“Aubrey, it's just sex." Lucia makes a noise with her tongue, an admonishing cluck. “Everyone has sex. Even me." She gestures with a hand to her chest, her laughterthroaty.
“I'll make sure I don't mention that to Isaac," I say, laughing withher.
“Our family is very open. Though he might not want to hear about his mom and dad in thatway."
It's hard enough to imagine my parents ever even knew each other, let alone did what they needed to do to makeme.
“I am curious though..." Lucia’s lips twist after she trailsoff.
“Askaway."
“That night... Did you two not use protection? I thought I'd had enough sex talks with Isaac when he was younger that he understood the importance ofprotection."
Beneath the table my hands fold together, my fingers intertwining. I take a deepbreath.
“We did.” Memories of that night come down on me like a curtain. Isaac, sexy as hell with his shirt off and his pants unbuttoned, leaning over me on his bed. We'd used protection. And yet… “I went over it in my head a hundred times after I got the positive result. I don't know what went wrong. I really don't." I shake my head, still as confounded today as I was that day in my bathroom, staring at the plus sign. “I don’t think he made a mistake, but maybe our judgment was clouded. From alcohol and—” I purse my lips. I've said toomuch.
Lucia smirks. “Passion?” She raises hereyebrows.
I nod. Now I'm reallyembarrassed.
“So you and Isaac had passion? When you barely knew each other?" She makes the clucking sound again. “I wonder if you still have that fire betweenyou?"
“Claire is between us now. She's our priority." I'm resolute about this. Claire needs two clearheaded, strong parents. There is no room for messy, dramaticromance.
Lucia watches me for two seconds, her eyes searching my statement for weakness. Then she rollsthem.
It's her biggest eye rollyet.
Now that I’mpretty much healthy, I feel like I need to get reacquainted with Isaac’s place. Four days confined to a bed has made me feel like a newcomeragain.
I take a turn through his big, beautiful white kitchen. My fingers trail along the stainless-steel fridge, the island made of black wood, the marble countertops I needed so badly the first night I was sick. Part of me wants to spill red juice, just to see what it would look like in its marred perfection. The other part of me wants to never touchanything.
I'm in the pantry, rifling through boxes of crackers and bags of chips, when Isaac walks up behind me. He reaches over my head and pulls down a basket of oranges. I follow him to the counter and watch him peelone.
"You want?" He offers it tome.
I take it from his outstretchedhand.
He peels a second orange and pops a segment into his mouth. I watch, transfixed. Something about the way Isaac chews is so manly. It's not annoying or gross. Shouldn't chewing be gross? Why isn't it forIsaac?
“Are you going to eat your orange?" He points at the fruit in mypalm.
I look down at it. “I don't want to get any juice on your countertops. They're so..." I look around at them. “Clean."
He grabs a small plate from the cupboard and slips it under myhand.
“Not white?" I drop the orange onto the navy-blue plate and pull itapart.
“Huh?" Isaac grabs a bottle of red wine and pulls thecork.
“The plate. It's not white. Every time we’ve eaten, it’s been on something white. I thought maybe white is yourthing."
His back is to me as he takes two glasses from the cabinet, but I see his headshake.
“Not my thing." He turns around, meets my eyes, and looks backdown.
“Do you missher?”
