After You by Julie Buxbaum

Author:Julie Buxbaum
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Literary, Death, England, Notting Hill (London, Family & Relationships, Americans - England, Bereavement, Fiction, Grief, England), Popular American Fiction, Americans, Psychological, Murder victims' families, Fiction - General, Crime, Psychological fiction, Best friends, General, Murder victims' families - England, Life change events
ISBN: 9780385341240
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2009-08-25T07:00:00+00:00

25

There are two beds in his room. Two. Fucking. Double. Beds. A cosmic joke. An extra negotiation. Lucy is up there somewhere, laughing her ass off at the fact that I no longer know how to make my husband have sex with me.

Two beds in this fussy and tasseled, overtly British hotel room. Two flowered duvets, crimson woven with gold, already turned down, and two notes reminding us to conserve water. Framed black-and-white photographs of London landmarks, Big Ben, Parliament, Tower Bridge, decorate the walls and add an edge of despair. Why go outside when you can see the sights right here in your room? We can get a taste of London just within this paisley-wallpapered oasis, with its impressive selection of complimentary teas and its dangling-pull-string lamps.

“So,” I say, and remain standing, not sure which bed to pick and how to do this. Part of me just wants to take off my dress and see what happens. Could he reject me that way? Standing in front of him, naked?

“We need to talk, Ellie.”

“Okay, so let’s talk.” I move closer to him and try to sustain eye contact.

“I think we both know where this is heading.” He means our relationship, not the moment. I want him to mean the moment, but he looks so distressed there is no way he is thinking about sex. He is thinking about some inevitable end to us.

“Phillip.” The red wine makes me brazen. I am going to flip things; I still can, it’s not too late. It’s never too late. Lucy’s right: We are entitled to as much happiness as we can grab. “Phillip.”

I reach up and touch his hair, brown and wavy. My fingers smooth right through it, brush a bit away that has fallen just shy of his eye.

His hand reaches up to catch mine, but it’s a cruel gesture. Only a mini-handcuff of thumb to forefinger.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Please.” I ignore my clear desperation, my shame overpowered by my desire to feel his skin. We are almost cheek to cheek now, and he is frozen, holding my wrist in the air, not sure how to play this. We look like samurai warriors in the silent, time-stop moment before the ass-kicking begins.

I kiss his jawline. I do, even though I know he doesn’t want to be doing this with me right now. He wants to sit across a table, at least five feet between us, and work through the details. I am not ready yet—to talk about the future, to reap consequences.

“Ellie.” His voice cracks in panic. His ears are too sensitive. I am not playing fair and I know it. “Please. We shouldn’t.”

I ignore him. Since I have no hands—one is still in a cast, the other caught in his—I use my face to turn his, to molest his other ear. He can’t help but moan.

Next, his neck. My hand drops, a surrender on his part. He stands there, his arms at his sides, waiting. Just waiting. He has no fight left.

Nature. Habit.

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