Thirteen

DON’T SLEEP WITH him . . . Don’t sleep with him . . . Just support him in his time of need and don’t sleep with him. I repeated the mantra as I made my way up the walk to Colin’s building, as he buzzed me into the lobby with its omnipresent odour of frying onions, and as I climbed the carpeted staircase to his second-floor apartment. On the day of that symbolic dried orange peel toss, I had been so certain I’d never be here again, but, of course, I hadn’t factored in the death-in-the-family scenario. It would have been heartless to reject Colin’s plea for emotional support. He had been my friend, my best friend, for four years and I still cared about him. Don’t sleep with him . . . Don’t sleep with him . . .

But when he opened the door I felt my stomach lurch involuntarily. Oh god. Maybe I’d underestimated my remaining feelings for him? He looked so handsome and sweet and a little bit sad. He was wearing the faded khaki T-shirt that I had always loved on him. I tried to ignore how it brought out the green in his eyes and highlighted his pectorals. “Hi,” he said, huskily. “Thanks for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. My voice was clipped and formal as I walked through the doorway. I turned to him. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks,” he said sadly, his eyes downcast. “Come on in.”

As I entered the living room, the apartment felt familiar and yet strange. The elements were the same but it no longer had that feeling of hominess. Colin hadn’t replaced the pieces of furniture that I’d removed when I left, so the room had an unfinished feeling, like it was only half complete. I tried to ignore the symbolism as I sat on the small tan loveseat (the matching sofa was sitting in my storage locker).

“Can I get you a glass of wine?”

Wine was not a good idea. You certainly didn’t need wine to comfort a sad friend, and it obviously wasn’t going to make Colin any less attractive. No, I’d suggest a cup of tea instead. But somehow, when I opened my mouth, the word “sure” came out. What was going on with me? Did my borderline alcoholic liver have control over my brain? Or was my nervous system just crying out for some sort of relaxant? I decided to go with the second theory.

Colin went to the kitchen and soon returned with two glasses of red wine. “It’s that Australian Cabernet Merlot you like so much,” he said, almost shyly.

“Thanks.” I took a long sip of the full-bodied red, and then placed it on the overturned laundry basket that was serving as a coffee table. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m doing okay. Better, now that you’re here.”

Don’t sleep with him . . . don’t sleep with him. “How’s your mom?”

“It’s been hard on her. Grandpa was old, but it’s never easy to lose a parent, I guess.”

“Yeah, of course. Have you had the funeral already?”

“It was on Monday. It was a really nice service . . . sad, but nice.” He tore his eyes from his wineglass and looked at me intently. “How are you doing? You look great.”

I had to admit, I was looking pretty great. For some reason I’d put intense effort into my appearance that evening. While I knew you didn’t need blown-out hair and smokey eyes to comfort a friend in need, I’d felt compelled to take pains with my appearance. “Thanks. I’m doing well.” I paused. “Moving on.”

Colin winced at these words, as though they caused him physical pain. Oh shit. I was supposed to be comforting him, not rubbing his nose in the fact that I was suddenly feeling optimistic about my romantic future again. I reached for my wine. “Of course, some days are better than others.”

We sipped our drinks in silence for a while. We had always had that comfort level where words weren’t necessary, even when we were first dating. But things had changed and I scrambled for the appropriate thing to say. I could ask after his grandmother. But maybe I should leave the subject of loss behind for a while. What about work? I could ask how his design job was going. Or would that make it sound like I didn’t care that he’d just lost his grandfather? Maybe I should go broader and bring up some world affairs. I was just about to comment on the astronomical price of oil per barrel when Colin spoke.

“Beth...I wanted to see you tonight because—” His voice seemed to catch in his throat. “Well, it’s Valentine’s Day and—”

I jumped in, my voice shrill. “But that’s not what this is about, right? I mean, your grandfather died!”

“Of course. It’s just that... my grandpa dying and it being Valentine’s Day made me realize . . .” He cleared his throat. “I still feel . . . umm . . . I just—”

“What? What?”

He set his wine on the laundry basket and reached for my hand. “I still love you, Beth, just as much as I ever did. And what we had together was so special and so wonderful.”

“It was, Colin, and I’ll always care about you, too, but—”

He cut me off. “Let me finish. I know we had some problems, some differences of opinion, but we can work on that. When my grandfather died, I just felt so—so alone without you. I need you, Beth. I really need you.”

Oh my god! Was he crying? He was! He was crying a little bit and begging me to come back! How many times had I fantasized about this exact scenario in the last few months? How many times had I hoped for some kind of catalyst to make him realize that his future was with me? It was unfortunate that his grandfather had to die for him to see it, but every cloud has a silver lining. “I need you, too,” I said, as tears sprang to my eyes. They weren’t tears of joy exactly, more tears of relief. Colin and I belonged together. We were a pair, one incomplete without the other—much like the couch and loveseat.

So when Colin reached for me and began to kiss me, I didn’t pull away. The don’t sleep with him mantra was irrelevant now. Surely his tears and heartfelt plea meant we were getting back together? That he was ready to commit to me, heart and soul? It only made sense to have some sort of celebratory sex. It was Valentine’s Day after all! While I knew some (i.e., Angie) would view the timing of our reunion as a little corny, I chose to see it as . . . poetic.

As he lay me down on the loveseat, I revelled in his familiar scent, his taste, the feeling of his hand as it reached under my sweater. No, this wasn’t new—it was better than new. It was easy and comfortable and yet still wildly exciting. I hadn’t been so much as touched by a man in over three months! Well, I think Martin may have accidentally brushed my elbow at our first stitch ’n bitch meeting, but that hardly counted. It simply wasn’t healthy to go that long without physical contact. I needed this as much as Colin did.

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” he whispered, as he pulled his belt from his jeans.

“Okay,” I said, eagerly. “I know the way.”

IT WASN’T UNTIL COLIN’S CLOCK RADIO BEGAN TO blare at 7:20 A.M. that I realized I had spent the night. It had been my intention to go home after our lovemaking, but I’d felt so secure and warm in his arms that I must have drifted off. Besides, it had been so nice to sleep in our old bed again, lulled to slumber by the rhythmic sound of his breathing, and not to hear Kendra’s voice on the phone with her mom, complaining about the price of bus tickets.

“Hey, you,” he said sleepily, rolling over to kiss me.

“Hey,” I cooed. “I had fun last night.”

“Me, too.”

“Do you have to be at work at nine?”

“Yeah.” He sighed heavily. “Although...” A devilish grin appeared on his lips as he looked at me. “I could always call in sick.”

“Really?” Colin never called in sick! We’d only been back together one night and already he’d changed for the better! Not that calling in sick normally constituted a change for the better, but it was evidence of his new-found commitment to spending time with me.

“Sure.” He began to nuzzle my neck. “We’ve got to make up for lost time.” He began planting a trail of kisses along my neck, over my collarbone, and toward my breasts. It felt great, but there were serious issues looming that were distracting me.

“We have so much to talk about,” I said, “like, what are the next steps? Do we move back in together right away, or wait until we’re engaged? I think it would probably be better to wait. We don’t want people to think we’re one of those flaky couples who continually break up and get back together.” The kisses stopped. Colin lifted his head and looked at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“What?”

“Well . . . It’s just that we’ve only been back together like, ten minutes, and you’re already talking about getting engaged.”

My eyes narrowed. “You said we could overcome our differences of opinion.”

“We can,” he said, sitting up. “And we will. But I didn’t mean right this second. We’ve got lots of time to talk about it.”

I sat bolt upright. “Oh my god! Was this just a ploy to get me to have sex with you on Valentine’s night?”

“No! Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Is your grandpa even dead?!”

“Of course he is!” His voice was angry now, but I would not be deterred.

“I have one question for you, Colin.”

“What?” he grumbled.

“Have you changed your mind about getting married and having a family?”

There was a long, painful pause. Finally, he said, quietly, “I’m willing to talk about it some more.”

“Talk about it some more? We talked about it for four years!” I cried. “Have you changed your mind or not?”

“Well...” Colin cleared his throat. “My grandpa’s death did make me rethink things somewhat...”

“Somewhat?”

“Like I said...” He sounded nervous now. “I would definitely be willing to discuss the subject of—” he paused to clear his throat loudly again “—marriage.”

Oh my god! I had just slept with him under the illusion that he’d had some major revelation about the whole institution and yet he was choking on the word! I reached for my pants. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Beth, don’t go,” he said, touching my shoulder. “I meant what I said. I love you. I need you.”

But I had heard this tune before. Colin wanted me to be with him, but on his terms, not mine. Absolutely nothing had changed. I turned to face him, and when I spoke, my tone was surprisingly venomous. “Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it? I guess you’re just going to have to get over me.”