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I’m slightly relieved that it wasn’t anyone who would recognize us, but that doesn’t last long. My heart drops when I see the expression on his face.
It’s more than disappointment; this is something else.
“I don’t know ...” I say but trail off, clearing my throat. I’m still trying to catch my breath and explain when Mason speaks before I can continue.
“If you’re with me,” he says and the tone Mason gives me is authoritative as his eyes pierce me, pinning me to my seat and stealing my excuses from the tip of my tongue, “then you’rewith me.” He finishes his thought and I can’t look away, I can’t shake off this guilt.
“You know I prefer discretion,” I say and the excuse leaves me in a single breath.
He rises from his seat and buttons his suit jacket. The hold he has on me is finally broken although he doesn’t look at me as he walks past me and up to the counter. I stare at the door, wondering if I should just leave. My body feels hot and I don’t think I can do this. I still don’t even know whatthisis.
It’s definitely not “just sex.” Going out on dates and coffee meetups aren’t in the fuck buddy handbook. Not according to Sue, anyway.
My body stands on its own. Although my legs feel wobbly, my body weak and my head clouded with frustration and confusion, something inside me pushes me forward. It’s only four steps, four strides toward him, all the while my heart beats faster.
“I don’t know whatthisis.” My voice comes out strong, clear and full of a confidence I don’t possess.
A shaky breath comes and goes as he faces me, his shoulders squared, to give me his full attention. I try to come up with the right words. “I don’t know what I want.” The words are so true. “I am notwithanyone. I’m alone and that’s—” I stop midsentence.
I almost say that’s how I want it. I almost lie to both him and myself.
From the corner of my eye, I notice the barista who looks away casually as if she wasn’t listening. My cheeks flame with embarrassment.
“If you want me to leave you alone, it’s done.” His statement lacks both conviction and emotion.
“I want you,” I whisper, my eyes pleading with his. “I just don’t,” I say then swallow and force my eyes to meet his. “I don’t want people to know.”
I feel like an asshole. “I’m not ashamed of you … I’m ashamed of me …” Oh God, even I cringe at my words. It’s the truth, but it’s so shitty of me. I swallow thickly, searching Mason’s face for something. For understanding or anger. For something,anything. Instead there’s a coldness that greets me and it hurts. “I don’t mean it to come out in a way that is offensive. I’ve just been thinking a lot about it since the other night and I don’t want my family to find out.” My voice breaks at the last statement and that’s when the barista decides to set down Mason’s coffee.
“It’s because of your husband?” he finally asks me and I don’t waste a second to answer yes. The word is barely a breath. It’s more than just publicity and articles that paint me however they want. It all cuts deeper than that.
“I want to take you home,” he says then licks his lips, and instinctively my eyes are drawn toward them. He lets his eyes roam down my body. “We can talk about this in bed.”
My lips part and I struggle not to look back at the barista who’s no doubt watching us.
“Do you want that, Jules?”
I do. I want him to touch me and hold me and make me feel alive.
Why is this so hard? It’s emotions, that’s why. Luring me in and then snapping me out of it.
“Jules?” he asks, pushing me and I cave to what I really want, because if I deny him, I may lose this chance at an escape forever.
“Yes.” I whisper my response and I hope the tone reflects my gratitude.
I think it does because he places his hand on the small of my back, as if he knows I need support in this, leading me away from the counter and toward my jacket and coffee that I’ve left on the table.
As I pick up the white jean jacket, focused on calming down and ignoring my overactive brain, Mason leans forward and whispers in the crook of my neck, “I don’t know what I want, other than I want you in my bed every night.”Every night.There’s a pang of both fear and desire from his confession. Asmall wave of relief and arousal flood through my veins. He lifts the jacket over my shoulders, helping me slip it in place and then looks me in the eyes.
“Is that something you want?”
That’s what I want, but this seems like more. I choke on the answer, the words colliding together in a jumble and refusing to come out.
It’s because I don’t know how to separate the two. A relationship versus someone to sleep with at night.
It’s going to be a problem for me, I already know it is, but telling Mason that in this moment is something I can’t do. If I do, I’ve lost him.
Silence sits between us for a moment, growing more tense by the second and as though it slows the the clock in the room, time stalling and my mind whirling with how this is all going to end.