Eventually, when her legs started to give out and his face lost its clarity, George reached down and rubbed herself to completion, the climax so languorous and full of love that she leaned down and kissed him, enjoying the clench of his jaw and the guttural noises he made as he came.
It took forever to come down from whatever transcendental cloud they’d disappeared on, but Clay’s voice finally broke through.
“Got scissors up here, or am I gonna have to dislocate my shoulder to get outta this thing?”
She cut him out, and they lay together for a bit, this new thing between them. Fresh and raw, unfinished, but gleaming with potential.
After a bit, Clay got up and went to the bathroom. He was quiet when he came back in, and it took her a while to notice him standing stiffly in the doorway, looking…regretful? Sheepish? Oh, no. No, no, no, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not anymore.
“Condom broke,” he said, his voice tight.
She swallowed, not quite getting it at first. That wasn’t what she’d been bracing for. “What?” She ran a hand down between her legs to where she was, admittedly, soaking.
“Didn’t just break. The damned thing tore in half.”
“Oh” was all George said as her fingers ran through the wetness, lifted it to her nose, sniffed, and… Yes. It certainly did appear to be… “Oh no,” she gasped, her throat too small for air, much less words. It was Tuesday. Tuesday, which made tomorrow…
He was talking, words floating to her, saying things like “safe” and “tested” and “screening.” But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered, because here she was, her ovaries rife with eggs, flourishing like the weeds in her garden, and she’d gotten herself possibly impregnated by this man.
This man, instead of the man she’d been married to. The man whose baby she was supposed to have.
“Are you on birth control?” His words sank in, and George lifted her head, blinking, still fuzzy.
“No,” she said on a giddy burble of laughter. “No, I’m definitely not on birth control. Definitely, definitely not.” The laughter morphed into something less pleasant, and she considered rolling up into a ball on her bed but realized she’d do better to get up, walk around, run to the bathroom, where she peed and then got into the bathtub, ignoring the big, sweaty, crushed-looking man standing in the doorway as she ran the shower. She’d clean herself. She’d clean it, and then tomorrow, she could go to her IUI appointment and—
George stood in the shower, staring dully at the tiles, her eyes dry in their sockets, despite the water running over her and the tears throbbing to get out, knowing how badly she’d messed up. She’d let her libido rule her, allowed the momentary madness with this wholly inappropriate man to decide her future and that of the baby Tom Hadley would never, ever have. The baby she’d promised to his parents, the baby she’d prepared for in every way—her job, her house, the garden, the spare bedroom, painted pale yellow and ready to furnish. Somewhere in the craziness, Clay got in with her, said words that she couldn’t hear through the throbbing guilt and shame, and held her in his strong arms.
* * *
Clay turned off the water, wrapped George up in a towel, and led her back to her room, leaving a trail of wet footprints behind them as they went.
“You wanna talk about what just happened?” he asked.
She shook her head and walked into her closet to get dressed. She was hiding from him. Hiding, after everything they’d done.
“We done sharing for tonight?” he asked, going for cavalier but sounding silly instead.
“Yes.” The closet was big, one of those old ones with the slanted roof, and George’s words echoed from within. “No.”
Standing by her bed, in her perfect, ladylike room, tainted now with the smell of sex, he voiced his main concern. “Was it something I did? Did I hurt you?”
“What?” There was a pause before she emerged from her closet, in a stained UVA Cavs T-shirt and a threadbare pair of plaid boxer shorts, to give him a hug—sorely needed, he realized—with her arms finally around him. “Oh, no, Clay. No. No.”
“Good” was all he said, but that one word was just the tip of the iceberg of relief that swept through him. Not only because he hadn’t hurt her, but also thanks to the hug. The hug felt damn good after everything that had gone down between them tonight.
Her head pressed to his chest, she asked, “Is there any wine left?”
“About half the bottle.”
“Good. I could use a glass right now.”
“I’ll go get—”
“No.” She stopped him. “You get dressed. Come find me when you’re done.”
Clay let her go, pulling on his clothes with a sort of finality he hadn’t thought he’d experience anytime soon, like he’d better not leave a sock behind, because he wouldn’t be seeing it again if he did. The way she was acting didn’t feel right. It felt like he’d fucked up, with that condom breaking. Which made sense. And it was fine, of course, because who the fuck would want his baby anyway, right?
She’d told him to get dressed, which sounded an awful lot like good-bye.
