, look at the phone book again. It’s been years since I used one of these, but both of our phones are dead since we didn’t exactly plan this outing.
“I can go grab takeout,” I offer. “What are you in the mood for?”
“There’s a Thai place in town now,” he says. “And I’ll always eat pasta. Or…”
I look at him, raise one eyebrow.
“The Woodhouse has happy hour from five to seven.”
“You can’t get booze with takeout,” I point out.
“We could go,” he says, resting his hands on his head.
Duh. The combination of more sex than sleep and no food since yesterday means I’m not quite on top of my game, and for a long moment, I just watch him, two fingers tapping the open phone book.
I don’t want to. Sprucevale is a tiny town, and even on a Sunday night I’m practically guaranteed to run into someone I know, or worse, someone Vera knows. By this time tomorrow everyone will know that Delilah Radcliffe and Seth Loveless were having drinks together, and from there it’s half a step to bitchy comments about how little self-respect I have if I’m riding the town bicycle.
I know I’m far from the only notch on his bedpost. Doesn’t mean I like it.
“Why leave?” I say, and manage to smile at him. “It’s pretty nice here.”
“It’s nice there, too,” he says.
“I’ve only got what I was wearing yesterday.”
“No one will know.”
I sit up, lean on one hand, give him what I hope is a coquettish, flirty look.
“What’s wrong with staying in and eating takeout in bed?” I ask, tilting my head to one side.
It doesn’t work. I didn’t really think it would.
“What’s wrong with appearing together in public?” he asks, quietly.
I don’t answer, because he knows the answer. We just look at each other for a long time, and I think: we don’t usually get to the fight this fast.
“Right, someone might see us,” he says, finally looking away. “People might talk.”
“Forgive me for wanting to preserve my remaining shreds of dignity,” I say, sarcastically, as I stand from the bed.
“Dignity? Is that what you wanted when you fucked me in your car last night?”
I snort.
“I just wanted an itch scratched,” I say, starting to pace at the foot of the bed. “Not a referendum on why I shouldn’t mind being the hundredth name on your list.”
“A hundred, huh? That your guess?”
Suddenly, I feel nauseous.
It’s because you haven’t eaten, I tell myself.
“I’m not guessing,” I say. “I don’t care who you fuck or how many of them there are —"
“You’re not that far off.”
The nausea rises, and I swallow it down.
“I’m not asking and I don’t care,” I say.
Now Seth stands from the bed, walks to the window. He glances behind the curtain, casually, like he’s checking the parking lot.
“You sure seem like you don’t care.”
“You’re free to fuck whoever you want. I’m not getting in the way. God forbid.”
Seth laughs. It’s a single, hard bark of a laugh, just one ha! That makes goosebumps rise on my skin.
Then he’s across the small room, standing in front of me, looking down. He’s got my chin in his hand, tilting my head up.
“You got married,” he growls.
“Don’t touch me.”
His hand drops.
“You stood on that sidewalk outside the Whiskey Barrel and said you’d never loved me to begin with, and now you’re angry that I fucked someone else?” he says, venemous and angry. “As if you didn’t fuck someone else and more?”
His blue eyes are cold, hard, flat, his dark hair wild, stuck to his forehead on one side.
The guilt stabs me like it always does, and I think: at least he stabs me from the front, while he’s looking into my eyes. At least I know when I’m being stabbed.
“And you couldn’t even do that right,” he muses.
I’m vibrating with anger, its hot spikes pricking at my throat, behind my eyes. I hold my breath so it doesn’t spill over into furious tears.
I hate that I cry when I’m angry.
“Maybe I should have fucked our entire graduating class and their cousins instead,” I say. Seth blurs in my vision. “I’ve always wanted my name to be another word for slut.”
“You like it well enough to keep me in your phone, just in case you get lonely.”
I snort, trying to sound derisive. A tear spills out of one eye, and I turn away from Seth, march to where my pants are spread on the floor.
“You haven’t turned me down yet,” I bite back. “Every time I think, surely he’ll have found someone new by now, but you never have.”
He strides to the other bed in the room, pulls his shirt from where it landed on a pillow.
“That door swings both ways.”
I button my jeans, biting my lip so hard I draw blood, but it doesn’t work. Another tear tracks down my cheek.