Page 77 of Woman on the Verge

“No, no. I don’t feel right being away from him. You have fun.”

Dad is sitting at the table again, staring at the whiteboard.

“It says Nicole is here today,” he says to the empty space in front of him.

I go to him, put my hands on his shoulders, peek around so he can see my face.

“Boo,” I say. “Here I am.”

He looks surprised, which no longer surprises me.

“When did you get here?” he asks.

I go through the usual question-and-answer routine, then give him a kiss on the cheek.

“I love you, Dad. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Love ya, Nikki.”

I stand before Elijah’s apartment door and take a deep breath. Here I am again. Or here Katrina is again. I knock.

“Hey, you,” he says when he opens the door.

His apartment smells like a restaurant. He is cooking. I didn’t know this was in his repertoire of skills. When is the last time Kyle cooked for me? I cannot remember. He picks up takeout for us on occasion, though I am almost always the one who bears the burden of calling the restaurant or clicking through the online ordering system. Kyle may have cooked a Valentine’s Day or birthday dinner for me before we were married, back when we lived in our crappy apartment near UCLA. We used to celebrate Valentine’s Day, something I’ve forgotten until just this moment. Now, we acknowledge the day only for the girls’ benefit.

I linger in Elijah’s doorway, and he pulls me toward him, his arm around my waist, hand cupping my ass. We kiss, stumble inside, fall onto his couch, me on top of him. He is already hard.

“What are you making me, Chef?” I ask him.

Both his hands are on my ass now, grabbing.

“Curry,” he says between fast breaths. Then: “God, this skirt is hot.”

He does as I want him to do—he pushes it up around my waist. That’s when he discovers that I’m not wearing underwear.

“My god, woman.”

His long fingers reach around to the front of me, caressing before they slip inside. I am wet, ready.

“Is the curry spicy?” I whisper into his ear.

“Not as spicy as you,” he whispers back.

I unbutton his jeans, pull them off, do the same with his boxers. I use my teeth to open the condom wrapper. I put him inside me, and his head falls back, eyes closed as he moans. There is nothing better than this, I think—the power of pleasuring.

I come twice on top of him before he flips me over. I come again as he does. His body collapses on top of mine.

“Jesus,” he says.

“You’re religious?”

He laughs.

“I better not be, because you are sinful,” he says.

You have no idea.

He pushes himself off me, and I sit up. I’m wearing my bra, my skirt still bunched up around my waist.