THREE’S A CROWD

Book 2 in the “Strange Bedfellows” series

Q. Kelly

Author’s Notes: This book is a prequel and sequel of sorts for “Strange Bedfellows.” Technically speaking, you don’t need to read “Strange Bedfellows” to enjoy this book, although doing so will help you better understand some aspects. At the least, I recommend you read the blurb for “Strange Bedfellows” below.

Also, the Georgetown Barnes & Noble has closed, but when I started writing this novel in 2006, the store was going strong. I’ve taken a wee bit of license and left the Barnes & Noble in. Thirdly, this novel has several lines/scenes very similar to lines and scenes in “Strange Bedfellows.” See if you can spot them!

Blurb for “Three’s a Crowd”

Carol Thomas is shocked when her fiance comes home late one night with an announcement: he’s gotten back in touch with a college buddy named Ennis Evans, and she's up for a threesome. Carol shoves aside her misgivings and tentatively agrees. She considers herself a prude in many ways and wants to break through her shell.

As she gets to know Ennis and experiences an immediate, undeniable attraction, Carol keeps putting off the menage a trois. She begins to wonder if she's gay and falling in love with Ennis. Then the night of the threesome arrives and changes Carol for life. But Carol still has much to learn. She finds out the hard way that Washington is a city known for intrigue and double dealings. Many things aren't what they seem on the surface, and just what is Ennis's connection with Washington's most infamous call girl, Elena Marie Elise?

Blurb for “Strange Bedfellows”

Frances Dourne is apparently a shining example for ex-gays. She runs Gay is a Choice, a national ex-gays group. What people do not know is that she is deeply unhappy. She is ready to come out of the closet and be true to herself. She seeks help and feedback—and okay, maybe a sexual treat or two—from a high-class call girl.

Elena, the call girl, wants to escape from the realities of her past, and her job allows her to do so. She never gets attached to her clients, but her new client surprises her. Can Elena and Frances learn to trust each other enough to find the love they seek in each other's arms?

PART 1 A—2009-2010

Carol Speaks

Chapter One

Patrick’s home. Finally. At nine o’clock, when dinner is cold, and I’ve blown out the candles. He simply breezes in, all bright-eyed and excited. Not one iota weary, like a rookie lawyer who works sixteen-hour days should be. He grabs me and hugs me tight. I’ve not seen him this enthusiastic in weeks, so naturally, I’m wary.

“Hey, babe,” he says, his smile wide. He does not notice the food or the candles. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“Remember you said you’d be up to a threesome?”

I blink. Then I blink some more. “Right,” I finally squeak. “Right.” I can’t believe Patrick remembers this conversation—it was six months ago at a Christmas party, and I thought he was half-joking.

“Well, I’ve found her.”

I swallow. Oh, no. No, no, no. “You have?”

“I asked her to come over tomorrow so you can give your okay.”

“Who is she?”

“Ennis Evans.”

The name is familiar, but I need a few moments to make the connection. “Ennis! Your friend from college?”

“Yup.”

“Wait, so…how’d you find her? And ask her out of the blue to do a threesome? I thought she wasn’t on Facebook.”

Patrick grins and kisses me on the cheek. He notices the food on the table, and he clicks his tongue in approval. “Sweet.” He slides chicken and corn in the microwave then turns to me. “Well, I was at lunch with Crandell about a week ago. She came in, saw me, and we got to chatting. She hasn’t changed a bit. Turns out she moved to D.C. a couple of months ago. So…” Patrick reaches into the microwave and feels the food. He puts more time on the clock. “So we’ve hung out some the past few days. Today, I asked her about the threesome, and she said, yeah, fine, she’d consider it. She’s coming over at eleven tomorrow morning.”

I can only stare at my fiance. I love him so much, I really do. But I do not want a threesome. Not with a man, not with a woman. I want only Patrick and me. However, I want to make Patrick happy, and I’ve always been afraid he views me as a prude in bed. Besides, he seems so, so thrilled at the prospect of this tryst. He and I have grown apart since we moved to D.C. Before then, really. He used to be attentive, caring and concerned. Sometimes he displays flashes of his old self, but his job keeps him bogged down and too busy to care much about me. When we’re together these days, a rare occurrence in itself, he’s content to veg on the couch and basically tune me out.

“Ennis, huh,” I whisper. I am jealous. From what Patrick has told me, her beauty and sense of adventure would put any goddess to shame.

Patrick pulls his plate out of the microwave. He fixes a drink—doesn’t ask if I want anything. He sits at the table and digs into his dinner.

“This is good, babe,” he says. “Hey, come over here. It’ll be all right, you’ll see. It’ll be fun!”

“Right,” I say. “Right. Uh…” I join Patrick at the table. “Tomorrow’s for…”

“Just to meet and see if you guys get along.” He cocks a grin and winks. “But who knows, maybe we’ll all get lucky. Man, this is the best chicken ever! And you’re the best girlfriend ever, Carol.”

“Fiancee,” I mutter.

“Right, fiancee.”

*****

I stack and restack the spoons and forks in the silverware drawer as Patrick and I wait for Ennis to arrive. I have never been this nervous. I can’t believe I’m letting matters get this far—because no way would I do a threesome, right? Right. So why have I been totally smooth smiles and: “Yes, yes, Patrick, it’s all right, I promise. You’re right; it’ll be fun?” I can tell myself all I want that I’ll be capable of following through when the time comes, but that doesn’t mean I’ll actually follow through.

I don’t think I’ve yelled at Patrick in the three years we’ve been together. Maybe I’ve raised my voice once or twice. I have issues, I suppose. Blame my overbearing, hot-tempered parents whom I am loath to mimic in any way. I did most anything to avoid them yelling at me, and it’s a pattern that followed me into my adult life. I want so badly to please people, most of all Patrick. He is incredibly smart, ambitious, handsome and athletic. The entire package, complete with wavy sandy blond hair and piercing blue eyes. I ask myself many times how I got so lucky to be with him. Me, mousy, shy wallflower me. Me who dreads whenever a customer approaches for help at the bookstore.

Yeah, bookstore. I work at Barnes & Noble in Georgetown while Patrick cuts his teeth and collects big bucks as a fledgling attorney at his dad’s firm near the White House.

Ennis has not arrived by eleven-ten, and my heart is about to give out. Patrick seems nonchalant. He’s been glued to ESPN since ten-fifteen. “She’s late sometimes,” he explains.

I have to say something, anything, to keep up the semblance of normalcy. “Is she driving or taking the Metro?” We live in DuPont Circle. Our apartment is only a couple of blocks from the subway, also called the Metro. Parking is a hassle around here.

“Dunno. Hey, Carol, look at this replay. Isn’t that awesome?” Patrick points to a baseball player scaling a fence to prevent a homerun.

“Nice,” I murmur, and wander over to the window. We’re on the third floor, and visitors have to buzz before we let them in.

I glimpse her then. Ennis. Ennis, going up to our building and pressing a button. An aura, a presence surrounds her. I would know her identity even if Patrick hadn’t described her.

Bzzzzzzzzzz!

My stomach clenches, and I want to disappear. But I continue studying the woman Patrick desires to be our number three. She is more than I could have imagined, and I wonder what in the heck Patrick sees in me.

Bzzzzzzzzz!

“She’s here,” Patrick says, and he presses a button by the door. “Ennis? Yeah, come on up.”

Thirty seconds later, there she is in the doorway. She is maybe a couple of inches taller than I am. She has long, wavy reddish-brown hair, cinnamon-colored eyes and a cool smile. She wears no makeup but does not need it. Her lips are full and enticing. The month is June, and her blue tank top and jean shorts show off nothing but pale skin—and a yellow bracelet on her right wrist, a purple bracelet on her left.

Pale skin works on her. She is a human porcelain doll—unblemished and white, so white.

Patrick’s eyes pop out, and he drools. “Ennis, hey! Glad you made it. Hey, Carol, Carol, come over here.”

I do not want to “Come over here.” The degree of my plainness is absurd. I possess ordinary dark hair, ordinary blue eyes and a crooked smile. I am barely five feet five inches tall, and twenty extra-special pounds stick to me like white on rice. Last but not least is my name, as inoffensive a name that could exist: Carol Ann Thomas.

BOOOORING.

Somehow, I shuffle over to Patrick and Ennis, and she checks me out. I try to smile, smilesmileCarol, but I cannot. Not when Ennis’s gaze is roaming my body, not when her lips are tugging downward. Ennis apparently does not like what she sees—which is good in a way—no threesome, right? But it doesn’t do wonders for my self-esteem.

Miss Carol Ann Thomas is disqualified!

“Ennis, this is Carol, my fiancee. Carol, this is Ennis Evans.” Patrick, more or less, pushes us together.

Ennis holds out her hand. “Hello,” she says, and she gives me a little smile. A mischievous, let’s-just-humor-the-boy grin.

I take her hand. I wish she’d say “Hello” again—her voice is deep and rich, but definitely feminine. I love it.

“Hi…hey,” I stammer. “Nice to meet you. So…so you’re Ennis.”

“Who wants drinks?” Patrick asks.

I exhale a huge sigh of relief. “Tequila would be good.”

Patrick chuckles. “It’s not even noon. I meant like coffee. Or soda.”

“Right, of course. Water for me.”

*****

Patrick, Ennis and I chat a bit about superficial stuff. I hate how he looks at her. He is all puppy-eyed and drooling. I am afraid he will leave me for her.

Patrick tires of the chatter after about five minutes and asks Ennis: “So what do you say? Threesome?”

“Sounds good if it’s okay with Carol,” she replies.

They both gaze at me.

I feel like a beet-red deer in headlights. “Sure,” I sputter. “Sure.” I want to ask Ennis why she is doing this, if she’s done threesomes (or foursomes, fivesomes and so on) before, but I’ve been raised not to ask questions.

“When?” Patrick asks.

Ennis shrugs. “Now?”

My heart stops, and Patrick’s eyes go wide.

He recovers first. “Sure! What do you say, Carol?”

I lick my lips. “Now?” I squeak.

Ennis laughs. “Or later. Later is fine, too.”

“Or both,” Patrick interjects with a grin. “Now and later.”

Ennis frowns at this. So do I. “I thought it was just gonna be one time,” I whisper.

Patrick tilts his head. “Sure, hey, we’ll play it by ear. So…so, uh…you sure now’s okay with you, Carol?”

Never is okay with me.

Me: “How is this gonna work?”

Patrick: “Well, I figure you and Ennis can kiss a little bit first. You know, get in the mood and all. Get the foreplay you women like. And then we’ll see how it goes from there.”

I nod slowly and uncertainly. My body screams NONONO, but Patrick really wants this.

“She doesn’t seem very receptive,” Ennis points out.

“Oh, she is. Carol’s cool. She’s a cool cat.”

Hey, guys, I’m here. Yoo-hoo.

“I don’t know,” Ennis counters. “If she doesn’t want to do it, she shouldn’t.”

Patrick sighs. “Tell her, Carol. You’re fine with this, right? You want this too.”

My tongue bloats to thick and clumsy, so I nod.

Patrick beams. “See?”

“Ever been with a woman?” Ennis asks.

“No.”

“Ever wanted to be with a woman?”

I look into Ennis’s eyes, which hold a fair share of green. Not quite cinnamon-colored eyes, after all. In any case, I see no judgment there. Only simple curiosity.

“No,” I lie. See, there was Mickie from high school and Helen from college…but two out of, what, hundreds of women I’ve known? Well, I suppose there were Vicki and Connie in college too, and maybe Addison in high school too…okay, five out of hundreds.

Ennis persists in her questioning: “Ever kissed a woman?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Ennis puckers her lips. “Carol, hey…if you’re not ready to do this now, that’s cool. Just say the word.”

I shiver when Ennis says my name. Carol. Carol. Carol. I want her to say it again. My name becomes an exotic tiger on her tongue. Carol, a name gone wild.

“She’s fine,” Patrick puts in. “She kept saying last night it was fine, really.”

“Right, yes. I’m fine.” It would make Patrick happy, and at least Ennis doesn’t seem like she wants to steal him from me.

Ennis crosses her legs and leans back in her seat on the couch. “All right, then. Let’s get it on.”

Chapter Two

The three of us are in the bedroom, and Patrick asks if I wouldn’t mind undressing Ennis. I say no problem, but it isn’t me who says no problem. The real Carol is out there, floating somewhere. Looking in, perhaps with amusement, or with horror, at the mess I have gotten myself into. Am I really going to undress this woman, this Ennis? Will I have sex with her? Will I allow my fiance to have sex with her? When will I be brave enough to say: “No! Stop this madness!”

I am so nervous, so agitated, I might throw up.

I explode then. “Patrick,” I scream at him, “why am I not enough for you? Why do you have to bring this woman in?”

Patrick swallows. Then he laughs. “All right, all right, Carol. Calm down. We’ll do the threesome later, okay? Tonight?”

“No!”

“You just need to get to know Ennis. Hey, go out for coffee with her, huh? Just the two of you so you feel comfortable with her.”

I slump onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. I hear Ennis say: “I’ll go.”

I am so worried about impressing people, about getting people to like me, that even then, it hits me that Ennis must think I am a bad hostess. A killjoy. One step from a nunnery. The worst part is, she’s right. I haven’t an adventurous bone in my body, and I hate that. I want to break through my shell.

I uncover my face and get to my feet. “Don’t go, Ennis. We’ll do this.” It’s just one time. One time. Do it, get it over with. Wash your hands of it. Make Patrick happy.

There is hesitation on Ennis’s face, in her eyes. “You sure, Carol?” she asks. “We absolutely don’t need to do this now.”

“I have an idea,” Patrick says. “Let’s start off slow. Like, you and Ennis can kiss. Just for a bit. Then later, like next week, take it a little further. Do a little more each week. Until you’re ready to go all the way.”

I hate this idea at first. It only postpones the inevitable. Still, it does have its merits. Kissing isn’t too bad, at least for today. It’ll give me time to figure a way out of this before I have to undress Ennis, see her perfect curves and long legs, and compare them to my pasty, pear-shaped body.

“I’m not a toy, Patrick,” Ennis snaps. “I thought this would be one time, then we’re done.”

I wonder if Ennis thinks I am a toy.

Patrick’s cellphone rings. He grabs it from the nightstand and barks a hello.

His expression changes immediately. “Dad, hey. What? The Bronstein papers, yeah…right. What? No, no, they’re there, in my office. What? You wanted me to fax them? Daaaad. I’m in the middle of something right now. I can’t go to the office. It’s Saturday. Who’s gonna get the fax anyway, and—yeah. Yeah. Fine. On my way.” Patrick hangs up, scowls at me and Ennis.

“I gotta go, sorry. I’ll be back in two hours, tops.” He arches his eyebrows hopefully at Ennis. “If you stay, you and Carol can talk and get to know each other better.”

Ennis makes a noncommittal sound.

I grin, big and genuinely. I have never liked my future father-in-law more. Saved by the bell.

“Okay, so, I’ll be back soon. Uh, hey, maybe you two can kiss before I go?”

Ennis glares at Patrick. “No.”

*****

“I’m sorry,” Ennis says after Patrick heads out. We’re in the kitchen, and I hope she’ll leave soon, too. “He told me you really wanted to do this—that it was more your idea than his.”

I chuckle nervously. “Want another drink?”

“Why are you doing this? You obviously don’t want to.”

“I want to,” I say in a tinny voice.

“You don’t.”

“Look, I wanna make Patrick happy, okay? What can this one little thing hurt?”

“It’s not a little thing to some people.”

“Guess we can’t all be like you.”

Ennis snorts and brushes hair out of her eyes. “Who were they?”

“Huh?”

“The women you wanted to be with.”

“I told you, I haven’t.”

“It’s not bad, you know,” she says softly. “To be attracted to women.”

“I know, I know,” I respond in a rush. “But I’m not gay or bisexual.”

“I’m gay. Did Patrick tell you that?”

“You’re gay? Then why...but…I don’t understand. Patrick’s a man. Why would you want a threesome with him?”

“Like I said, he told me it was your idea, that it was really for you. I figured I’d help a fellow woman out. It’s not like I’ll catch cooties if I happen to touch Patrick’s penis.” Ennis laughs. “Besides, I owe Patrick a couple of favors. He saved my neck a few times in college, and it could be fun.”

She has a nice laugh. I want her to laugh again—and to say my name again. I’m also jealous at the way she treats sex casually and easily. “You think I’m Patrick’s toy, don’t you?”

Ennis quirks an eyebrow in surprise. “Not at all. He’s a decent guy who doesn’t think sometimes. Typical male.” She laughs yet again, in clear, high tones.

“Did Patrick say…did he tell you…well, I don’t please him?”

“No,” Ennis replies gently, her voice full of concern. “It’s only something he wants to try. He’s happy with you.”

Hearing this from Ennis, from number three, makes me feel better. It does. To know that Patrick isn’t bad-mouthing me, that it’s simply something he wants to try. I mean, I’ve always wanted to go to Paris, to Rome, to Barcelona, to Lithuania. Just something to try…

“Have you done threesomes?” I ask.

“Sure,” Ennis says. Her answer is easy and smooth. Again, I am jealous.

“Lots?”

“Five times.” She doesn’t need to think about it. The five times rattles right off her tongue.

“Foursomes? Fivesomes? Sixsomes?”

Another Ennis-laugh, and this time she flips her shiny reddish-brown hair back. “I like you, Carol. You’re funny.”

I have no idea how my questions are funny, but I manage a grin in return. “I try.”

Ennis surveys the kitchen and seems shy all of a sudden. “This is selfish on my part, too.”

“How so?”

“I haven’t had sex in a while. It’s been a few months,” she confesses.

“Oh.”

“I’ve been so busy with moving to D.C., starting the new job, and…” A shadow crosses her face.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I know that expression. “You had a breakup?”

She grimaces. “Yeah. Six months ago. Her name was Christine. I really thought we…ah, no. No.” She grins sheepishly. “I won’t bore you.”

“I don’t mind.”

She waves my comment away. “So, you said earlier that you work at Barnes & Noble.”

“Yeah, and you’re a wedding planner, right?”

“Yep.”

“Do you like the work?” I imagine Ennis planning my and Patrick’s wedding. What a disaster that would be, number three in charge.

“Other than the occasional Bridezilla, it’s good work. How about you at Barnes & Noble?”

“It’s okay. It’s work.”

Ennis glances at the clock on the microwave. I’ve probably bored her to death.

“Sorry,” I say hastily. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”

She chuckles, looks at me with amused eyes. “Who says you were? I was checking how much time we have before Patrick gets back. Do you want to…?” She tilts her head in the direction of the bedroom.

Imbecile that I am, I fail to instantly grasp the meaning of her words, even though her eyes are serious and intent, yet playful. Even though she wears that mischievous, let’s-just-humor-the-boy grin from earlier, only now it’s a let’s-just-have-some-fun-you-and-me grin.

“Well?” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Oh! You want to…you want to…oh, no. Patrick wouldn’t like if we got started without him.”

“He’d get over it.”

Ennis is serious, she really is. I think.

She nudges me in the rib. “Relax. I was kidding.”

I let out a relieved breath. “I know. I knew that.”

She smiles. “No, you didn’t. But that’s okay. Look, uh…” She straightens and is genuinely somber now. “Don’t do this if you don’t want to. Really. Patrick will live.”

“One time, what can it hurt? I’m such a prude, anyway.”

“Yeah. Yeah, all right.”

“Why do you wanna do this, anyway? With me? I’m not very pretty.”

Ennis makes an incredulous sound. “Come again?”

“I’m plain.”

“You’re not.”

“You frowned when you saw me,” I point out.

Ennis grins uneasily. “Uh…”

“Yeah. See.”

“No, no, Carol. I…” She presses a hand to her forehead. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

Ennis sounds sincere, and I want to believe her. But I keep replaying that frown of disapproval.

“I didn’t realize I’d frowned. I apologize, but it’s not what you think. I was frowning because…”

“Why?”

Ennis shrugs. “I thought it was a shame you were wasted on a man.”

Ennis’s explanation fills my stomach with butterflies. “You’re a smooth talker.”

“Perhaps, but I speak the truth. You are beautiful.” Ennis brings her hand to my face and traces my jaw. She’s so close I notice freckles sprinkling her nose. Cute. Really cute. More human, less like a porcelain doll.

“Look at that structure,” Ennis continues.

“My face is round,” I say, even though every nerve in my body leaps to life, even though Ennis’s eyes, beautiful, intense and flecked with gold, search my face. Ennis’s touch is so smooth, so nice, so agonizing…I hate how she looks at me. I love it, too.

“Nope, no round face. You have high, nice cheekbones.”

“My hair, then. It’s mousy.”

“Are you kidding?” Ennis giggles—a strange sound coming from her. She moves her hand into my hair. “Shiny. Well taken care of. Smells good too. Strawberries and cream?”

My throat is dry. I cannot believe what Ennis is doing to me, what I am letting her do to me. I cannot believe the warmth stirring between my legs. This is turning me on.

“My lips,” I say. “Thin lips.”

“Full, pouty, beautiful lips,” Ennis murmurs, her breath hot on my face.

The warmth between my legs turns into a throbbing. I wonder if Ennis will kiss me. I wonder if I’ll let her. Desire shines in her eyes, but she holds back. She even breaks the contact with me. “Wow,” she says, embarrassed. “I don’t know why I…” She shakes her head. “Wow. But you’re beautiful. Really.”

“I don’t feel beautiful.”

“Doesn’t Patrick tell you every day that you are?”

“He used to, but he hasn’t in months.”

“Huh,” Ennis muses. “He shouldn’t take you for granted.”

I know then that Ennis needs to go. She needs to leave before I kiss her, before my throbbing takes over. I mumble something polite and trite. And so, with a wave and a smile, Ennis takes her leave. She does give me her cellphone number first, although we both know I won’t call.

Chapter Three

The next few days whoosh by in a blur. When I’m not working, I’m either at the gym to get into shape for the wedding, or I’m planning the big day, which entails burning up cellphone minutes with both my mother and Patrick’s mother. Then I wait for Patrick to get home, which, if I’m lucky, is by nine p.m.

He and I are scheduled to be married in December, six months from now, in Philadelphia. It’s where his mother and stepfather live, and where my family lives. The wedding will be huge and in an old church. I dread it. I imagine few things worse than being up in front of hundreds of people, their gazes burrowing into me and studying the lumps of fat decorating my white dress, the…the… I always shudder at the thought. But Patrick wants a big wedding, mainly for his mother. She doesn’t have a daughter—only Patrick. Who am I to say no to her? So, anyway, planning the wedding is a second job of sorts for me.

Tuesday night in bed, I say to Patrick: “Ennis told me that the threesome was my idea.”

“Huh?”

“She basically said she agreed to it only because I wanted it. She thought she’d be helping out a fellow woman.”

Patrick laughs. “She said that, did she?”

“Why are you laughing?”

His eyes twinkle. “Fine, fine, I’m guilty as charged. Is that so horrible?”

“It’s a lie, Patrick. I don’t want her to think I’m a sex-crazed perv.”

He grunts. “So I’m a sex-crazed perv? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No! Geez. No.”

“Carol,” Patrick says in a low and almost dangerous voice, “no one will ever mistake you for a perv. Ennis doesn’t. Okay? Good night.”

Patrick rolls over, and I stare at the ceiling. I kind of wish someone would think of me as a perv.

The next day, four days after that infamous Saturday meeting with Ennis, I remember she is a wedding planner. Hmm. She could give me some ideas, some tips. I wouldn’t put her in charge of the wedding, but a fresh perspective might help. She did seem nice. Genuine. However, every time I consider calling, I discount the thought. It is almost as if I’m contriving excuses to call her. That’s ridiculous, especially when she’s returning Saturday.

Yeah. Saturday.

Patrick talked her into coming back for another go. This time, he promises, the phones will be off. No interruptions. He asks me, repeatedly, if I’m okay with it.

Sure, I say each and every time. “You sure sure sure?” he asks. “You yelled at me pretty loud.”

“I’m fine,” I mumble. I keep thinking about how Ennis looked at me. I replay in slow motion Ennis flipping her hair back. She’s graceful and catlike—a ballet dancer. I replay her laughs because Patrick and I spend barely an hour together each day, and I’ve nearly forgotten what his laugh sounds like.

Friday night, exactly one week after Patrick announced that he’d found number three, I draw a bath with bubbles, candles, champagne, the whole bit, for Patrick and me when he gets home. This I haven’t done since before we moved to D.C., and I hope it’ll get my mind off Ennis and back on Patrick, the man who will be my husband. My partner for life.

The man I madly love.

I draw the bath at nine o’clock, drain it at nine-thirty, and Patrick calls at ten forty-five. They’re having problems at the law firm, he says. Important papers are missing. He won’t be home for a while. “Go to sleep,” he urges.

“Yeah.” I hang up, strip my pajamas off and crawl into bed. I stare at the darkened ceiling and think about Ennis. About Patrick. About me. Shy, unadventurous me. Will I do it tomorrow? With Patrick and Ennis?

Probably not. Maybe.

I reconsider calling Ennis and asking her about planning weddings. A question on flower arrangements, maybe. I don’t know crap about flowers, and I’m lonely. I’m relatively new to D.C., and Patrick’s never home. I’m too shy to make many friends—but Ennis is a friend. Kind of. Isn’t she?

I do not call.

*****

Ennis is right on time, at eight p.m. My stomach has been in knots all day—all week, really—at the prospect of seeing her again. Will I still be drawn to her? More so? Less so? Will I have sex with her?

She arrives in a tight black dress that shows off her hot curves and chest. Her legs are endless models of perfection. I wear jeans and a white T-shirt. Dowdy. Dumb.

Patrick’s eyes widen in appreciation when he sees Ennis. “Nice,” he purrs.

Ennis barely acknowledges him. “Hey,” she greets me, and in her expression is that apprehension when she broke our contact Saturday in the kitchen.

“Hey.” I lower my gaze and wish I could run into the bedroom and change into something better.

Patrick’s jaw continues to wriggle on the floor because of Ennis’s outfit. “That’s a really, yeah…” He licks his chops. “Nice dress. Where’d you get it?”

“Why do you care?”

Patrick shrugs. “Maybe for Carol. You want a dress like this, Carol?”

“My body’s not made for that.”

Patrick frowns. “Oh. I guess.”

“I think she’d look good in it,” Ennis contends.

“There’s one way to find out,” Patrick says. “Carol, you could…” Lust hardens his voice. “You could undress Ennis and see if the, uh…if her dress fits you.”

Fits me? I ain’t a Barbie.

Patrick jerks an eager thumb toward the bedroom. “What are we waiting for?”

*****

When we’re in the bedroom, Patrick asks me to kiss Ennis. I stay put, so he asks Ennis to kiss me. She doesn’t. Instead, from across the room, she asks in a clear, steady voice, “You sure this is okay, Carol?”

“Why don’t you two, you know…do your thing and I’ll watch?”

Patrick grunts. “Come on, Carol baby. It won’t be any fun without you.”

“You’d manage.”

Ennis cuts in: “Hey, Patrick, let me take Carol out. We’ll go dancing, whatever, have some drinks, have some fun. I’ll loosen her up.”

“Huh. Well, okay.”

I hate again that they discuss me like I’m not there, like I don’t have a say in the matter.

“So what do you think?” Ennis asks. Finally, I have a say.

I know I should answer no. Dancing, drinking, whatever with Ennis can’t be good. But part of me shivers with excitement at the chance for more alone time with number three. “Okay, all right,” I reply.

Ennis beams. “Wonderful! So you dance?”

“Oh, I…no, not well. I’m a piece of wood. Let’s not do that.”

“No problem. A few drinks?”

“Sure.”

“All right. I’ll let you change your clothes.”

*****

Once Ennis and I are outside, she takes my hand (the one without the engagement ring) and entwines our fingers. “Where to?” she asks.

“There are bars a few blocks down.” I can hardly think because warmth is gathering between my legs, damn it. Why does she have to hold my hand?

She grins. “Lead the way.”

We head toward the bars, and I suck my stomach in. Better to concentrate on my overly tight green dress than on the fact I love how Ennis holds my hand. But halfway through the walk, the tension is too much to bear. I have to say something, anything.

“I was going to call you for tips. Ideas for the wedding.”

“Then you should’ve called.”

“I guess.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Dunno. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Ennis laughs—and gosh, I really do adore her laugh. “I gave you my number for a reason, Carol. For you to call. When’s the wedding?”

“December fifteenth.” And here I am, holding hands with a woman.

“That’s still some time off.”

Words bypass my censoring brain: “Seems too soon.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Regular jitters, nothing worth mentioning.”

I lead her into the closest bar/restaurant/club. The place is fairly dark and hopping. A band jams rock tunes, and Ennis picks a tiny round table for us. We shout our drink orders to a waiter, who leaves as quickly as he appears. Ennis says something, but I cannot hear her. I only see her mouth move. Not that I’m complaining—her lips remind me of a flower in eternal bloom.

“Can’t hear you,” I mouth. I also point to my ears and shake my head.

She winks, reaches into her purse and draws out a notepad and a pen. Wow. She thinks of everything.

“It’s too quiet in here,” Ennis jots.

I fall in love with her handwriting. See, I’ve always had a thing about handwriting. There was this one girl in high school—Addison. She wasn’t traditionally pretty. She had buck teeth and wore glasses that grossly magnified her eyes, but her handwriting struck a chord inside me. Addison went from slightly ugly to beautiful. Now, Ennis goes from beautiful to perfect. Her writing is cursive, feminine. It flows in one seamless, uninterrupted line. It is elegant and graceful like her.

The waiter returns with our drinks: vodka and Coke for me, a White Russian for Ennis. My drink is disappointingly weak. Oh well. I begin to reply to Ennis’s note and try to match the elegance of her writing.

“It is quiet,” I write. And…come on. Think of something witty or insightful. “How’s your drink?” I finish lamely.

Ennis grins. The band stops playing, so she speaks her answer: “Delicious. Try it.”

I sip. “Mmm. Yeah. Sweet. Mine’s a weakling.”

She samples my drink. “Ick. I have medicine stronger than this.”

The band starts up again, louder than before. Back to pen and paper. “Let’s dance,” Ennis suggests in that beautiful handwriting of hers.

I blanch. “I’m wood, remember? Maybe after a few drinks.”

Ennis shakes her head no. Picks up the pen. “Let’s slow dance.”

I blink. Blink some more. “The music isn’t for slow dancing.”

“So? Who says we have to follow everyone else? Don’t listen to the music. Listen to yourself. Listen to your own song in your mind, in your heart. These people aren’t here. That band’s not here. It’s just you and me.”

My heart hammers lyric after lyric. Slow dancing with Ennis. These lovely words. That lovely woman. She leads me to the very center of the dance floor. Writhing, bumping bodies surround us. Women grind their butts into their boyfriends’ crotches. Some even hump their boyfriends’ legs. Men run their hands up and down over their girlfriends’ bodies. It is the dancing style called freaking—very suggestive of sexual acts.

“Forget them,” Ennis mouths, and she wraps her arms around me. She stays stiff, though. Does not pull me in, forcing me to take the next step. I go into her, not because I am supposed to, but because it feels natural. Because I want to. She relaxes, I relax.

Ennis is right. The blaring music and the wild dancers disappear. The world is me and her. No song plays in my mind. I just lose myself in her. I let her hold me, and she lets me hold her. She smells…I do not know. I cannot identify the smell. Are pheromones at play? How I used to love Patrick’s scent when I was falling in love with him.

After a while, Ennis draws back. I miss her touch but do not ask why she let go.

“Come on,” she says.

I hear her just fine. The band is playing—but quietly. A ballad. The musicians and the other dancers have followed our lead. Ennis’s lead, rather. Everyone sways slowly. Did Ennis stop because she was not being contrary anymore?

She takes my hand. “Want to go to a movie?” she asks.

Yes. Yes. Anywhere but home.

*****

Ennis and I stroll to the movie theater. The line stretches half a block, but we join it. I tighten my grip on her and interweave our fingers. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper. Then I realize I am tearing up. I let go of Ennis’s hand and dab at my eyes. What a fool I am making of myself.

“Hey.” Ennis sounds worried. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I croak as I study the looming ticket booth.

“You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble.

“Are you happy?”

I bite my lip and turn Ennis’s question back on her: “Are you happy?”

“I’m happy. Yes.”

“Why?”

Her lips tug up. “Life works out in the end.”

My hands grow claws. Red, feral claws. My life has suddenly become real. I’m getting married in six months, but Patrick and I have grown apart. What if we can’t grow back together? What if he shouldn’t be part of my future?

Chapter Four

For the movie, a shoot ‘em up action flick, Ennis and I hold hands. Other than that, she keeps her distance. No kissing me, no putting her hand on my leg, no feeling me up. I am glad; I do not need to be more confused and flustered.

After the movie ends (and, no, I really do not know much of what it is about—my heart, my mind, my entire being is focused on Ennis and on how quickly, how deeply, I have come to like her), we head outside and spill onto the busy sidewalk. She asks what I want to do next.

“I should call Patrick.”

A shadow crosses Ennis’s expression for a split-second. “Yeah. Guess you should.”

Patrick answers on the third ring. “What’s up? You girls having fun?”

“Yep. We watched a movie.”

Patrick does not reply right away, and I know that hesitation. I can practically see him frown. “Watched a movie? Thought you were going drinking and dancing or whatever.” In other words, I haven’t loosened up.

“Change of plan,” I say lightly.

“You two coming back now?”

“Not tonight, Patrick. It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he grunts. “All right. See you soon, babe. Love you.” He hangs up.

I take my time fiddling with my cellphone. I do not want to look at Ennis. Finally, though, I have no other choice, and she is studying me. Not with seriousness, not with disgust, not with disdain, not with amusement, but just…

Just.

Just studying me. Just looking at me with a genuinely curious and frank expression.

“I can’t do it tonight. Maybe next weekend. Saturday, okay? I’ll do it next Saturday.”

“You’re brave,” Ennis replies softly. “If I were in your shoes, I probably couldn’t do it at all.”

Surprise jolts my body. “What? But haven’t you done five threesomes?”

“Yes, but not with anyone I loved. Not when I was in a serious relationship. That’s tough with all these strong emotions floating around. I mean, I know it can be done. But I dunno…I don’t think I could do it if I wasn’t the third person or if it wasn’t a fling sort of thing.”

“Oh.”

“Does that make sense? It’s not for everybody—and so, Carol, don’t feel bad. It doesn’t mean you’re closed-minded or anything. Really. Like I said, you’re brave.” Ennis leans in, so earnest, so quick to reassure me.

It touches me. Gosh, it really does, how much she wants me to be at ease. For a flash, I imagine myself in bed with a man and a woman. A blurry man and a blurry woman. No one I know. No one I would see again. I am sandwiched between them. I kiss the woman on the lips while the man nuzzles my neck. That wouldn’t be too bad. That’s doable. Strangers. But. Always a but. Maybe if I was proud of my body, confident about showing it off, maybe…maybe if there wasn’t that roll of fat on my stomach.

“What’s the wildest thing you’ve done?” Ennis asks.

The question snaps me back to the present, away from fat rolls and the blurry man, blurry woman and their dark, nondescript bedroom. In front of me is curious, beautiful Ennis.

“Wildest thing? You mean in bed?”

Ennis nods. “Sure. Or in general. In life.”

“Um…” Back to my thoughts. Time to riffle through a thousand memories. That one day in high school when you skipped with Katie, went to the beach and there were those guys who…? No. Boring. Or! Remember at that keg party when you—no. You didn’t actually do it. You watched.

More memories. Boring.

Gosh, Carol, you’ve had a boring life.

I can’t come up with a decent answer, one that would make Ennis smile and impress her. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done?” I ask.

“Oh no, no, you first.”

I page frantically through more memories. Then I have it. It isn’t too wild per se, but it’ll do. “I had sex with a stranger. Our eyes met across a crowded coffee shop.” I tremble at the memory of the touches, of the hard, searching thrusts. “We went into the bathroom, and he took me. It was hot. We kept our clothes on.” Thank goodness—that stupid roll of fat.

Ennis cocks an eyebrow. “Hey, that’s pretty wild.”

“I’m not sure it counts. He didn’t remain a stranger. It was…well, you know. Patrick. That’s how we met. He didn’t tell you? Bragging about his conquest or whatnot?”

Ennis smiles, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, he told me.”

This frustrates me, although I had expected it. Why wouldn’t Patrick have told her? “So, your turn. Wildest thing you’ve done?”

“I joined the circus right out of high school. I was very close with my family. I was a shy, perfect girl. I loved my home. I loved my life. It couldn’t have been better. But guess what? I ran away from home. I worried and pissed the hell out of my parents.”

At first I think Ennis is joking, and I laugh. But she doesn’t laugh.

“Seriously? You joined the circus? Why?”

“To follow a girl, to be with her. She was seventeen, like me. Oh, I loved her.” Ennis’s eyes and her voice turn dreamy. “She had the most pure blond hair and the deepest blue eyes. My first love. But she loved the circus more than she loved me. When it came time to show up to college, I was there. I was never the same again, though. That summer unblinded me to the world, and I couldn’t wait to try everything.”

“Wow.” My chest squeezes as I picture this blond-haired, blue-eyed girl who captured Ennis’s heart. What was it like to know that Ennis was in love with you, that Ennis had left her life to follow you? What was the feeling? Thrilling? Uneasy? Scary? Heavy? “What did you do in the circus?”

“I had grand dreams of juggling fire and knives or of being a trapeze artist. But I sold popcorn.” She chuckles ruefully. “The good old days.”

“She must’ve been a special girl.”

“She was. But…eh. Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Do you think I’m blind? To the world?”

Ennis shakes her head. “I know you see, Carol.”

“Maybe I don’t see…maybe I don’t see some things.”

“None of us see everything,” Ennis replies, her easy tone conveying that she is no longer in the mood for rhetoric or games. “So, uh, it’s kinda late. Are you going home?”

“Might as well.”

“Want me to walk you back?”

“I’ll be okay. It’ll be busy out for a while.”

“Be safe. Call if you need anything, any help with the wedding, whatever.”

“I will. Hey, where do you live?”

“Um,” Ennis says. “Near Union Station.”

I suck in a breath. “Hey, Ennis?”

“Yes?”

“Want to get together for lunch or dinner sometime this week? For…I could use some advice on flower arrangements. I’ll pay you for your time, of course. Maybe one hour?”

Ennis grins, exposing a perfect line of white teeth. That grin…that grin. She is happy, very happy, that I have asked to see her again. “I would love to,” she says. My heart flutters, and it keeps fluttering as we make plans for dinner Tuesday. “There’s no need for you to pay me,” she adds.

My heart still flutters as we say our goodbyes.

I go home to Patrick and ESPN.

*****

The next day, a Sunday, I wake up bright and early. Patrick and I usually sleep in on Sundays, but not today, at least not for me. I tiptoe, naked, out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. More accurately, I sneak. This is my condo too, my own bathroom. So why am I sneaking, and why is my pulse racing?

Ennis, Ennis, Ennis.

She was my first thought when I woke up. My last thought before I fell asleep, even though Patrick and I made love—perfunctory love. I can’t believe her eyes, so startlingly brown and green, or her hair, a perfect combination of brown and red. Her laugh. Her everything. I turn the bathroom light on and stare at myself in the mirror.

Plain Jane I am. Ennis doesn’t think so, though. According to her, I possess shiny hair and full lips. In her eyes, I am interesting. I reach for my toothbrush and brush my teeth. Next, I brush my hair and wash my face. There, I’m ready for another examination. I lean into the mirror and gaze intently at my lips, trying to see what Ennis sees. What Patrick used to see.

Hmm.

I grin and slowly trace my mouth, slowly trace my growing smile. Ennis is right. My lips aren’t thin. Really, they’re not. Why did I think they were? And my hair. This morning it cooperated with the hairbrush and is silky and shiny.

My heart beats even faster, and I sneak back into the bedroom for the full-length mirror. I scrutinize my breasts. Truth be told, I’ve always been proud of them. They’re not too big, not too small, not too saggy. They’re quite perky, actually. I love my nipples—pink and enticing and tasty. These are breasts I wouldn’t mind strangers—perhaps that blurry man and that blurry woman—seeing.

Ennis would like my breasts.

I move on to my legs. Nothing spectacular there, just a pair of stout sausages.

Stop! Be confident. You’re pretty, you really are. Beautiful. Something tells me that Ennis (well, most people, really) like confidence. Sourpusses are not for Ennis.

I inspect my stomach and pinch my roll of fat. Is it that big? No, not really. One could call my stomach flat. Reasonably flat. My butt’s under the microscope next. Miss Ass is another body part I’ve always liked, just as with my breasts. My butt is high and the right amount of meaty. Something I wouldn’t mind sharing with strangers. With Ennis.

A realization catches me off guard. I want to do the threesome. Yes, I want to. I’ve tiptoed across the line from “No way land” into “Reluctant acceptance land.” Does that mean I will do it, though? Maybe. Who knows, I could surprise myself. Quietly, I dress for the gym. This won’t be a restful Sunday.

Chapter Five

Monday night, Patrick surprises the heck out of me. Bearing flowers and Chinese takeout, he comes home at seven o’clock. He greets me with a tremendous kiss.

“What’s this for?” I ask suspiciously.

He laughs, and I glimpse the Patrick I used to know so well.

“I’ve been an ass, Carol. A preoccupied ass,” he explains. “I’m sorry. I really am. Things have been so crazy at work, and…” He exhales a breath. “Tonight, I’m all yours. Deal?”

My heart goes out to him, and I forget about Ennis for a moment. Ennis, who’s been on my mind all day. “I understand,” I reassure Patrick. “It’s your first year as a lawyer, and you’re at a huge firm. Your dad’s firm!” A shard of guilt pierces me. Maybe I should be more understanding and more supportive. Patrick’s insane hours are temporary, and it’s not like he didn’t warn me what would happen.

In the kitchen, Patrick prepares my plate of Chinese. I watch him—his big, strong hands, the crook of his smile, his blue eyes, his thick, wavy blond hair.

I love him. I do. I think.

No ‘I think.’ You do love him. You’ll marry him.

“Patrick?” I venture. “I’m really sorry about dragging my feet on the threesome. I know it’s something you really want. I mean it when I say I’m ready. We’ll do it Saturday. I promise.”

Patrick sets down a carton of lo mein. “About that…”

My throat goes dry. “What?” Don’t cancel it! Don’t cancel it! My reaction astonishes me—goodness, do I want to kiss Ennis that much?

“I’ve been an ass,” Patrick says. “Not very understanding. I sprang it on you out of nowhere, and I’ve been impatient.”

Patrick’s gaze is earnest. Too earnest. Has Ennis talked to him? Has she told him to, more or less, shape up and get his priorities straight? The possibility does not lift my spirits, but it ought to. It shows Ennis cares about me. It also shows that Ennis cares about me and Patrick. Together. As a unit.

My knees wobble, and I steady myself against the counter. What am I doing? What am I thinking? That I’ll run off with Ennis? That she likes me as much as I like her? Absurd. Crazy. Stop daydreaming.

“Carol? Carol? You okay?” Patrick hugs me to him.

“I’m fine,” I whisper into his chest.

“Let’s call the threesome off.”

“No.”

Patrick pulls back, and we look into each other’s eyes. I see fear on his face. He knows that I’m attracted to Ennis. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe I am paranoid. “I can’t wait,” Patrick says, “until you’re my wife.”

I grin. “I can’t wait either.” I mean it—as much as I can. Then I tell myself to buckle up, to focus on Patrick, to shove aside the distraction that is Ennis.

After dinner, Patrick and I make love, and it isn’t perfunctory. In the morning, Patrick leaves for work and I get my phone. I mean to call Ennis, to tell her I’m cancelling our dinner plans. I end up not making the call. I can do it, I tell myself. I can be friends with this woman. Friends, and nothing more. I can resist her even as I look forward to Saturday, to the threesome I said I’ll do.

*****

At work, I am a bundle of nerves. Not that you can tell by looking at me or talking to me. On the exterior, I am my same old reliable Carol self, ringing up purchases and showing customers to the books they are searching for. I smile and laugh at their stupid jokes.

I notice the female customers more and more. To be sure, I’ve always noticed them—but today, I allow myself to pay attention to them, to look at them a bit longer than necessary. I do not glance away in embarrassment if I find them beautiful and sexual, as I did before. I even flirt with one woman—a lovely butch.

During my lunch break, I munch on a sandwich in the employees’ lounge. So, I like women. A whole lot. More than men. Much more than men, although Patrick does not know.

If only my parents had not been so strict, so anal, so Catholic.

Stop. You’re a big girl now. Don’t take the easy way out and blame them for your timidity.

“I’m gay,” I whisper. “I’m gay, and I’m getting married to the exception to the rule.” No. Why do you have to label yourself? Love people for who they are. Embrace your sexuality. Don’t run from it.

I tingle all over and do not let myself think about Patrick.

*****

After work, I head home. Ennis is due to arrive at seven-thirty; we are planning to keep the evening simple and order pizza. I shower quickly and blow dry my hair. I brush my teeth and dress in silky black pants and a tight white shirt that accentuates my breasts. I wear high heels to make my legs seem longer, and Ennis rings the buzzer at exactly seven-thirty. I let her in the building and work overtime to not stare at her, to not simply exclaim: “You’re beautiful!” Mortification also burns within me, for I am horribly overdressed. Ennis wears blue jeans and a pink tank top.

She grins. “Carol.”

I wave her inside the apartment. “Howdy.”

Carol. Carol. Say my name again.

“What are you in the mood for?” Ennis glances over my fancy clothes. “Pizza still? Or did you want to go out?”

“I’m in the mood for anything.”

Ennis laughs—gosh, that laugh. Her eyes twinkle. “Anything, huh?”

Flirting.

Maybe she has not talked to Patrick about shaping up, after all. Because she is gazing at me as if she wants to ravish me right now. This is not the look of a woman who cares about me and Patrick as a couple. It is the look of a woman enjoying the chase.

“Anything,” I reply.

Ennis, surprisingly, backs down. She clasps her hands together. “Well. I’ve had a long day. I don’t feel like going out, so can we still order pizza?”

“That’s fine.”

Ennis gives me a little smile. No more predator. My boldness has unnerved her. Maybe she did talk to Patrick after all. Told him I am quite possibly falling in lust with her.

*****

While Ennis and I wait for the pizza, we sit on the couch. She peppers me with questions about the wedding. “What kind of wedding is it?” she asks first.

“Church wedding, but I wish it could be outside. It’ll be huge. I probably won’t know half the people there.”

She inquires about the layout of the church, about my dress, the bridesmaids’ outfits. She asks about the reception, about the food, the seating arrangements, an alcohol bar (no), the music, the dances, the cake. She wonders about everything but the flowers. It is one of the most exhausting conversations of my life. I jump for the door when the pizza arrives and gratefully pay the deliveryman.

Ennis and I bring our food and drinks into the dining room. “I’d love to elope,” I admit over a gooey slice of pepperoni pizza, “but Patrick’s mom and my mom would be crushed.”

Ennis cocks an eyebrow. “Are Patrick’s mom and your mom the ones getting married?”

I giggle at the image of Patrick’s tall, beak-nosed, eagle-eyed mother marrying my short, round mother. “Point taken,” I concede. “Eh, can we not talk about the wedding?”

“Isn’t that why you wanted to get together?”

“To talk about the flowers. But you haven’t asked about them.”

Ennis’s lips crook into a grin. Off-kilter and beautiful. “You’re absolutely correct. I haven’t. Oh, hey. I was in Georgetown today about noon so I stopped by Barnes & Noble. I didn’t see you.”

A smile freezes on my lips. Ennis at Barnes & Noble and looking for me? Actively seeking me out? I like the thought. I love it. “Noon? I was on my lunch break.” And labeling myself as gay. “I usually break at noon for thirty minutes.”

“Too bad. I wanted to see you.”

“I’m here now.”

Ennis meets my eyes. “That you are,” she murmurs.

*****

After dinner, we move back into the living room. Ennis seems in no hurry to leave, and I pull a random DVD from the movies shelf.

“White Chicks,” Ennis says with a laugh. “Awesome. I’m in.”

I microwave popcorn in two snack bags. One for her, one for me. We keep our distance from each other on the couch. The scene appears platonic, but the tension is awkward. Yet I would not trade it for the world.

Patrick calls my cellphone halfway through the movie, and Ennis pauses the film.

“Fucking hell. Fucking idiots we have here,” Patrick seethes. “I’m trying to get home as soon as possible. But I don’t know.”

I bite the bullet and tell him: “Ennis is here.”

A hesitation. “Huh?”

“I forgot to let you know, sorry. I asked her over for wedding advice.”

“Um…okay. How’s it going?”

“Not bad.”

“Getting lots of wedding planning done?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Patrick turns brusque: “Sure is nice of Ennis to help us out, especially when she must be sick of planning weddings all day at work. Don’t overdo it, Carol. Ennis is an extremely busy woman.”

I bristle at the arrogance in Patrick’s tone. “I know how to handle myself, thanks.” I hang up before he can reply.

Ennis unpauses the film, and I nudge myself over to her. We are not touching, but at least we are no longer at stark opposites of the couch.

*****

The movie ends about ten-thirty, and Ennis gets up to leave. “I had a great time, thanks,” she says, but she does not smile.

“You okay?”

She chuckles. Trying to cover up? “Oh, I’m fine. You okay?”

“I’d be better if—” I stop abruptly before I can complete the thought out loud: I’d be better if you could stay longer.

“You’d be better if what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nervous about Saturday? That is if we’re still on for that?”

“We’re on.” But I’m nervous about now. I’m nervous because I want to kiss you. Now.

“Don’t be nervous,” Ennis says in that gentle, reassuring way that is hers only. “Although I know…okay.” A sheepish, perfect Ennis-grin. “Okay. Go on. Be nervous. Me telling you not to is making it worse. Saturday will be fun, though. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I’m not nervous about that.”

“What, then?”

“Nervous about now.”

She flinches. Clear as day, although it is over in a flash. I’m not sure what to do, so I wander to the front door of the apartment.

“Um,” Ennis says. “About the flowers.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Oh, I’m sure, but…”

“But what?”

Ennis sighs, reaches into her pocket and brings out a folded, lined piece of notebook paper. Her handwriting? I get to see more of her handwriting? My heart twirls giddily.

“An idea or two about flowers. They’ll work with what you told me earlier.” Ennis slides the paper into my hand. “Call if you have questions.”

Patrick gets home right then. Good thing I didn’t kiss Ennis. Who would suspect an innocent piece of paper?

*****

Patrick walks Ennis outside and returns for a quick dinner. His exhausted self is in bed only thirty minutes later. Good. The flower letter awaits me. I curl up on the couch with the paper, my fingers tingling in anticipation. How sweet Ennis is. Will the paper be covered top to bottom in painstaking handwriting? Illustrations, drawings in color? Is Ennis an artist? How much time did Ennis spend on the paper? How much research did she put into it? For me. For me.

The thought is terrifying. What she’s doing for me…gosh. This isn’t a game. I’m playing with her emotions. Patrick’s emotions also. Is it too late to call Ennis? Eleven-thirty. I should not call. My feelings for Ennis don’t need encouragement. But. But. I cannot help myself. Who knows what things will be like after the threesome? If we’ll see each other again? I should savor my time with Ennis while I have it.

Oh, heck, get it over with, you blubbering seal.

I call.

Ennis answers on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Ennis. This is Carol.”

“Hey, Carol. Hold on a sec.” Pause. “Okay, you had questions about the flowers?”

I stare at the unrevealed paper in my lap and trace its edges. “I was supposed to go out with a beautiful woman this week.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, but turns out she has to walk her dogs. I thought…well. Maybe you and I could do something instead. If you’re free. Thursday? I mean, tonight was fun. If you can’t Thursday, then maybe some other night? We could meet at a Starbucks.”

“Thursday should work. I’ll let you know for sure tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“Carol?”

“Yes?”

“Tell Patrick this time. Tell him in advance we’re hanging out.”

“Did he say something when he walked you out?”

“No,” Ennis hedges. “He just…he should know if you and I are doing something. With a threesome, things can get complicated if…look, just as a courtesy, all right? Keep everything clear and aboveboard.”

So you don’t like me after all? Or…Carol! Stop analyzing. “Do you and he do stuff sometimes that I don’t know about? Lunches? Like when he found out you were living in D.C. but didn’t tell me for a week?”

“Um.” A nervous laugh. “We…well, there was that, but no, not really. Anyway. Thursday, all right?”

“Cool. Hope to see you.” I hang up.

Ennis is lying. Clear as day. She and Patrick do things together and don’t tell me. Exactly what do they do? Stop, Carol. They don’t do shit. Don’t be paranoid. Enjoy her while you can.

I read the flower letter, finally. It says, in wonderful, perfect handwriting: “Roses are red, violets are blue.”

Just that.

I laugh. I really needed that shot of humor. Of course Ennis and Patrick aren’t doing anything “bad” together. She’s gay! While I’m not sure I can trust Patrick one hundred percent (can any man be trusted thusly?), I can trust Ennis. Yes, already. One hundred percent.

Chapter Six

Thursday evening Ennis and I meet at the Starbucks nearest my condo. I’m enjoying a frappy and reading The Washington Post when she walks in five minutes late. She gets a grande double chocolate chip frappy with no whipped cream. Comes over to me.

She grins, exposing these perfect teeth. “I thought that was you,” she remarks languidly. As if we hadn’t planned this meeting.

“Guilty as charged. Long time no see. Sit down.”

She does and starts on her frappy. Mine is half full. “Come here often?” she asks.

“From time to time. You?”

“I’m addicted to Starbucks.” She laughs.

After we’ve finished our frappies, I invite her to the condo. After a slight hesitation, she agrees. I take her hand for the stroll back. Yes, me. I take her hand, and I’m on top of the world. Being with a woman feels right. She feels right, and after a few minutes, she crooks her arm around my waist. I lean into her.

“When will Patrick be home?” she wonders.

“Heck if I know, but I’ll have him call before he leaves work.”

“Why?”

“So I can have his dinner ready.” And so you and I have time for a proper goodbye.

When we’re in the apartment, I call Patrick. “How’s work going?”

“Same old. Are you and Ennis having fun?”

“Yep. We’re at the condo now.”

“What y’all gonna do?”

“I don’t know. I’ll figure something out. Hey, call when you leave work so I can put your potato in the oven.”

“Will do. Thanks, Carol. Love ya.” He hangs up.

I put the phone away and realize I don’t know what I am doing. How will I entertain Ennis? We watched movies on Saturday and Tuesday, and we’ve done the bar scene. I survey the living room and spy a rarely used chessboard lurking on a shelf in the corner. “Hey, do you know how to play chess?”

“Chess? Or chest?”

The older Carol would blush in chagrin. But this version—slightly improved Carol—only laughs. Maybe gets some pink in her cheeks. “Chess, as in s-s.”

“I certainly do know how to play that,” Ennis drawls. “Chest, too.”

“You any good?”

Ennis grins impishly. “You’ll find out Saturday. How about you? You any good?”

“I have a nice chest, so if that’s any indication, yep, I’m good.”

*****

Ennis kicks my ass. She’s one of the smartest people I’ve met. She clues me in on a few tips, a few tricks. She likes to touch my hands, to help guide pieces when I’ve made an embarrassing boo-boo. Wicked thoughts about the chess pieces surround me. My set is an old-fashioned, expensive one. The pieces are big. I wonder what it’d be like to put the king—no, the queen—inside Ennis. The queen is smooth, but the crown might hurt. So, I’ll put the queen in backward.

Goodness. Stop.

“Looking forward to Saturday?” Ennis asks as we finish playing.

“Mmm-hmm.” This track could be dangerous, so I shift topics slightly. “Ennis? What was it like, ah…losing your virginity? Was it with the circus girl? What was her name? Have you had sex with a man?”

“Full of questions, aren’t you.”

“Bursting.”

“Tell me about your first time,” Ennis prods. “Was it good?”

“No,” I admit. And boy, it was not. “He was an idiot boyfriend of mine in college. I…well, I come from a very strict Catholic family. I basically grew up thinking sex was bad. So, I was a virgin until I was twenty. That first time was bad. Really bad.” I chuckle at the memory; at least now I can laugh about it. “He didn’t know where to insert his junk, and the sad thing is that I wasn’t sure, either. We spent too much time figuring out the exact locations of holes.”

“Nothing wrong with waiting until twenty. Sex is overrated.”

The irony of Ennis’s statement hits me full force, and I snort. “Sex is overrated? You’re saying this? The free spirit who has had five threesomes? Who won’t settle down with someone?”

She frowns. “Hey, hey. When did I say I wouldn’t settle down?”

“You didn’t. I guess I…I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling.”

“Ah.” Ennis picks up the black queen and stares at it.

“Hey.” I take her free hand. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“You’re forgiven,” she mutters.

“Did you want to settle down with Christine? That’s her name, right? Your most recent ex?”

Ennis swallows. “Let’s not talk about this.”

I nod, but unease intensifies inside me. The fact is I barely know Ennis. Don’t even know where she lives except that it’s somewhere near Union Station. She isn’t in the phone book—I looked. Reminder: Google her. Did I really think I could trust her a hundred percent? What if she’s in love with Patrick? No. No. She definitely is not.

Ennis rises. “I better go. It’s getting late.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” She smiles and seems more her usual self.

I don’t want her to leave. “What if I can’t please you?” I blunder. “I’ve never—and what if I’m bad?”

Ennis says nothing. Just searches my face.

Me bumbling again: “What’s that look for?”

“Oh, Carol.” She takes my hand, the non-engagement one. A wry grin. “I just…no. No.”

“What? What?”

She sighs, keeps my hand in hers. Her usually pale cheeks are pink. She’s cute when she blushes—and to know I am the cause of the blush—I dunno. I like her more and more.

“Well.” She only halfway meets my gaze. “That was a very sweet thing to say. Really sweet. You’re sweet.”

“It’s sweet that I’m worried about pleasing you? Why wouldn’t I be?”

She shrugs and lets go of my hand. Walks a few steps off and examines a book on the coffee table. Some murder mystery.

“Do you…” More clumsiness on my part. “I’m an amateur with women. I don’t know much about…” Shut up. Shut up.

“Carol,” Ennis says gently, “don’t worry about pleasing me Saturday. Focus on pleasing Patrick.”

“I’m in the threesome too. It’s going to happen.”

“Looks like it.”

“I’d like to get all I can out of it, and that means making sure you have fun, too.”

“I appreciate that,” Ennis says. “But remember it’s just sex.”

“I know. I won’t get possessive and clingy with you. I won’t fall for you. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”

“Everyone will have fun,” she replies tersely—and completely off point.

I need to regroup, so I wander into the kitchen and rinse dishes. According to Ennis, I am sweet. I said a very sweet thing. So why do I feel as if I’ve committed a grievous error? No wall separates the living room from the kitchen, so I continue watching Ennis as I rinse. That murder mystery book apparently fascinates her to no end. She’s thinking furiously, isn’t she—wondering what she got herself into? With this clumsy, worrywart Carol?

Ennis looks up, meets my eyes. Smiles. She’s so beautiful… My heart skips a beat, and then two. Ennis places the book down and ambles over to me. Behind me.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.” Ennis is a different person now. No tension; she is all confidence.

“What do you like?” she asks. “In bed? Anything you want to explore with me?”

Thud. Thud. Thud. That’s my heart. Anything I’d like to explore? Sure…a lot. Everything. Ennis reaches around me for my dishtowel and dries the dish in my hands. Her breasts press into my back. We are close, very close. Like we share the same body.

“Put the dish down. It’s dry,” she says.

I obediently lay down the dish, and Ennis intertwines our fingers. She rests our hands on my stomach. “Where’s your ring?” she wants to know.

My gaze shifts to the countertop where the engagement ring rests. “I took it off. I always do for dishes and showers. Stuff like that.”

“Hmm. So. Answer me. What do you like in bed? Anything you want to try?”

Her breasts still press into my back. Her lips are practically on my neck. I can’t think. I really can’t, not with her doing this to me, not with my pulse spinning out of control, not with my pussy all warm and tingly. And insistent. More insistent than it has been in a long time. Maybe ever.

“Problem?” she asks playfully. Baiting me.

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath.

Ennis whispers, “Do you masturbate?”

I open my eyes and drop my gaze to the kitchen sink. I can’t believe how my body is reacting to her touch—to her. “No,” I say—admit? Confess? “Not really.”

“Not really?”

A semblance of coherent thought finds me amid my hormones run amok. “I told you my parents are strict Catholics. Bad things happen to boys and girls who touch themselves.”

An amused laugh. “That explains why you turned out so good.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Mmm.” Ennis nuzzles my neck—as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if we’re already lovers, as if we are already expert on the crooks and crevices of each other’s bodies. “Masturbation’s good, you know, Carol.”

CarolCarolCarol

“I know,” I admit. “I’ve done it a few times. My first time was when—” I stop, embarrassed. Ennis will find me pitiful.

“Tell me,” she urges.

“I was twenty-one. It was my first orgasm.”

“And it was good?”

“Oh yes. So I kept doing it for a while. I felt guilty, of course, but why not keep doing it? Then I met Patrick and stopped when we got serious. It felt like I was cheating.”

An Ennis-chuckle. “I’m sure he does it himself.”

“I know he does.”

“So you ought to have your own fun too.”

“Yes.”

More neck kisses from Ennis. Her right hand leaves mine. Sneaks into my jeans. I unbutton them. Good God. I unbutton my jeans—to give her hand more room. She kisses my neck yet again; her lips are impossibly soft, impossibly smooth. She knows what she is doing, she definitely does.

Her fingers reach inside me. “You’re wet,” she groans. “Fucking wet.”

I am powerless to stop her; I am under the spell of this seducer. “Am I a challenge to you?” I ask. “Another notch on your belt?”

She finds my clit, and I press against her finger. I arch my back.

“Yes,” she says. “But you like that, don’t you?”

I do. I do. Who wouldn’t? To be under the attentions of this roughish, rakish, complicated woman?

She withdraws her hand. “That’s enough for now.”

“Hey!” I howl. I face her accusingly. She is licking her wet fingers.

She winks. “Preview.”

“That’s mean. You’re mean.”

“No,” she says seriously. “I was only—”

My phone rings. Another wink from Ennis and a knowing smile. “That’ll be Patrick coming home. So, you see. I was stopping before it became unbearable.”

I swear under my breath and answer the phone. “Be home in about thirty,” Patrick says. “Thanks for taking care of dinner. See ya, babe.”

We hang up. Thirty minutes. I could come easily in that time. Three, four times probably. More. But I won’t. Guilt overwhelms me. Thank goodness Ennis stopped. I was thisclose to cheating on my fiance. Fuck. Fuck. Or maybe I already did cheat on him. Yes, yes, I did. I had another person’s fingers inside me, inside my underwear.

This isn’t Carol Ann Thomas.

My knees are wobbly, and Ennis buttons my jeans. “Sex,” she whispers. “It’s just sex. Remember that.”

“I said I won’t fall for you. Don’t you believe me?”

Her gaze, intent and solemn, hangs with mine. “Do you promise?” she whispers.

“I promise I won’t fall for you.”

She nods. Seems to come to a decision. “I’ll do what I can on Saturday to keep Patrick out of the way so it can be more you and me.” She presses her lips to my cheek and murmurs into my ear, “It’s okay if you like me a little bit. Patrick does—why shouldn’t you, too? Makes the sex better. More thrilling. Hmm? Now, go on, take care of yourself before he gets home. You know you want to. You need to.”

She leaves.

I don’t get her. I don’t understand her. Do I want to? Maybe not. Many times, illusion is more fulfilling than reality. One thing is for sure, though: I have already fallen for her—not in love, but head over heels in lust.

She knows it.

All we can do is pretend (or hope?) that it’s lust, nothing more…and probably it is. Ennis is new, wonderful and exciting. Just like Patrick used to be, way back when.

I do not masturbate. I wait until Patrick gets home—then I ride him and come and come and come. Patrick knows Ennis was here, but (or because of that?) he does not ask why I am horny.

Chapter Seven

I could say the twittering of birds woke me up Saturday morning, but I was not really sleeping. I pretended all night. I drifted off sometimes, but what I remember most is being awake. Being in the middle of darkness, of black. Seeing vague shapes here and there but remembering the sharp, brilliant lines of Ennis. Being up at four a.m. and thinking, “Google her now.” Not doing it because I like her better this way, as a magical, intriguing creature. A unicorn. I don’t want to deal with any warts Google might uncover.

Ah, denial.

Back to the twittering of birds. They sing and sing, building to a crescendo that finally awakes Patrick. He curses and stumbles into the bathroom for his morning pee. It is ten a.m. We are meeting Ennis at eight p.m. Not here. At a hotel. A nice, fancy hotel. I forget which one. Patrick said he was doing it so I wouldn’t have to clean. So I wouldn’t have to worry about dusting, vacuuming, washing the bed sheets, whatever. I could focus on the night.

Patrick need not have worried. The threesome could be at a hovel, and I would still go through. I can’t wait, although I am afraid I will neglect Patrick and that I will get so caught up with Ennis, in Ennis, and she in me. I am afraid that in the heat of the moment, I will yell at Patrick to not touch me anymore.

I am afraid that I’ll break Patrick’s heart, and I can’t believe myself. Only a month ago, I was head over heels in love with him. Okay, not really. I was pretending that the motions of life hadn’t overtaken me.

Patrick returns from his piss and screams at the birds to shut up. He’s nursing a hangover; he had a bad night at work, and when he got home, he hit the rum harder than necessary.

Patrick slides back into bed and mutters, “Gonna make pancakes?”

It’s what I do most Saturday mornings. “Sure,” I murmur automatically. “Then I’m going to the gym. Maybe I’ll do some shopping before. Want to come with me? We can get some nice things for tonight.”

Patrick grunts. “Gotta go into work for a few hours.”

“Meet me for a late lunch. We’ll have fun and talk. Like before.”

Patrick rubs sleep out of his eyes. “My head,” he mewls. “Goddammit! Why didn’t you stop me after three glasses, huh, Carol?”

“Because you’re a big boy. I’m not your keeper.”

“You always stopped me before.”

I slide out of bed and study Patrick: disheveled, red-eyed, scowling. I do not answer him. Instead, I head into the bathroom.

*****

I go to shop after shop, to boutique after boutique. I want to get something wonderful, something that will knock Ennis’s socks off. Patrick’s too. I want him to see me as a woman again, not as a live-in maid whom he occasionally fucks. I’m tired of being a toy. It’s time to grow a spine, and I refuse to be taken for granted.

I want Patrick to be proud of me (again? Was he ever proud of me in the first place? I think so—he used to love showing me off, used to love bragging about me), and I want to be proud of him again, too.

In Victoria’s Secret, I try on several racy slips. They’re the same style, but different colors. Green, purple, red, yellow and white. They hug my chest, make my legs seem like those of goddesses, and wonder of wonders! They conceal that roll of fat. I just need to decide which color. I wouldn’t mind buying two slips, but no more. I can’t afford much, and for the most part, I am on my own as far as money goes. Patrick bought the condo and takes care of utilities, food and other necessities. Otherwise, he helps with money when I need it, but I hate asking him. His face hardens, and he gets a look in his eyes: If you had a better job, you wouldn’t need my money. Why don’t you look for a better job?

My heart thrums with indignation as I try on the green and purple slips a second time. Patrick is a trust-fund baby; easy words for him to utter. “I had a fucking good job before you dragged me down from Philadelphia,” I mutter.

We’ve been in D.C. only a few months, and it takes time to find a job, especially when all one has is a bachelor’s in English. But Patrick’s right. I haven’t looked in many weeks. I’ve stopped circling ads, stopped networking. Time to start again.

I take a deep breath. Patrick didn’t drag me down from Pennsylvania. It’s no use pretending otherwise. I came willingly, with stars in my eyes, with love in my heart, with a ring on my finger. If I resent anyone, it should be me, not him.

Ah well.

I’ll be fine in D.C. I am fine in D.C. I just need to get busting again, get back into the current of life, meet more people, make friends, find another job.

I take my slips back to their rack. I am getting blue. Blue, which I didn’t even try on because Patrick dislikes blue in general. He jokes (or is it joking?) that it’s because he wants nothing to outdo his brilliant blue eyes. I love blue, though. It’s my favorite color, and people say it looks good on me. Besides, Ennis wears blue, and she must know Patrick doesn’t like it.

So I am getting blue. I will show Ennis and Patrick that I am no one’s toy.

*****

After my shopping excursion, I head to the gym. I do my weights, both for my arms and my legs. I perform three hundred crunches on the exercise ball. I run for forty minutes on the treadmill, although I shouldn’t, not on the same day I’ve worked my leg muscles.

It is my toughest workout ever, and when I am done, I am beat.

Beat, and glorious. I feel good, so good. I’m in a zone. Exercise is a high all its own. I begin to walk back to the condo. The day is beautiful. Not too warm, not too cold. About eighty degrees, I guess. No humidity, which is rare for a June day in Washington. Maybe I’ll start running outside when the weather is nice. Stop being a gerbil on a treadmill.

A few blocks from the condo, I pass a sex shop. I’ve never been in there. Nor have I lingered about its windows. I always pass the store guiltily, hurriedly. Call it Catholic shame.

Today I am liberated and giddy. Blue slip, blue slip. Threesome, threesome. I grasp my Victoria’s Secret bag harder, and my sweaty, disheveled body makes its way into the store. I am the only customer, but a man stands behind the counter. He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties. He is sharply dressed and styled, with a perfect, chiseled face and huge muscles. Gay. He has a thick head of blond hair (reminds me of Patrick, damn it).

“Hello, darling!” he cries out, clasping his hands together. “Need any help?”

I feel a stab of—of what? Guilt? Shame? Mortification, at what a good girl like me is doing in this sort of shop? It hits me then, really hits me. I’m going to have a threesome! Tonight! A threesome I want. Well, no. Not exactly true. I’d prefer a twosome, with her.

“Just looking around,” I say. So I look around. There’s lube, lots of lube. There’s leather, handcuffs, whips, butt plugs. There’s a lot more. Dildos in every shape, size, color and material imaginable. Some make me wince because they’re huge. Others make me wince because they’re ugly, with balls and veins, even.

Ew.

“Don’t find penises attractive, eh?”

I jump at the voice next to me. It’s Blond Hair. He’s studying a particularly unattractive dildo and grinning in amusement.

“Um, uh…they…some are okay,” I stammer.

Blond Hair laughs knowingly. “Sure I can’t help you with anything?”

“I don’t know what I’m looking for,” I admit. “Or even if I’m looking for anything.”

Blond Hair leans into me as if we are the only two people in the world. He has that way about him—like Ennis does—that way in which he makes you feel as if all of his attention is on you. “Special occasion coming up?” he asks. “Don’t be afraid to tell Nigel if he can help.”

Nigel.

I grin. I like Blond Hair’s name.

“Nigel,” I find myself saying—well, not me exactly—Carol’s floating out there somewhere again—“I’m having a threesome tonight.”

“Ah!” Nigel’s eyes shine. “A threesome!”

I lick my lips and rush on before old Carol slips back in: “With my fiance and…and, well, another woman. It was his idea.” I cringe. Leave it to me to point out whose idea it was. That doesn’t matter, not now.

Nigel frowns. “And you don’t want to?”

“I want,” I blurt quickly, very quickly. Before the question is even out of Nigel’s mouth.

Good God.

I continue speaking before embarrassment can render me mute: “And…oh, I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping I’d see something in here that we could use. I don’t know. Maybe something I could use for…for the woman. To, you know, maybe…or maybe something she can use with me. Or something we can use together. Am I making sense?”

Nigel winks at me as if we are in the midst of a giant conspiracy. “Perfectly, dear. Would you care to take a closer look at our dildos and straps? Butt plugs?”

I consider a moment. “Maybe the dildos.” No. Patrick would howl: “You have my penis! What do you need that dildo for?”

“Forget the dildos,” I say. “Maybe handcuffs?” All three of us can use that.

Nigel leads me to the display of handcuffs, and I choose a furry set. I am glad I bought only one slip at Victoria’s Secret. “How about flavors?” Nigel suggests. “Chocolate, strawberry, vanilla, for eating?”

“Eating? You mean…yes. Yes. okay. Chocolate.”

Nigel guides me around the store. He points out items I’d missed and makes suggestions. Some excellent, some ludicrous. We laugh a lot—Nigel’s fun—and I pick out several more items.

I wish I’d come into the store sooner.

“Nigel?” I ask hesitantly as he rings up my purchases. “I…I’m nervous.”

“You’ll be fine.” He gazes solidly, unwaveringly at me.

I exhale a breath, his vote of confidence exactly the reassurance I need. Still… “I’ve never been with a woman. I wonder if I can please her. I’m not sure I’ll know what to do with my tongue or my mouth down there. And Patrick will be watching. His eyes will be on me. On her. Us.” I shudder.

Nigel slips from behind the counter to hug me. He feels almost as good as Ennis. Smells almost as good too. They’re both strong, reassuring, kind, gentle. I really wish I had a brother or a sister. Being an only child sucks.

Nigel draws back. “You’ll be fine. Just act confident. Be confident. Let her guide you. Hmm?” He returns to the cash register.

I pay Nigel and nod. “Thanks.”

“Hey. Can you touch your tongue to your nose?”

I giggle and demonstrate that I most certainly can.

Nigel clucks in approval. “Nothing to worry about, then. You’ll have her screaming for mercy. Will you come back soon? Let me know how it went.”

I study Nigel for a second or two. Does he really care or is he hoping to make more money off me? I decide he really cares. I have made a friend.

Chapter Eight

Patrick calls at three-thirty, a few minutes after I get home. “Sorry, babe. I know I said I’d be home by five, and we’d go over together. But I’ll have to meet you at the hotel. We had a system crash over here. Don’t worry. I’ll be there by seven. Go ahead and order from room service, whatever you like. We’ll eat together, shower and get started a little bit before Ennis comes. Like we discussed. All right?”

Not happy at Patrick’s news, I bite my lip. Yes, I am lusting after Ennis, but I love Patrick. I do. He’s the one I want to…oh, I don’t know. I am not making sense. I just wish he would try to make more time for me.

“Yeah, fine,” I say into the phone. “Hey, Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“I bought lingerie today. And handcuffs and uh…some other things. Candles. To kind of set the atmosphere, you know? I was thinking of bringing strawberries and chocolate syrup too. Whipped cream?”

“Wow,” he says.

“What?”

“You’re taking this seriously.”

I resist the impulse to giggle. “I’m going through. I mean it.”

“Time to unleash the tiger. Rawr!”

I imagine Patrick clawing the air; it’s a comical sight. “Rawr!” I echo.

“It was so hot how we met,” he says.

“Definitely.”

“Well, I gotta go, babe. See you tonight. Call me on the cell when you know the room number.”

*****

I shower at home (I figure it won’t hurt to shower later with Patrick if he actually shows up when he says he will), then I pack my overnight bag and head over to the hotel. I am nervous, so nervous. I am about to die, yet I can’t remember ever feeling more alive. I check into the hotel and am given room 510. I take the elevator up.

Wow.

It’s a swanky room. A room for kings and queens. Patrick shouldn’t have reserved such a fancy, expensive room. Just for me, so I don’t have to worry about tidying the apartment, and when he works so hard. Now I’ll be expected to perform really, really well.

Shut up. Don’t be such a whinywart.

I unload my bag on one of the queen beds, and I wonder if Ennis plans to stay the night. Will Ennis snooze in another bed? Or with me and Patrick? Will she sleep between us? Will we all sleep naked? Ahhhh. Stop.

I mosey over to the windows and pull the curtains back. The Washington Monument greets me, and I smile. “Hey, dude.” I love that damn monument. I love how I can see it from practically anywhere in D.C. It’s a reassuring sight. It says: “I’m here, no matter what you’re going through. Just look for me.”

I sigh and head into the bathroom. It’s huge, easily three times the size of the one at the condo. Everything seems shiny and squeaky clean, but I know better. I’ve watched TV documentaries about what guests get up to and what snarky maids do (and don’t do). I wonder if I ought to clean. Then I wonder why the heck I’m wondering that. Isn’t the point of this room so I don’t have to clean?

Stop. Stop.

I return to the beds and flop back on one. The time is six p.m. In a bit, I’ll start setting up the room. I call Patrick’s cellphone and leave a message on his voice mail about the room number. Then I frown. How will Ennis know?

I suck in a deep breath and call her. She answers on the third ring: “Hey, Carol.”

Her voice brings an automatic smile to my face, and I look up. Right across from me is a huge mirror above a desk. I am looking into my own eyes, into my own face…and at an expanding, goobery grin.

I extinguish the grin. “Hey,” I say briskly. “I’m at the hotel, in room 510. Thought I’d let you know which room.”

“There already?” She sounds surprised.

Crap. Duh me. I forgot that the three of us were supposed to meet at eight o’clock in the lobby. I guess I forgot because Patrick and I decided earlier to get started a little before Ennis came. To make me more in the mood, more comfortable or whatever, to help ensure I didn’t bolt.

Well, it doesn’t matter now. “Uh…yes, I’m here already.”

“Are you and Patrick starting without me?” Ennis sounds hurt, but then she continues in a neutral, perhaps even fake-cheerful tone: “That’s a good idea. Whatever works for you guys. We…when I get there, we should set some ground rules. We should’ve done it already. My fault.”

“Ground rules?”

“Yeah. Like what’s okay and what’s off limits. What might make a person in a couple cross the line into irrevocable jealousy. You know? Does that make sense? For example, if you don’t want me to blow Patrick. Stuff like that.”

I flinch. Blow Patrick. Blow Patrick. Ugh. I picture Ennis doing it. Am I jealous? I think so. Not because she’s blowing him, but because she isn’t blowing me. Gosh. What’s wrong with me?

“You wouldn’t blow him,” I argue. “You’re a lesbian.”

“It was an example, Carol. Or…” Ennis continues slowly, so slowly it is sensual. “Or, for example, if he doesn’t want me to touch your breasts or lick your nipples or eat you. Or if he doesn’t want you doing these things to me. Make sense?”

The image of Ennis nibbling my nipples jerks my whole body, and especially my clit to life. Confident. Confident. “Yes,” I say, keeping my voice strong and steady. “It’s clear. So we’ll see you at eight?”

“Later, gator.” Ennis hangs up, and I am left with my cellphone and myself in the mirror. Myself, whose face is flushed with desire.

I think maybe I will throw up.

*****

Patrick arrives at six forty-five. I have just finished setting out the candles (haven’t lit them, though) and the so-called toys. I am perusing the room service menu when he knocks at the door.

I let him in. I am still in jeans and a white T-shirt—no blue slip yet. Honestly, I hadn’t expected Patrick to show until seven-thirty or seven forty-five.

Patrick surveys the room with a critical eye. “Not bad,” he decides. “So are these the candles you mentioned earlier?” He tilts his head toward one of the candles, which is long and white, and in a slender holder. I have six candles total; three are scented.

“Yep.”

“You know the hotel probably doesn’t allow it. Fire risk or whatever shit.”

“Since when do you care about stuff like that?”

“We probably shouldn’t use ‘em.” Patrick stuffs the candles into a plastic bag I brought.

“Patrick…but Patrick.”

“What?”

“Wouldn’t the candles be a nice touch?”

He sighs. Sighs again. Kisses me on the mouth. “Sweetie,” he says, and he doesn’t seem mad. But I know he can act—he hates his stepfather’s guts, but you’d never know it when they’re together. “Candles are okay for lovemaking or for baths. You understand?”

“No.”

“Tonight…well…tonight’s not gonna be romantic. Tonight is about sex. We’re not in love with Ennis, and the candles would be a distraction.”

I kind of see his logic. I nod and kiss him back, longer and harder than he kissed me. After I finish, I ask if everything is settled at work.

“Eh,” he grunts. “Let’s not talk about that.” He wanders over to the minibar and fingers a small bottle of vodka. “I’m hungry.”

*****

Dinner consists of chicken fingers and French fries. Not romantic, but tonight’s not supposed to be romantic, right? Patrick showers quickly—doesn’t ask me to join him. Good thing I showered earlier. As he is blow drying his hair, he mentions he should call Ennis and tell her our room number. I confess that I’ve beat him to the task.

“What’d she say?”

I shrug. “Nothing. Oh! She did say we should set ground rules when she arrives.”

“Ground rules?”

I explain in slightly different language than Ennis used.

Patrick says, “Ah,” and strokes his chin.

“So…” I venture. “What would you…well, you know what I mean. Is there anything you don’t want me to do with her, or her to me?”

“Ummmm…” Patrick’s eyes glaze over.

With lust.

He’s fantasizing about me and Ennis together, and it turns me on. Also makes me a little angry that I’m not enough for him. But I’ve made my peace with that.

“Stupid question, huh,” I mutter.

He chuckles. “Any man’s top dream is seeing two girls fucking each other. And this…” His eyelids flutter shut for a second. “And this will be wonderful.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “The woman you’re going to marry fucking your college friend.” I am taken. I will be married in six months.

It scares me more than ever in that minute, the fact that I will be committing to this man for life. Does it overwhelm him too? Is it one reason he needs this threesome? Understandable. Patrick and I will get this out of the way and move on with our lives.

I tell myself once again to focus on him. Patrick will be my husband, and Ennis is a flash in the pan. A flash in the pan I am lusting after. What Patrick and I have is love and a lifetime to look forward to together.

Right?

Right.

*****

At seven forty-five, Patrick and I start kissing. Patrick is the best kisser I know, not that I’ve had much experience. Let’s see. There was Lester in fifth grade—yeah, let’s not go there. (He loved to eat boogers.) John, also in fifth grade—always had bad breath. I didn’t get to kiss again until eighth grade (not that I necessarily found this bad, considering my experiences with booger boy and bad breath boy). This boy was named Spencer, and he was all tongue. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bad now, not if his tongue was down there…

Wow. Where did Carol the prude get to?

Anyway, Spencer and I were together only a couple of months, but in ninth grade came Jamie. He was a decent kisser, but we weren’t together long.

Then there were a few more boyfriends in high school and college…

Hmm. Maybe I’ve kissed more than I give myself credit for. Anyway, Patrick says he didn’t like how I kissed when we first met (and we all know that’s “polite-speak” for “You’re a sucky kisser.”) But he helped me improve.

So that’s my kissing history. Back to seven forty-five, to Patrick and me kissing on the bed. We get into it hot and heavy, and I think this is the longest we have kissed straight without stopping, because after a minute Patrick is always eager to get Luis out.

Yes. Luis. His member. His penis. His pet snake.

I guide Patrick’s hands to my breasts. I wish he would pay more attention to them. He isn’t big on foreplay, although he’ll do it from time to time. Same with eating me.

Patrick pulls my shirt off and unfastens my bra. He licks my left nipple, and I shiver. More licks, some sucking. Patrick moans, I moan. I close my eyes. How does Ennis kiss? I imagine she is a versatile lover. An animal, a lioness when she needs to be, tender other times, and other times, she probably—stop. My focus should be on Patrick. My fiance!

But then I wonder…I look down at Patrick, at his thick blond hair, at his head moving urgently, at his lips puckered around my breast, and I think: Is his mind on her now? Is he pretending my breast is hers? Probably. So why can’t my mind be on her too?

How afraid I was only a couple of weeks ago that he would leave me for her. Funny that doesn’t concern me anymore.

I pull away from Patrick, and, puzzled, he squints at me.

“I’m going to change before Ennis gets here,” I explain, and beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom. I lock the door behind me.

How do I steel myself against Ennis? Maybe what I need is one night to satisfy the itch. Have my fill of her, see what it’s like to be with Ennis, to be with a woman, and go: “Ahhh, I see, that’s nice, but not for me,” and be done with it.

But.

Ennis and I have chemistry, and it goes past physical. Hell, I am in love with Ennis’s handwriting. What a charmer she is. I bet everybody falls in love with her.

Chapter Nine

I am glad, so glad, when Ennis knocks at the door. Finally, the moment has arrived. Time to get this damned, infernal threesome over with. Patrick answers the door, and I stay on the bed. He hasn’t said a word about the blue slip—only a slight frown and a narrowing of the eyes.

Anyway, I am on the bed as Patrick goes to the door, and my stomach is knots and butterflies. My pulse races, and I glance at the mirror above the desk. My hair is tousled—good tousled. Sexy tousled, not crappy bed hair tousled.

I flash myself a smile in the mirror.

Act confident. Be confident.

Patrick returns, Ennis at his side. My heart clenches at the sight of her. She is as beautiful as ever—no, more so. It is hard to explain. It’s her aura, maybe. She gives off a vibe of naturalness, of inner and outer beauty, of kindness, of passion, of everything, all at once.

Patrick’s vibe is more of…oh, I don’t know. But it’s not like Ennis’s. Nothing close.

She wears a tiny black dress that shows off shapely legs extending to Russia. Her hair is in a ponytail; that’s new to me. I like her hair better down, but she looks quite sporty this way too. Definitely just as sexy.

Ennis twists her lips into an approving grin—a very approving grin—and her gaze rakes over my body. “Hello, Carol,” she says—Gosh, she said my name

CarolCarolCarol

Say it again

“Carol,” says Patrick.

No. Not you. Ennis.

Ennis has a small black bag with her, and she sets it next to my bigger bag. Her bag is too tiny for… Not staying the night? Please do. Please do.

Ennis hauls a bigger bag onto the bed. Ah! Good.

“I like your outfit,” Ennis, ever the charmer, says to me.

“Really?”

“Blue is your color, but you obviously know that.”

“Patrick says it kind of tones down my eyes.”

Ennis frowns and gazes right at me, as if she is probing my very soul. “No,” she proclaims after an extensive second. “I disagree.”

Patrick clears his throat. “We’ll agree to disagree.”

Ennis smiles. “Agreed.”

Agreed. Agreed. I love how she says it. “Agreed,” I echo, hoping that’ll get Ennis to repeat it.

Nope.

I fidget, Patrick fidgets, and Ennis takes over. “We should decide on ground rules,” she says.

“Right,” Patrick replies. “What are yours?”

Ennis puckers her lips. “I don’t have any. Well, except…” She glances uncertainly at Patrick. “No penetration for you, Patrick. Your penis doesn’t get in me. Okay?”

His face clouds over. “Come on. It’s a one-night thing. Make an exception.”

“I don’t have sex with men,” she argues.

Patrick crosses his arms, storm clouds brewing above his head, but something about the scene strikes me as rehearsed or overdone. “Fine,” he mutters.

“So!” Ennis exclaims brightly. “That’s my rule. What are yours, Carol? If you have any.”

I shove aside my ridiculous contemplations of rehearsed scenes and think furiously. “Mine…uh…” All I can see is myself on top of Ennis, penetrating her, sweat glistening off us, our bodies mingling. I wish I’d gotten a dildo, but I can use fingers.

“Um…no rules,” I manage to say.

“You can take it in the ass?” Ennis asks.

My heart stops. “The…the ass?” I have not considered this. “The ass? Um, no. I’ve never…um, no. What, uh…gosh, Ennis. You want to do me in the ass?”

She chuckles. “Better to have too many rules than to be sorry. I want to do whatever will make you feel good. So, okay. No ass. That’s your rule.”

I’m not done with my astonishment. I picture myself, dildo on, pounding inside Ennis’s ass. She moans and groans and screams at me to do it harder, do it harder, do it fasterfasterfaster…

Ennis has an incredible ass.

“Carol,” she says, snapping me back to real life.

CarolCarolCarol

“I want you to be comfortable, Carol. No. Not just comfortable. More than that. I want this to be fun for all three of us.”

“It will be fun,” Patrick says.

“Good.” Ennis waggles her eyebrows. “Now you, Patrick. Do you have any rules?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you don’t want it in the ass, do you?” I pipe up.

His gaze darts down guiltily, and my heart thuds. I’m such an idiot, I really am.

“Um,” he begins. “I, um…right. Right, no ass for me, either.”

“What? You’ve had anal sex?”

“Um…” He can’t come close to looking at me. He shrugs. “A few times before, with other girlfriends. It’s…it’s kinda nice, actually.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Really, it’s no biggie. Maybe you can do me tonight.”

Let it go…for now. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Ennis pulls a bottle out of her smaller bag. Massage oil. She winks at me and Patrick. “How about we start off by Carol and me massaging you?”

Patrick groans. “Wonderful. I’m so fucking tense. I hate work.”

*****

Patrick strips in front of me and Ennis. He undresses slowly and proudly, putting on a show for her. He reminds me of a strutting gander. It confuses me a little. Makes me more than a little jealous. Is this the behavior of a man who truly loves me, who truly considers my feelings? Or is this the behavior of an arrogant asshole? What am I doing with him?

No. I don’t let myself think on the question. I look at Patrick’s chest—a nice, tanned, smooth muscular chest. It’s a wonderful chest. Why shouldn’t he like to show it off?

I smile appreciatively. Try to, anyway. Doesn’t matter. His attention is on her.

Quit bitching. If I had a body like his, or like hers, I’d want to show it off too. I’ll let Patrick have his fun. He unzips his jeans, and I shoot Ennis a glance. She’s smiling at him too, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s me she came for.

Patrick is entirely naked now, and Luis stands at rigid attention.

“Very good,” Ennis purrs (does it take a great deal of effort, or is the purr genuine?), and Patrick goobery-grins.

“Get on the bed,” Ennis orders him.

Patrick obeys and lies on his back. He eagerly looks up at us.

“This will be cold,” Ennis warns, and she squeezes oil onto his chest. Patrick grimaces, but a smile quickly replaces his scowl.

“I can take it up here,” Ennis tells me. “You explore down there.”

We begin massaging. It is soothing. Going through the motions. I forbid myself to look at Ennis, so I content myself with Patrick’s penis, the crooked-stiff, dark purple Luis and Luis’s two hairy friends.

Ennis and I switch positions after a while, then she says it’s time to do Patrick’s back. He rolls over with nary a whimper and makes the necessary adjustments for Luis.

Ennis takes one side of his back, and I take the other half. I look at her, a little bit. Then some more. Why not? Patrick cannot catch me. She smiles, I smile. She grins back, even bigger, and my grin grows to match hers. She winks. Such a flirt. God. Such a flirt. She’s great. She’s wonderful. Every nerve in my body tingles. I have never tingled like this before, this inexplicable giddiness.

Never.

Ennis and I massage, our hands on automatic, our gazes on each other and our hearts (at least mine) on manual. It is so terrifyingly intimate how our gazes dance. And to imagine we could have been kissing. She could have been eating me, and I her. This is better. So, so much better. At least for now.

That would have been mindless, writhing, sweaty sex. This is the true beginning of making love. Already, I have gotten much more out of this than Patrick has. But I am not falling for Ennis—not in love. No, I am not. It’s okay to like her a little, as she said. Makes the sex more thrilling. That’s all this is. Mental foreplay.

After a few minutes, Ennis bends down and looks into Patrick’s face. My heart crashes into my stomach. I don’t want Ennis to stop. I want to keep losing myself in her eyes.

She stands back up and smirks. “He’s asleep,” she announces. “Finally. Took long damn enough.”

Chapter Ten

Ennis and I go by the window. She draws the curtains back, and there’s the monument, enveloped in gray dusk. I am stiff and do not stand close to Ennis. “Are you sure he’s asleep?” I say this even though I bent down and studied Patrick, even though I saw that his mouth hung slightly open.

“He’s asleep,” Ennis whispers back. “Trust me.”

“We need to wake him up. He’ll be so pissed—”

Ennis presses a quick finger to my lips. “He’s exhausted,” she points out gently. “He’s worn down to the bone. When he wakes up, he’ll be good to go. Better than he would’ve been.”

“He won’t see it that way.”

Ennis rolls her eyes. “Fine. Go wake him up.” She gestures carelessly toward my husband-to-be.

“I should. I mean…I mean…”

“What?”

“What will we do? Look out the window until he wakes up?”

“It is a beautiful night.”

I gaze outside again. No more gray. In these few moments, dusk has slipped on its black veil. More lights now. Beautiful city lights, beautiful monument. Beautiful Ennis. I look at her reflection in the window, and she takes my hand. Her touch is smooth and perfect. Not clammy, as mine is. How she can bear to hold my hand?

“How did you plan it?” I ask.

“Plan what?”

“You know. Making him fall asleep. How did you know for sure he would?”

Ennis laughs—quietly, of course. “I told you I’d keep Patrick out of the way as much as possible.”

“Yes, but I thought you meant like him watching us. He’d be awake. Not out of commission.”

She inclines her head, and something indefinable glints in her eyes. “You and I are only talking. Nothing he’ll howl about missing. Maybe I should let him listen to us. That’ll put him to sleep too, hmm?”

She’s upset. Jealous? Because I worry about Patrick and not about her? Because I don’t seem appreciative of her efforts? Time to make her feel better.

“Carol,” I say.

Ennis blinks. “What?”

“Say my name.”

“Carol.”

I shiver. I tremble.

“You like that?” she asks, her lips tugging up.

“On your tongue, my name isn’t plain.”

“I like when you say my name too,” Ennis confesses.

So I say her name. “Ennis, Ennis.”

She searches my face in that odd, unsettling, yet wonderful way of hers. It is just me and her. No sleeping Patrick, no Washington Monument. The moment can’t last forever, but I savor every second of it. Her hand is still in mine, and I say: “I like your hair up. Down too. Any which way.”

“Take it down.”

I draw my hand out of Ennis’s. I stand behind her, and tiny red hairs spray the back of her neck. I run my fingers across her skin.

“Mmm,” she says. “That tickles.”

Her mmm raises gooseflesh across my skin, and I undo her hair. It falls. Cascades. Wild, untamed. It shouldn’t be brushed; it is perfect. I part her hair, bring my lips to her neck and taste her sweetness. “Thank you for tonight, Ennis.”

“You’re welcome.”

Feelings, ugh.

I go to rub Patrick awake.

*****

We tell Patrick that we were massaging him this entire time. It is, more or less, true. We were at the window about three minutes. Seems so much longer, and yet so short. I am happy I escaped when I did. I couldn’t cope with the strength of my feeling then. Can’t now, as Patrick rubs the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes and heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth, wash his face, whatever.

Ennis does not speak, so I do. I get my bag of goodies and dig in for the handcuffs. “Went shopping today,” I remark, dangling the cuffs from my hands.

“That was nice of you. You’re very good to him.” Her words hold a bitter bite.

“I love him.”

“Does he love you?”

“Yes. Yes, he loves me. We’ve just been…it’s been difficult lately. We’re new here, like you are, and his job is crazy stressful. When we were in Pennsylvania, it was wonderful. It’ll be good again. You’ll see.”

“I’ll see? Who cares if I see? Will you see?”

I blink stupidly and pet the handcuffs. Nice, furry handcuffs. Woof. Meow. Oink. Neigh.

“So Pennsylvania was paradise, huh?” Ennis asks.

“It was.” Yes. Really.

“In Pennsylvania, he thought blue didn’t drown out your eyes?”

“That’s not fair!”

Patrick returns from the bathroom. “What’s next? I promise not to fall asleep.”

“I need to brush my hair,” Ennis says.

*****

When Ennis returns from the bathroom, her hair is tamed, sleek and shiny. Lovely. It’s perfect this way too, and I wish I’d been the one to settle it down.

“Any ideas on how we should start?” Ennis asks.

Patrick laughs. “You’re the pro, En.”

En.

I don’t like him calling her En, like they are old friends, old intimates. But they are in a way. Good ol’ college buddies.

Patrick licks his lips. “Hey, En. Kiss Carol.”

My heart jackhammers at the two words. Ennis has barely looked at me since she returned from brushing her hair, but it’s time now, it’s time now, the time has come…I’m probably hornier than Patrick is.

His eyes glitter. In a good way, of course. He’s never looked at me like this. Yes, we need this threesome. With Ennis. I cannot imagine it going this well with anyone else. She is a godsend because she won’t let feelings interfere. I can be like her and Patrick, able to separate sex from emotion. Ennis will help bring Patrick and me together. She won’t drive us apart.

“Carol,” she says.

I ignore the sudden ache in my heart. “Yes?”

Ennis crooks a finger. “Come here.”

I go, and she takes my hands. “The ring,” she whispers.

I slide the ring off and place it on the desk below the mirror. Ennis does not kiss me. Instead, she guides my hands to her breasts, and erect nipples strain against the black fabric of her dress.

She lets go of my hands. Putting me in charge.

I quite honestly forget Patrick is there, that he’s watching. It’s just like at the bar with the loud music when Ennis and I slow danced in each other’s arms. The music here is the wild beating of my heart, and I trace the outline of one of her nipples. My mouth waters. Ennis—

Oh, Jesus.

Ennis slides one of her breasts out. For way too long, I stare at it, at the perfect, erect pink nipple. I want to taste it. So I do. I bring my mouth down to it. I start with a tiny lick—she shudders. A good shudder. I lick again, more boldly. She trembles and whispers for me to kiss her neck, her ear, her earlobes. Her scent leaps to life—her femaleness, the sweet, slightly salty taste of her skin under my tongue.

The next thing I know, my lips are on her neck, her cheek and then on her mouth. Her soft mouth. Her very welcoming mouth. She wraps her arms around me. She is warm and hard; she is everything at once.

This is where I belong.

We kiss slowly at first. Her breath is fresh and sweet. Minty. We shiver from the sheer perfection of our kisses. I melt into her, into her caresses. Her fingers press into my back, and my fingers press into her back. My tongue finds hers, and then—

Patrick lets loose with an earth-shattering groan. Orgasm. He’s been jerking off, and now he’s come. Ennis and I stare at him in dismay.

Way to go, old boy. Way to ruin the mood.

*****

Patrick climaxing is something that would stop me in my tracks—well, it does. But not Ennis—not for long. She pulls me onto one of the beds and kisses me urgently. In seconds, I forget he’s come. I forget again he’s there. All I know, all I feel, all I taste is her on top of me. She is my whole world. Her lips on mine, her wet, skilled, passionate tongue in my mouth, wrestling with mine. Her hands, expert and smooth, on my chest, on my stomach.

She pulls down a top corner of my slip so she can access one of my breasts. She stops her ministrations for a split-second, her eyes growing even shinier with desire. A clumsy hand grasps my other breast. Patrick. He thrusts his mouth onto my nipple. Geez. He’s being too rough, not to mention his timing is impeccable. Ennis shakes her head and resumes her explorations. She licks my breast, and her hand sneaks between my legs a few seconds later.

Good.

I wrap an arm around her—but not one around Patrick. I will make this me and Ennis as much as I can. One of her fingers glides inside me. I moan. She kisses me hungrily on the mouth, no doubt rewarding me for being crazy wet.

“Lemme see, lemme feel,” Patrick clamors. He investigates—finds that I indeed am wet.

Go away.

Ennis kisses me again and again. I don’t see or feel Patrick anymore. I dissolve into her, and her finger dissolves into me—down there. Heat builds and builds, and at last, I explode in a big shattering wail. Unfortunately, I come at the exact same time Patrick does.

“Hey. We both O’ed!” he exclaims. “Cool.”

Please, please go away, Patrick. Surely there’s a car out there raring to hit you.

*****

So Patrick’s come twice, I’ve come once, and Ennis has nary a point on the board. Patrick needs to regroup, to build his strength back up. Panting, his cheeks flushed, he asks me to eat Ennis.

I’m eager to do it, very much so. She positions herself on the bed and fastens shiny green-brown eyes on me. She is like a sunrise, and her hair is so wonderfully messy.

“Get naked, get naked, both of you,” Patrick urges.

Ennis stands, slips off her dress and underwear. I stare. I want her, all of her, in every way. Her hair on her bare shoulders. Her breasts. Her stomach, her flat stomach. Most of all, I want a bite of the mound between her legs.

Ennis asks: “May I take your slip off?”

I finger the right strap of my slip. “Yes, of course.” My body is nowhere near as good as hers, but I’m not in the mood for a pity party. As Ennis undresses me, I suck in a deep breath and will my roll of fat to behave. Act confident. Be confident. You have great breasts, a great ass.

I ask: “Am I okay?” Oh, gee. Way to go, Miss Confident.

“What do you think, Patrick?” Ennis inquires. “She okay?”

“She’s more than okay. She’s smashing.”

I grin at Patrick, who is recovering on the bed with the bags. But Ennis has not answered my question. She must not like my body. Crap.

Ennis wraps her arms around me and kisses me tenderly. “You’re perfect. You’re a pearl,” she whispers so Patrick cannot hear.

My spirits soar to cloud nine. I’m perfect, perfect. I am a pearl.

Ennis reaches for a small, foil-wrapped package—not a condom. “This is a dental dam,” she explains.

“What? Why? We don’t need that.”

“Just to be safe.”

“I’m clean. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, but for peace of mind.”

“Fine,” I grumble, but I have no intention of using protection. And I don’t. When I am between her legs, I simply drop the package onto the floor.

Bad, naughty me.

Her, too. She knows I’m not using it, but she doesn’t stop me.

I remember the chocolate I bought from Nigel’s store, but I want to experience Ennis one hundred percent. I eat her. I eat her hard. I am not sure what to expect, the smell, the taste, but I love it. It’s Ennis—her smell, her taste. Her quivering wetness, her creamy, rich soup.

She takes only about a minute to get on the scoreboard—and she takes the lead. She comes not once, not twice, but three times, in shattering waves, one after another, each higher and more intense than the previous one.

Goodness gracious. I preen inside. I am doing pretty damn well for a first-time muff diver.

Chapter Eleven

Patrick lasts two more rounds. I blow him, then he tentatively asks me to try fucking him in the ass. Ennis shows me how to do it—turns out her big bag contains goodies of all shapes, colors and sizes. “Lube’s important. Very important,” she cautions. “How long has it been since you had anal, Patrick?”

“Oh gosh,” he says. “I don’t know. Before I met Carol?”

“Okay, given that, maybe we should start with Carol’s fing—”

Patrick frowns. “One of the dildos should be fine.”

Ennis selects the smallest dildo, and I strap it on. The mirror makes me look rather silly, like a clownish man wannabe. I get behind Patrick and follow Ennis’s instructions. I gaze into her eyes while I rock inside Patrick, and it’s devastatingly familiar. It’s like I’m fucking her, not him. I no longer feel clownish.

I’m definitely a goner when she starts touching herself. She comes before Patrick—poor Patrick. Luis must feel like a whittled-down stub, and Patrick barely has enough energy to mutter a: “Wow, you gals rule,” before he falls asleep.

Within minutes, he is snoring.

“He will sleep well,” Ennis remarks. We’ve moved to the other bed, I’ve gathered her into my arms, and her head rests on my chest. “Just be sure he’s up by noon. That’s checkout time.”

I don’t care about checkout time. Why the heck does Ennis? “Are you staying the night?”

“I should go,” she whispers.

“Why?”

“Because…well. I’m the number three.”

“How will you get home?”

“Cab.”

“Come on. No. That’s silly. Stay.”

“Patrick didn’t want me sleeping over.”

I’m surprised that Patrick planned this far ahead. “Why not?”

Ennis pulls out of my embrace and uses one of her hands to prop her head up. Her gaze is troubled, and she can’t quite meet my eyes. “Why should I sleep over anyway?”

“Fine, okay, don’t sleep over, but will you stay a little longer? I like being with you. Please?”

Her shoulders sag, and she shoots Patrick a glance. It is as if she is scared of him—maybe that’s the wrong word—anxious? Anxious now that the threesome is over, now that Patrick has what he wanted. Now that she has what she wanted. I remember how she and I looked at each other when we massaged his back. How she held my hand at the window.

Now…now I don’t know. Something is wrong.

“I can’t stay,” Ennis murmurs. “I have to go.”

My heart sinks, but I try not to show it. Instead, I trace her face with both of my hands. She’s sweaty. “I’m adopted,” I tell her.

She twitches at this non-sequitur. “What?”

“Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“It’s something I don’t usually tell people because, well, my parents are my parents. Doesn’t matter if they’re blood or not. You know? But all my life, I never felt like I belonged anywhere. Do you get that feeling? Like you don’t belong?”

She chuckles uncertainly. “Oh, Carol, I really must go.”

“Patrick doesn’t know I’m adopted.”

“Really? Why?”

“Never felt the need to tell him.” Because I don’t belong with him.

“Were you a baby?” Ennis asks.

“Yes. From Lithuania. Don’t know my birth parents’ names. Won’t ever find out, and that’s cool. But I’d like to visit someday. Just curious to see the country.”

“You definitely should visit. Maybe adopt a child from there, too.”

“Wow,” I whisper. “I should. I really should. Can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

“I’m Idea Girl,” Ennis informs me.

“You’re a lot of things.”

“You too, sweetie.” She kisses me—a little kiss. “Now I have to go before I fall asleep.”

“Don’t go.”

“I need to, Carol.”

Guess what I do then? I blurt out: “I love you.” Bad idea. Bad, bad, terrible, horrible idea. Not that I do it on purpose. Not that I mean it. It simply comes out. Simply happens.

Ennis creaks her head toward me, her eyes wide and horrified. “You don’t love me,” she replies, and her voice is strange. Not soft, not gentle, not hard. Just…gravelly. Stoic, with unshed tears? “You hardly know me. Come on, Carol. You said you wouldn’t fall for me.”

“I know.” Crap. “It slipped out. I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t love you.”

She swallows. “Yeah.”

“But, Ennis, I really do like being with you.” My heart hammers and hammers with fear. “I don’t want to lose you,” I whisper.

“You never had me in the first place.” A pause. “But,” she continues, “I do like being with you, and I’m glad I got to know you.”

“Why are you acting like we won’t see each other again?”

“Because we won’t.”

“Ennis, please.”

“You’re engaged to be married,” she snaps. “And I’m a—”

“What? You’re a what?”

“Nothing.”

I fumble for a thought, any thought. “You don’t do affairs?” I regret the question immediately. Crap. Crap. No.

Ennis arches an eyebrow and grinds her lips. “Affairs? No. I don’t.”

“You put your hand in my underwear at the condo! You put a finger on my clit! You did stuff with my neck and…and…”

“That was to help with this threesome. Besides, it was a mistake—what I did at your condo.”

Tears sting my eyes, but I rush on: “I didn’t mean it about the affair. I wouldn’t do that either. No. No. Well, do you think we could do this again? A threesome?”

“It’s a bad idea. It’ll worsen things.”

“Oh.”

“Think of tonight as a moment, okay?”

“A moment?”

Ennis presses her lips to mine, caressing me more than kissing me. “Think of it as a wonderful, special, very extraordinary moment that isn’t meant to last.”

“Gee, I’ll get right on that.”

Ennis chuckles. “Maybe you shouldn’t be with Patrick.”

I have no reply, because she has a point. A good one. “Would candles have been good tonight?” I ask.

“Mmm. Yes.”

“I brought some, but Patrick said they’d ruin the mood. Because candles are for romance, and we’re not supposed to have feelings for you.”

“Carol, come on. Dump him. Don’t let him dictate your life.”

“I don’t know,” I mutter. “We have a history, and...gosh. The wedding. So much of his family’s money’s gone into it. My mom would…I’ll be all right. I love him.”

“That’s why you’re here telling me you love me.”

“Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not. Promise. Like I said, you never had me. I never had you. A kindergartener could have predicted this ending. But, Carol, it doesn’t matter if you love me or not. You don’t love him.”

“Relationships have ups and downs. Patrick and I are going through a phase.”

Ennis shakes her head. “I’m leaving now.”

“Can I call you?”

She considers for an agonizing second. “Yes,” she finally says, “but only if you really need to. Otherwise, please don’t. Um…take care, Carol.”

“We can’t be friends? We can’t hang out?”

“No.” Ennis slips her little black dress back on and goes over to the desk. She returns with my engagement ring. “It really is pretty,” she murmurs. “I always…”

“What?”

A shy, sheepish grin. “Always wondered what it’d be like to…to…well.” She stares at the ring—a sparkle amid grayness. “There’s a cheesy romantic in everyone, huh? I always wondered what it’d be like to find that one person—a soul mate. I don’t believe in them, but I’d like to look in that person’s eyes and know this is the one. She’s the one. She can make my pain go away. Don’t need rings for that, but this is pretty. It really is.” She chuckles. “Oh, boy. Listen to me.”

My heart is heavy. “Ennis, what pain do you have? Maybe I can help.”

She takes my left hand and slides the ring on. “Goodbye, Carol. Take care. And, uh…yeah. Do call if you need to.” She blows me a kiss goodbye. “You’ll be fine, champ.”

“Ennis! Please let me help.”

“No one can help.”

“I refuse to believe that.” I shower kisses around her lips and along her jaw. “I can help. Let me help. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh, Carol.”

“Ennis, please. Let me help.”

She jerks her head toward Patrick. “You can help by going to sleep.”

“Don’t push me away, please.”

“I…” She licks her lips. “I’m not a good person, Carol. I hurt people. That’s what I do. Now I must go. Goodbye.”

“Ennis.”

She leaves, and the second the door closes behind her, my tears burst. I cry for a long time, and Patrick snores.

Chapter Twelve

Patrick rubs me awake at ten, and my first conscious thought is of Ennis. How we said goodbye, how she left. My heart aches, and the engagement ring is painful on my left hand.

Crap.

Patrick mounts me and enters me. “God, Carol,” he whispers, “last night was crazy hot.” Some moans and groans. A final thrust. A climax. He rolls over and sighs.

“Why didn’t you want her to sleep over?”

He blinks. “Huh?”

“You heard me.”

He shrugs, looks at me weird. “Why would she sleep over?”

I stare at the ceiling. “True.”

“What’d you do after I fell asleep?” Patrick’s tone is suspicious.

I don’t answer.

“Did you two fuck?”

Yes. No. Yes. No. “What’s it to you if we did?”

Patrick, angry now: “What is it to me? That’s cheating.”

I languidly stroke my stomach and poke a finger into my belly button. “Not my fault you fell asleep.”

Patrick works his jaw up and down. Red flushes his face. Be careful what you wish for, Patrick.

But then his anger vanishes. He laughs, a huge, bellowing, belly-laugh. “So you and Ennis fucked. Did you like it?”

I bite my lower lip. “Ah…” If only we had fucked.

“You can tell me the truth. Did you like it?”

“We didn’t fuck,” I admit hoarsely. I roll out of the bed, eager to cleanse my insides of my fiance’s fresh juices.

“Why didn’t you fuck?”

I scoff. “Because we didn’t. Ennis and I said goodbye, so let’s leave it at that.”

*****

The following week is one of the hardest of my life. I want desperately to call Ennis, to hear her voice, but I know that will hurt her—and me—even more. So I keep away.

And I think and think…

Why did Ennis say she wasn’t a good person? If I left Patrick, would Ennis be willing to be with me? To be my girlfriend, my lover? I think so, but I do not want her to resent me. I should leave Ennis and me in the past where she can look back at our “moment” fondly. Besides, logically, any decision to leave Patrick should not involve Ennis. Such a choice should involve “neutral” terms. Am I better off with him or without him? I list pros and cons in my mind.

Pros: Thanks to Patrick’s trust fund, we live in a nice condo in a nice part of D.C. We’re planning a wedding on which much time and expense has been invested.

So what?

He is nice to me most of the time. It’s just his job making him whatever…blah blah blah. But if I back out now, or fairly soon, many wedding expenses probably could be recouped. And…oh, I don’t know. I have a gnawing insistence in my stomach that we’d be unhappy together as man and wife. I don’t even allow myself to think about my parents’ reaction if they found out I was leaving Patrick—and for a woman. A woman I hardly know.

Good old reliable Carol. She doesn’t take risks. That’s our Carol.

Boring Carol.

On Thursday after work, I go to the sex shop to update Nigel on the threesome. I am about to scream. I have to talk to someone, and I hope Nigel can listen.

*****

Patrick and I have sex a crazy lot that first week too. Now that I know he likes ass fucking, he isn’t shy about asking me to do him. He comes home Monday night with a dildo for exactly that purpose. I fuck him all over the place—in the shower, on the kitchen table, on the couch. I fuck him angrily and hard—because I’m mad at Ennis, because she pushed me away, because she won’t do affairs. I fuck him angrily and hard—because I’m mad at me for being Carol.

He moans and groans. I close my eyes and imagine the moans and groans are Ennis’s. He wants to do me in the ass too, but I’m leery. Luis is thick and long.

We can start with fingers or a tiny dildo, Patrick suggests.

“I’ll think about it,” I reply. In other words, heck no.

We do plenty more than ass fucking, too. You’d think we were on honeymoon. Now that Patrick’s seen a kinkier side of me, he is all over me. He wakes me at two o’clock most mornings for sex. Again at three. And at four. We go out to dinner or to get coffee for the express purpose of slipping into the bathroom for more sex—and sometimes I’m on the receiving end. He eats me, rubs my clit more.

I come more in that week than I have in the past six months with him. I’m more turned on in that week than I have been in the past six months, but only because she drives my thoughts.

I’m horny and depressed, thanks to Ennis. How can I go back to the drudgery of everyday life after tasting heaven?

*****

Two weekends after the threesome, I take the train up to Philadelphia for my father’s birthday. Dad, Mom and I are silent as we eat Dad’s favorite dinner of chicken dumplings and creamed peas. The only noises are the occasional smack of my father’s lips and a not-quite-stifled burp or two.

I hate it. I hate the tension. I hate that my parents act like strangers around each other. It’s been like this since I can remember. For years, they’ve slept in separate beds due to his “snoring.” I wonder if Mom and Dad ever loved each other—if they were ever truly, passionately in love. They sure aren’t now. They don’t even like each other.

A crystal-clear vision of myself in fifty years with Patrick hovers in my peripheral vision. It’ll be the same with us, won’t it? Me cooking his favorite meals, dinners “enjoyed” in silence?

Shit.

I won’t lead that kind of life; it’s unfair to me and Patrick. Ennis and I probably have no future, but that doesn’t matter. I need to leave Patrick because we’re not right for each other.

“Mom, Dad,” I say on the spur of the moment and without thinking.

Dad sets down a spoonful of dumplings. “What, sweetheart?”

“I’m leaving Patrick. We’re not getting married.”

Dad’s eyes go wide.

“What!” Mom exclaims.

“We’re over. I’m telling him when I get home.” I grin. I laugh. It is the most liberating moment of my life. A huge weight is off my chest. I’m giddy, crazy giddy.

Mom swallows, shoots a panicked gaze at Dad before returning her focus to me. “Why?” she asks. “Is…is there someone else?”

My thoughts stumble across one another. “I…no. No. Kind of, but…no. No.”

Mom raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Kind of?”

“There was someone, but that’s not happening. We ended it a couple of weeks ago, but being with that person forced me to accept that Patrick and I aren’t happy together and will never be.”

Mom nods slowly, primly. Judgmentally. “I see.”

No, you don’t. Not at all.

Dad’s craggy features darken. “Carol, you know your mom and I never approved of you and Patrick living together, but he seemed to make you happy. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Dad picks up his spoonful of dumplings. “That’s all I need to know.” Open mouth, insert spoon.

Mom clicks her tongue. “Now, Carol. Think about it some more. Patrick can provide for you. He can give you a wonderful life.”

“No. Not a wonderful life.” I am resolute. “I cannot marry him.”

“What do you expect to do? Where will you go? Will you keep working at the bookstore?” Mom’s expression turns hopeful. “Are you moving back home? Your room’s ready anytime you need it.”

Am I moving back home? Heck no. I’m twenty-six years old, and I ain’t moving back home. I bluster confidence: “I’ll move in for a while with my friend Nigel in D.C. It’ll be fine.”

Mom sighs. “Did this other man give you an ultimatum? Did he threaten to break up with you unless you leave Patrick?”

“Not at all,” I reply calmly. I am on a roll, a great, wonderful roll of liberation and truth. “Besides, I haven’t been seeing a man.”

Now this confuses my mother. I practically see her brain cells struggling to make sense of my statement. “Well, sweetie,” she says, her brows furrowed, “if you haven’t been seeing a man, then who have you—”

She gets it, finally. Understanding lights her eyes, and she gazes at me in horror.

“A woman?” she says in a strangled whisper. “You’ve been seeing a woman?”

I lean back in my chair. Liberation is nice. It’s addictive. “Bingo!” I proclaim.

Mom’s face pales. Her mouth goes up and down several times. She tries to speak, but no sound comes out. I fully expect a verbal assault after she recovers. A barrage of what’s-wrong-with-yous and that’s-disgraceful-what-a-sin.

Dad stares at me, his shock reflecting my mother’s.

Mom finds her voice: “A woman. A woman.”

“Yes. A woman.”

“A woman,” Mom repeats.

“A woman.”

Mom pats her hair, ensuring each graying strand is perfectly in place. “Does Patrick know?”

“No.”

“And this…this woman has made you see that you and Patrick aren’t right for each other?”

“Oh, I always knew, I suppose. She just…she just…” Ennis flashes into my mind, Ennis flipping her wavy reddish-brown hair back, Ennis raising goose bumps on my skin by mere virtue of studying me with these intense eyes…

I really could have loved her, but I’ll be all right. I’m done with delusions that Patrick and I could be happy.

“She just what?” Dad prompts.

I swallow. “She made me alive. And…oh, Dad, I can’t explain.”

“Why is it over?” Dad seems genuinely curious. Not upset, not angry, not judgmental. This rattles me. I almost wish he and Mom would tear my flesh apart.

“She doesn’t do affairs.”

Mom harrumphs. “Good for her.”

“Ahhh.” I push peas around on my plate. “I think I love Ennis. Maybe if I tell her I’m not with Patrick anymore, she’ll…maybe. But if not, I’ll be okay.”

“Ennis?”

“Yeah. Ennis. That’s her name.” Another flash of Ennis in my mind—laughing, taking my hand, kissing me.

I continue speaking as if I am on automatic pilot. I don’t see my parents or the dining room table. I just see a void, a chasm. “She has auburn hair. Eyes like cinnamon on green. A voice like gold. She’s beautiful and perfect. I miss her.”

Mom, firm and no-nonsense: “Well, it’s over, and you certainly won’t be seeing more women. Not if you have any pride. We’ll forget about this and find you a nice boy.”

I stifle the urge to laugh. I eat some peas. Some chicken dumplings. I draw out the moment to agonize my mother. Finally, I look at her, and I grin. “Oh, Mom, you’re mistaken if you think I’m done with women. Very mistaken. It’s men I’m done with.”

Blackness creeps into Mom’s face. We study each other, our gazes hard, each of us stiff and defiant. I am sure that she is about to kick me out, to disown me, her only child, the child she had to adopt because she couldn’t have kids the old-fashioned way.

Her loss.

I can live without Patrick, I can live without Ennis, and I certainly can live without my parents’ approval.

Mom is the first to break our eye contact. She slumps a little. “Very well, Carol,” she whispers. “Very well. How about I get your father’s cake?”

I exhale—a long, long breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Um…” I push my chair back. “I’ll help you.”

A hint of a smile touches my mother’s lips. “Thank you.”

Chapter Thirteen

On the train ride home Sunday afternoon, I call Nigel. I explain the situation and ask if I can crash at his place a few days until I figure something out.

“Of course,” he reassures me. “Stay as long as you need to.”

So the next step is to tell Patrick. I’m nervous, of course. Tense. Sad, too. We did once love each other, and I still love him in my own way. We’re simply not meant to be together, much less as husband and wife.

When I get to the condo, Patrick is watching a baseball game. “Hey!” he calls excitedly as I step into the living room. “This is a great game. Come watch. Oh, could you grab me a beer?”

No hug, no kiss, no “I missed you.” Yes, we’re certainly not meant to be together. I head into the bedroom and lug out my biggest suitcase. I’ll pack enough to tide me over a few days and return for the rest later.

“Hey!” Patrick shouts from the living room. “How about that beer?”

“One minute!” I throw a few essentials into the suitcase. At least I already have what’s in my duffel bag from the trip to Pennsylvania.

I run my hands through my hair. Finish packing later. Tell Patrick now.

Deep breath.

I get a beer from the refrigerator and take it to Patrick. “Thanks, babe.” A cheek kiss from him. “How was the trip? Your dad have a nice birthday?”

“The trip was good. Enlightening.”

He isn’t listening because his favorite player just hit a homer. “Yeah!” Patrick pumps his fist. Celebrates for a while. Afterward, he turns to me. “Hey, babe. I’ve been thinking. Maybe another threesome, hmm? Not with Ennis, but we could post Internet ads or something.”

I stare at him. Not with horror, not with revulsion, but with resignation. No more. No more. We really are over. “Patrick,” I begin.

Another big play in the baseball game. More fist pumping and excited exclamations. I grab the remote and click the game off.

Patrick squawks. “Hey!”

I hold the remote out of his reach. “Please listen to me. I can’t marry you. We’re not right for each other.”

Patrick’s eyes—deep blue eyes I used to adore, adore, adore—go wide. He gulps and glances at the now-black TV screen. He glances back at me. “What? You can’t marry me?”

“No,” I say gently.

He looks stricken, surprised. Stunned. For a split-second, I reconsider. He might really love me. Maybe we could…no.

“Why?” he asks.

“I hate that my parents act like strangers around each other, and that’s how I see you and me in ten, twenty years. I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore. I think you don’t love me either.”

A gulp from Patrick. A glower at the TV. Some pondering. “Yeah,” he finally says in a whisper. “Maybe you’re right. But…but let’s think about this, Carol. No rash decisions.”

“Did you ever plan to ask me to marry you?”

He grins sheepishly and shakes his head. “No. At least not then. But what was I supposed to do that morning after we’d had mind-blowing sex and you whispered that we ought to get married?”

“Yeah.” It’s my turn to look at the TV.

“Carol, come on. It’s that insane pressure at work to accumulate billable hours. I…look. I’ll talk to my dad and see if he can get some weight off my back.”

“No. You hate getting special favors.”

“So what?” Patrick protests. “If it means keeping you…” He is pleading now, beseeching. “Please.”

“Why do you want me? Why do you love me?”

Patrick’s left eyebrow quirks. “Do you have to ask that? Yeah. Yeah, all right. Guess you do. Well, Carol, you’re beautiful. Smart. Funny. You make my heart race.”

“Do I really?”

He hesitates a moment too long. “Yes.”

“We’ve been over a while, Patrick. I’m accepting it now, and it’s time for you to start.”

“Fuck. This is about the threesome. Look, we don’t have to do another one.”

“We’re over, Patrick. I’m sorry.”

Patrick grabs my hand. Grips it tight. “Is there someone else?” he demands.

“No,” I say, even as I become aware that the guilty shift of my eyes, the lowering of my gaze, a lot of other things, probably expose my denial for the half-lie it is.

Patrick lets go of my hand, and his Adam’s apple bulges dangerously. “Who is he? Huh? Who is he?”

“There’s no one,” I reply as firmly as possible, but I feel Ennis’s heated gaze on me, her lips on mine. Yes, I will call her in a few days once I’ve gotten settled.

“Bullshit!” Patrick retorts. “Some dude’s moved in on you. Who?”

“No one!” I stalk back into the bedroom and furiously finish packing.

Patrick joins me about five minutes later as I zip up my suitcase. He is calm now; there is no trace of his earlier manic. “Is it Ennis?” he asks.

I freeze. Another guilty reaction. “I…I…” Bad faltering, but I struggle on. He deserves the truth. “Not so much her, Patrick, but...” I slump-sit on the bed. “She made me see that you and I aren’t right for each other. She also helped me accept that I like women too. A lot. Always have. I think I’m done with men.”

Patrick crosses his arms, snickers. Shakes his head. He seems amused, very much so.

“What’s so funny?” I exclaim with righteous indignation.

Another snort. Another shake of the head. “Are you running off to her now, Carol?”

“No. She said that we couldn’t see each other. She and I don’t have a future. See, I’m not leaving you for her. Or for anyone! I’m leaving because you and I aren’t supposed to be together.”

“What exactly happened with you and Ennis?”

“What do you mean?”

Patrick shrugs. “You know.”

“Nothing. Nothing, really. We clicked. We really did. We clicked. I’ll call her in a few days and see…see if maybe she will…yeah, she’s a free spirit and all that, but we really clicked. You have no idea, Patrick.” Stop. Shut up. Don’t gibber about Ennis to your fiance—or whatever he is.

Yet another amused chuckle. “Did Ennis tell you who she really is?”

“What?”

Patrick laughs. “No, she didn’t. Oh, boy. Good thing you aren’t running off to her, huh? Except you kind of are.”

“What are you getting at?”

He sighs, and some of his amusement dies. “You’re right to be leaving me, Carol. I’ve been an extremely bad boy.”

My chest tightens. “How so?”

“You’ve fallen for a hooker,” he says simply. “A whore. A prostitute. A call girl.”

I laugh. “Whatever.” I grab the suitcase handle.

“It’s true.” Patrick’s voice is deathly calm. “I was fucking her for two months before the threesome. Yep. An entire two months. And I paid her to do the threesome. I paid her to charm you. I thought you needed to relax, and I wanted to share her with you.”

My knees sway, and the room shifts around me. The next thing I know, I’m on the bed and thinking and thinking…

OhGodOhGod. It’s not true. He’s saying this to hurt me.

Patrick’s calm voice continues: “She always reminded me of Ennis—the real Ennis. Same hair, same eyes. I suspected the only way you’d do a threesome was if we hooked up with someone we knew pretty well, so…” A note of pride enters his voice. “You had no idea, did you, Carol?”

“It’s not true,” I mutter.

“Oh, it’s true. Did you think she genuinely liked you?”

“She did. Does.”

“She’ll fake what she has to. She’ll make you feel like you’re the only person in the world that matters. It’s all about the money, you see. She doesn’t love you. She doesn’t even like you. Never did, I expect.”

“W-what’s her real name?”

“Now that is an excellent question.”

“What is her real name?” I repeat.

“Hell if I know. She said it was Katherine Rivers, but that’s a pile of bull.”

*****

I am in utter shock the next couple of days. I am angry, pissed—at Patrick, at Ennis—excuse me—Katherine. I am most angry at myself, though. I really thought she liked me, but she was nothing more than a hooker doing her job. I hate her. I hate her. I hate myself.

I tell no one, not even Nigel, this sordid tale, and shock gives way to red-hot rage.

At night, just as I am about to drift off to sleep, I think of her: her brilliant hair, her shining eyes, how she held me when we slow-danced, how she looked at me during Patrick’s massage.

How we said goodbye.

Everything.

These couldn’t be faked, right? Her wetness couldn’t be faked, right? Right. Maybe. Doubts riddle my thoughts, but one thing stands out: if she genuinely liked—likes—me, she still lied to me. She did all these things with me at the same time she was fucking my fiance. They both put me at risk for disease.

I feel so dirty, so invaded. So angry, so fucking angry. Mortification burns within me at the fact I told this hooker I love her.

No way she cried after leaving the hotel room. Instead, she laughed her ass off all the way to the bank. Damn right she isn’t a good person. Poor, gullible Carol. Breaking up with Patrick is the best thing I’ve done in my life, and if I see Ennis/Katherine again, I will fucking kill her.

*****

About a month after I leave Patrick, I go on a blind date with a woman named Michaela. Nigel set it up with zillions of promises I would adore Michaela. She turns out to be okay. A little bland and boring—is that how I used to be?

We go to a movie then to dinner. She constantly fiddles with her short, spiky hair. Every strand must be obedient. She’s not like Ennis—who lets her hair run carefree. Michaela has pretty eyes too, but they don’t sparkle like Ennis’s. I hate that I’m still thinking about that lying prostitute, that two-bit hooker.

I do not give Michaela a second date.

The next week, I go out with a woman named Carrie. (Another date set up by Nigel; since he’s doing so much for me, letting me room with him and the like, I figure I ought to humor him whenever I can.)

Carrie and I meet at a Chinese restaurant, and we joke about the similarity of our names. She is cool. She is American Indian. High cheekbones, dark skin, even darker eyes. Tall, with legs to die for. She is fifty-three, which shocks me. I pegged her at no more than thirty-five. She is one of the most beautiful women I’ve seen.

However, my first thought upon meeting her is this: She isn’t as beautiful as Ennis—no. Katherine.

God.

Why do I still think about her? The more I do, the more I hate her. How horribly mean and cruel it was of her to weave her magic on me, to make me fall for her hard.

Anyway. The date with Carrie goes well, and Ennis-Katherine stays away as much as possible, thank goodness. Carrie asks for a second date, and I accept happily. We kiss good night, and a small, burning part of my brain wishes Ennis was the woman doing the kissing.

*****

After two more months, Carrie officially becomes my girlfriend, my lover. We’re crazy about each other, we really are. True, I’m not in love with her, but maybe in a few months.

I’m finally moving up in life. I am promoted to head cashier, a managerial position at Barnes & Noble. Nigel and I are swell roommates; we get each other on multiple levels, and I involve myself in the gay and lesbian community.

So.

I am moving up in life, and by all appearances, I am moving on with life too. But am I really? No. I could fib and say I rarely think about Patrick and Katherine. But they’re on my mind a lot. Boy, they are. I fantasize often at work—slow, slow work.

About revenge.

I want it bad. I need to show them just how much they hurt me. How thoughtless, how callous it was to play with my heart and my body like that. Patrick, the man I was supposed to marry. The man who was supposed to be my protector, my other half. Visiting a prostitute! How many did he see? When else did he cheat on me?

I used to be in love with him. That love turned to, more or less, indifference, hence why I ended things with him. Now I hate him, but the disgust I harbor toward him does not even compare to my feelings toward Ennis Evans a.k.a. Katherine Rivers a.k.a. No Fucking Name.

Katherine Rivers.

The name runs through my mind a lot. Even if it isn’t her real name, it’s a name she created. A beautiful name. I hate that I love how it sounds. I hate her with such burning passion. Deep down inside, it’s the kind of hate that once it’s all out, all expelled in a fight or some such, will turn to mad, crazy sex.

Yes—I hate her. I’m crazy about her, though. You see just how much she charmed me. You understand why I hate her. So, I fantasize and plot various revenge scenarios. I never attempt to call Katherine. No point. If I get revenge, it won’t start by me calling her. Some of my scenarios end with me fucking Katherine. One ends with Katherine begging for my forgiveness and telling me, through thick tears, that she loves me.

That won’t do.

My brain must remember what my heart waffles on—that Katherine helped Patrick cheat on me, that she only socialized with me for money. She had unprotected sex with me! Thank goodness I’m disease-free so far.

My favorite revenge scenario with Patrick: when he gets a new girlfriend, I seduce her from him. I could do it. Now that I know how Katherine did it, I can too. I’ve learned from the best. It helps tremendously, of course, that Patrick zooms in on one type of girl: shy, bookish, passive.

How I used to be.

I will make the girl feel special, like the only person in the world. Do things for her that her boyfriend Patrick does not. Hold her hand, touch her just so. Bring her little gifts, laugh with her. Play chess—and chest—with her.

It’s simply a fantasy, though. If Patrick has a new girlfriend, I do not know. I do not try to find out. Thinking about it is enough for now.

My top revenge plot against Katherine is silly. Very silly. Not realistic at all, but that’s why it’s called a fantasy, right? She finds out I was a hooker all along too. That I knew she was a hooker. She, not me, is the one with the broken heart. I was playing games with her and Patrick—but for what reason would I do that? It’s this point I struggle with most—why would I do that? Fantasies don’t have to be logical, but I’d like mine to be.

One day I see the answer along with a great big OH! What if I wasn’t a hooker all along, but a cop? Part of a huge undercover prostitution sting operation? Katherine was just a target, and I slam her into jail. Ha ha ha, not so nice, is it?

No sir, champ, you don’t love me.

Chances are I won’t see Patrick again—Katherine, too. Doesn’t keep me from spinning plots. It’s fun. Productive, even. Beats staying home, depressed and crying into my soup.

*****

A few more months pass, then a year. I’m still with Carrie. I don’t fantasize as much about revenge on Patrick and Katherine—because my revulsion at them has solidified. My heart is colder. I no longer see myself making mad love with Katherine after expunging my hate. I see myself stomping on her back.

It shocks me sometimes how cold my heart is. I never knew it was possible to truly hate someone. But hate her and Patrick I do. I am definitely not shy, mousy, plain Carol anymore. I realize now the best revenge would be no revenge at all. For me to say to Katherine with cool indifference: “Oh? You’re a prostitute? No biggie. It’s not like I liked you anyway. And you could use some pointers in bed, but hey! Whatever.”

Flash a great big smile.

One day not long before Thanksgiving and out of nowhere, Katherine slams back into my life. My real life, not my fantasy life. Her face, along with Frances Dourne’s face, explodes everywhere: the Internet, newspapers, TV.

Her real name is Elena Marie Elise, and damn if the sight of her doesn’t make my heart flutter through the layers of hate.

PART 1 B—2009-2010

Elena Speaks

Chapter Fourteen

On the first of May, Patrick Crenshaw invites me into his DuPont Circle condo. Carol, his fiancee, is visiting her family in Pennsylvania. “There’s the envelope,” Patrick says, indicating the coffee table.

“Thanks.” Patrick is a regular client, so I leave the envelope where it is. I’ll pick it up later on my way out. I smile and exclaim over a few art pieces. Part of my job is building up my clients’ egos (although many don’t need further inflating).

“It’s a great place,” I say. This part is true; Patrick lives in a home. You can tell by the woman’s touch. I don’t spot pictures of Carol, though. Maybe Patrick felt enough shame to hide them.

“Took Carol forever to get everything unboxed,” Patrick grumbles.

Yadda yadda. Who cares? “So,” I purr, “where’s the bedroom?”

Patrick grins. “Helena? Virginia? Quinn? Jeremy? Fred? Spot? Fluffy?”

I roll my eyes. This naming game amuses Patrick to no end, but it’s wearing thin for me. “Bob,” I say.

He guffaws deep from his belly. “Sounds about right.”

I twirl a hank of my hair under my nose and bat my eyelashes. “Bob has a mustache.”

“Bob’s rather cute. So is Katherine Rivers, but come on. Give me a hint.”

I pretend-frown. “I’m hurt that you don’t like Katherine Rivers.”

Patrick snorts. “Oh, I like it. Who wouldn’t? It’s a suggestive name. Moist.”

“Good.”

Most of my clients yearn to be deluded. They yearn to live in a fantasy world, as do I. Therefore, I’ve come up with a bells-and-whistles story that should last a few months before I get bored with it. Here’s the tale: Some people call me Casey, but my real name is Katherine Catherine Rivers. You may think the moniker unfortunate, but I proudly own up to it. A bit of background: my mother’s family has a tradition of naming babies after their grandparents. My mother’s mother was Catherine. My father’s mother was Katherine. My parents basically shrugged and said: “Oh well.” Thus, Katherine Catherine was born. A few weeks later, my parents realized what they’d done.

Oops.

They started calling me K.C., which morphed into Casey. I wasn’t too crazy about Casey as a name. Too light, too tomboyish. Not that I have anything against tomboys—heck, I’m one. I simply prefer Katherine Catherine. Rolls off my tongue and makes for a great icebreaker. However, my parents still call me Casey, and so can you, dear client. I can be Casey. Or Katherine. Or whomever you like.

“Angela?” Patrick asks. “Elena? Wanda? Pedro? Emily? Jose?”

I keep my face still. At least I think I do, but Patrick crows: “Your eye twitched!”

“Yeah. You got me. My name’s Pedro Jose. Now come on. Let’s fuck.”

“It’s Elena. Or Wanda.”

“Patrick,” I hiss, “if you insist on continuing this infernal game, I’m dropping you.”

He playfully shields his face. “Chill. It’s a game.”

“It’s annoying is what it is!”

He takes my hand and kisses it. “To the bedroom, my lady. I apologize.”

I grab my bag of toys. “I mean it. One more peep about names, and I’m gone.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Fine. Okay.” Relaxing breath. “To the bedroom, fair sir.”

Elena, that’s my real name. Elena Marie Elise.

*****

About thirty minutes later, Patrick asks: “Have I told you how Carol and I met?”

“No.” He and I are naked, and I have just given him a blow job. He doesn’t like how Carol does it. Not only that, she winces a bit every time he asks her to, so he’s given up asking. She certainly doesn’t volunteer for these tasks.

I’ve introduced him to improved blow jobs, improved hand jobs and also to ass fucking. It’s something I try to get my regular male clients hooked on. My life is easier if I can slip behind them and make like Woody Woodpecker. Certainly preferable to cock in my mouth.

Patrick explains that he and Carol met at a coffee shop in Philadelphia. Their mindless, anonymous sexual encounter gradually, over months and years, led to an engagement. “I love her,” he insists. “I just wish she could be more like that other Carol sometimes. The Carol I met first. I mean, I need her, you know? She keeps me grounded, but she ought to let her hair down once in a while.”

“I understand,” I say with a smile (wistful, to match his mood). Listening and talking are big parts of my job. Just as big as the sex. Perhaps bigger. You’d be surprised how much these guys (and gals) need to get off their chests. Hookers and call girls—pardon me, escorts—are good therapy in more ways than one.

Speaking of therapy, it’s hard to believe I’ve been a whore one and a half years. It’s hard to believe Isaiah has been dead almost two years.

*****

A couple of weeks later, I fuck Patrick in the ass twice in thirty minutes. Afterward, he asks: “Do you feel guilty?”

“About what?”

“You know. Helping people cheat.”

I pretend he hasn’t asked the question. It’s a leading question, and there’s no way to answer it without implicating myself. Patrick and I are at a hotel near his firm on Capitol Hill. Neither I nor the service (that I know of) has used the hotel until today, so the room can’t be bugged. I highly doubt Patrick has bugs in the clothes scattered about on the floor. True, you never know, but I’ve been fucking him long enough to get a good feel of who he is. An informant, he is not.

I don’t care about any of that. I’m cautious.

Besides, what I do is fill a need. I fill a demand. It is not my fault Carol and other girlfriends and wives are nags and lack sexual imagination. Not my fault society places so much value on monogamy. A lot of things aren’t my fault, but yes, guilt weighs down every part of my soul because one thing will always be my fault. My son drowned while I read a novel on the beach. Logic says that doesn’t mean I’m a bad person. Logic says it doesn’t mean I was a bad mother. But logic didn’t hold Isaiah’s wet, salty, un-breathing body. Logic didn’t have to wipe off seaweed to give him mouth to mouth. Logic is nice and academic and cerebral. Logic never gets dirty. Fuck you, logic. That’ll be $250 per hour. Tips, please. Protection required.

I turn the question back on Patrick: “Do you feel guilty?”

Like me, he doesn’t answer. Instead, his lips tug up. “I have an idea.”

“Do share.”

“I’ve been thinking about something for a while.”

“Yes?”

He kisses me on the mouth—something he doesn’t do much, and I wonder yet again if I should disallow mouth kisses for my clients. Hard to explain, but kissing is too intimate. Therefore, it’s begun to repulse me. Maybe I won’t be as in demand. Maybe I’ll lose money. Probably not, though. Clients like me, my picture. They really do.

“I want a threesome,” Patrick declares.

“Whatever you like. Should I pick number three out?” Patrick certainly can afford a threesome. I’d Googled him, and his parents, especially his father, drip money. When they get colds, no doubt they wipe their noses with dear old Benjamin Franklin.

Patrick clears his throat. “Ah…see. I’m thinking Carol.”

This astonishes me. Truly. “What? You mean a threesome with your fiancee?”

He grins sheepishly, and pink colors his cheeks. “Yeah.”

I don’t like his expression because it is plain as day that he loves her. Maybe not as he should, but he does love her, this woman he asked to be his wife. It makes me even lonelier—makes me think of Isaiah. I can’t remember his last words. Oh, I used to try, believe me, but I simply can’t remember. I know the words were mundane, something like: “Mom, can I go in the water? Please?” So many variations on that, though.

Mom, can I go in the ocean?

Mom, can I get in the ocean?

Mom, can I swim now? Please?

You see what I mean. I can’t remember my son’s exact last words, and I’ve given up trying to remember. I’ve given up thinking about him, but he always lurks in the back of my heart. He’s omnipresent. No need to think about Isaiah for him to haunt me.

Patrick continues: “I started having dreams—fantasies—a few days after I met you. Dreams with uh…well, you and Carol. Sexual dreams.”

“Me and Carol. Hmm.” I wish an inexplicable tingle would stir in my clit, but my body is nearly as dead as my water log of a son.

“You and Carol…and me. Together, all three of us.”

“In a threesome.”

Patrick’s blue eyes gleam. “Yes.”

“That’s fine.” I pause and say in a whisper: “Get her enrolled. You can be one of her references. She’ll have to be tested, but that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

A shadow crosses Patrick’s features. “No! We can’t tell her who you are. She would…she would freak. She wouldn’t hear of doing a hooker. She’s a good little Catholic. Mostly, anyway. It has to be with someone we know well. Or, at least, someone she thinks we know well.”

I can’t help but flinch at Patrick’s straight-out declaration of hooker. Not because it wounds me, but because clients and I are supposed to use code words for that kind of stuff. The room’s safe, I remind myself.

“I have a plan,” Patrick says. “Look, I’ll pay you more than the usual, okay? Um, okay.” He wrings his hands together. “I had a friend in college. She transferred after her freshman year, but anyway. Her name was Ennis. Ennis Renee Evans.”

Ennis Renee Evans. Hmm. I like the name. The EE initials, really. Ennis Evans. Elena Elise.

“I’ve mentioned her several times to Carol, including what she looks like, but Carol’s never met her, never talked to her, never seen a picture. Ennis and I didn’t keep in touch. I Googled her the other day—nothing. She isn’t on Facebook, either. We’re safe. Carol couldn’t find out.”

“Why’d you mention her to Carol if she wasn’t that close of a friend?”

“She’d try just about anything. Bungee jumping. Streaking naked in the snow. Anything. She was the most adventuresome person I knew.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, so, anyway, I’ll tell Carol I ran into you—Ennis—at a restaurant the other day. You just moved to D.C. or whatever. We got to talking, one thing led to another, and…see, at a Christmas party last year, I asked Carol what she’d think of doing a threesome sometime. She seemed a little shocked but said yes.”

“She didn’t mean it?”

“She said yes, didn’t she?”

“All right.”

Patrick looks anxious; his brows are creased. “What do you think?” he asks.

“You’re the client,” I point out. “We’ll go with whatever you come up with.”

“Client. Is that all I am to you? I thought we…well, maybe we were closer than that. We talk a lot.”

“We do.” But most of my clients talk too. Spill their deep dark secrets.

Patrick pouts, and I rush to reassure him. I don’t want to lose him—his money, his tips. After all, he’s helping me save for a condo. “You’re a great guy, Patrick.” He usually beams when I say his name, and now is no exception. “You’re great,” I continue. “Yeah, I can do this. Off the books. Freelance. Because Carol won’t know about me.”

The agency, citing safety reasons, doesn’t allow us to work freelance, but most everyone does. It’s a wink-wink thing.

“Yeah, of course. Under the table. Do you freelance a lot?”

“Sometimes,” I reply vaguely.

Patrick grins devilishly. “Carol’s such a square. She’d shit her pants if she found out she’d done a hooker.”

That dratted word again. “She better not find out. I’m doing this because I like you.”

Another compliment, another beam. Patrick is so easy to lure. “I’d love to see her expression, though,” he goes on. “Yeah. Like one of these times when she’s preaching that I ought to be more clean, more wholesome, maybe lay off the porn a little. Boy. I’d love to turn to her and say: ‘You’re one to talk. You did a hooker. And you loved it. You begged for more.’ ”

I rarely squirm, but I do so now. Threesomes for the sake of pleasure—fine. But for the sake of revenge? Moral superiority? Eh. “Patrick,” I say carefully, “maybe you should advertise on the Internet for your third person. I don’t want Carol turning us into the police or anything like that if she happens to find out.”

His face falls. “No. Aw, come on. She won’t find out, and it has to be Ennis. She’s perfect, you know. It’s why I picked you out. You could pass for Ennis’s sister.” He gazes at me speculatively. “So, are you?”

“What? Am I her sister? I don’t know Ennis.”

Patrick grins. “That’s a shame.”

“This is so you and Carol can have fun, right? Not to…”

His brows furrow. “Not to what?”

“Nothing.”

Patrick makes an X over his heart. “I promise. Just to have fun. So! It’s settled.”

“Carol might want to get to know me first.”

“Yeah, fine.” Patrick’s voice is dismissive.

“Well, sweetie, that might take time and money,” I explain.

Understanding dawns in his expression. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah. Hey, that’s fine. Money’s not a problem.”

Something pricks me—guilt, the sensation I am being an asshole and focusing too much on money, whatever? “We’ll talk money later,” I say hurriedly. “For now, think of this as a favor, hmm? For my favorite client.”

A megawatt beam. “Favorite?”

“For sure,” I proclaim, even though I know Patrick is smart enough to see through my ruse. Funny what delusion, what the need to hope does to all of us. “You better start calling me Ennis. We don’t want slipups.”

Patrick fills me in on everything he’s told Carol about Ennis, which isn’t much. He can’t remember if he told Carol that Ennis is a lesbian, but she is. Funny, so am I. I don’t believe in fate or karma or what have you, but maybe this means something. Ennis Evans and Elena Elise, EE lesbians who look like they could be sisters.

Patrick ends with another: “Man, Carol would shit her pants if she knew you were a hooker.”

I challenge him: “I’ll broaden her horizons. She ought to know there’s more to sex than the missionary position.”

Patrick scowls. “Hey! I show her plenty.”

I chuckle. “Calm down. I’m teasing.” Yes, I will broaden Carol’s horizons. Carol, the Catholic square.

Patrick and I discuss what he’d like out of the threesome. Well—we don’t discuss, exactly. I fuck, fuck and fuck him. All the while, among pants and heaves and loud shudders and sweaty ejaculations, he tells me what he wants. It will turn him on so much, he admits, to see his shy Carol kiss another woman. To see his shy Carol go down on another woman. To see his shy Carol straddle another woman and ride her. To see his shy Carol, perhaps, handcuff another woman and whip her.

Something happens to me. I get caught up in his fantasy, so much so that the sex is tolerable. Mind you, I don’t enjoy the sex. I don’t come close to reaching orgasm. But the Isaiah-coal in my heart temporarily disappears.

Thank you, Carol.

Before Patrick leaves but after he’s tipped me, I inform him to never, ever use words such as hooker, whore, prostitute and call girl around me. “It’s for both our safety, okay?”

“Right.” He looks chastened. “The booking lady said that, and I forgot.”

Chapter Fifteen

In June, I return to Patrick’s place to meet Carol. The condo is actually fairly close to my apartment—something I’ll never tell Patrick. Speaking of condos, I’ve decided on the Yale Steam Laundry building for my own condo. The building used to wash White House linens, and I enjoy a bit of history. My eye is on a two-bedroom I should be able to afford in perhaps six months.

I take a deep breath right before I enter Patrick’s building. Carol. I have no idea what to expect of her. On purpose, I haven’t asked about her, about her looks. I’m keenly aware this scheme is deceitful as all get out, but someone has to be number three. Might as well be me. Moola without the agency taking a cut. Besides, nothing I do comes close to letting my son drown. Also on the plus side, at least I feel conflicted over this. True, the conflict barely registers, but it does register. It wouldn’t have a year ago. Or six months ago, for that matter.

Patrick greets me at the condo’s front door and ushers me in. A woman, no doubt Carol, hangs back in the living room. She disappoints me. I don’t know. I’ve been building her up in my mind because of that name which opens up many possibilities, some contradictory. Shy. Demure. Cloyingly sexual. A fragile shell.

Carol is plain. She has shoulder-length dark hair she does nothing with, and blue eyes. She reminds me of a dog about to piddle on the floor because it is so nervous. She is not my kind of woman. I can’t imagine her doing a threesome, and I see now what Patrick meant by: Haha Carol, you did a hooker, and you loved it!

Ack. This isn’t like me to be disappointed. To even be expecting anything. Patrick said Carol was a prude, so why was I hoping for someone more remarkable? Maybe it’s the story of how they met. Maybe it’s because Patrick told me Carol was a “mostly good” Catholic. Mostly good means a little bad…

These tiny bad parts can be delicious, and a game of sorts would help take my mind off Isaiah. Oh well. Time to get on with it, to do my job. Time to charm Carol, even though she disappoints me. Maybe I’ll get lucky and unearth the bad Catholic.

*****

Yadda yadda yadda for about five minutes. The three of us talk about mundane stuff, and Carol seems no more at ease. Doesn’t mean I turn her off. Far from it. She is drawn to me, I can tell. It took hardly any work to unearth the bad Catholic. There is that look in her eyes—she finds me beautiful and sexy. I get a vibe from her too, thanks to my gaydar. I am fairly sure poor Patrick has no clue that his fiancee is, at the very least, bisexual.

When I smile at her, her cheeks flush and she looks away. Whenever I say her name, she grins. She tries to hide it, but she grins, oh yes she does. She likes my voice. Analytically speaking, she has nice teeth, a nice smile. A wonderful smile, really. Wonderful lips. If I wasn’t so numb inside, I might enjoy kissing her.

She laughs only once in these five minutes, and I never want to hear that laugh again. The sound is light, carefree, unrestrained. Reminds me of Isaiah, and it certainly isn’t a laugh I hear often in my line of work.

I hope Carol won’t become less of a game and more of a chore.

Eventually, Patrick asks me: “So what do you say? Threesome?”

“Sounds good if it’s okay with Carol.”

Carol lobs panicked gazes in both my direction and Patrick’s. She’d rather lick soap scum off tiles, poor gal. “Sure,” she stammers, her face redder than a herd of Valentines. “Sure.”

“When?” Patrick asks.

I decide to have a little fun with Carol. See how far she’s willing to go. In a way, she interests me. She’s obviously quite shy and repressed, but at the same time, she desires better for herself, her life, her relationship. Lo and behold, here’s this fascinating new creature named Ennis Evans. Mystery, confidence and a chase are huge aphrodisiacs, let me tell you.

I shrug and say casually: “Now?”

Carol shrinks back, and Patrick apparently doesn’t notice. He exclaims: “Sure! What do you say, Carol?”

She licks her lips. “Now?” she squawks.

Time to cut Carol a teeny break. “Or later. Later is fine, too.”

“Or both,” Patrick interjects. “Now and later.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“I thought it was just gonna be one time,” Carol whispers.

Patrick cocks his head. “Sure, hey, we’ll play it by ear. So…so, uh…you sure now’s okay with you, Carol?”

“How is this gonna work?” Carol asks.

“Well, I figure you and Ennis can kiss a little bit first. You know, get in the mood and all. Get the foreplay you women like. And then we’ll see how it goes from there.”

Carol nods miserably.

“She doesn’t seem very receptive,” I venture.

“Oh, she is. Carol’s cool. She’s a cool cat.”

“I don’t know. If she doesn’t want to do it, she shouldn’t.”

Patrick sighs. “Tell her, Carol. You’re fine with this, right? You want this too.”

Carol can’t say anything. Only nods.

“See?” Patrick proclaims.

Patrick, being the pitiable dude he is, doesn’t know the right approach to take with Carol, or maybe he plain doesn’t care at this point because he’s too disillusioned with her. Probably somewhere in between. “Ever been with a woman?” I ask Carol.

“No.”

“Ever wanted to be with a woman?”

“No,” Carol says, but flickers in her voice and gaze indicate the lie. Adrenaline jerks through my veins. Good. The challenge is on, and I will win. I am used to people caving in all too quickly and telling me what they want, so this will be a neat little fishing expedition—get my brain juices flowing. Even my best friend Felicianna tells me what she wants—kiss me, Elena, I have ice cream or potato chips here, see, let me stay a bit. Please? Her gaze conveying: I love you. Say you love me back. Please say it.

“Ever kissed a woman?” I ask Carol.

“No.”

“Hmm.” I pucker my lips. Perfect challenge, indeed. The turtle wins the race, and I’m confident that I will have Carol—one way or another. I will have her. I will nail her to the wall and screw her brains out like I screw Patrick’s ass. It’ll be frantic sex, I won’t enjoy the act, but I’ll have won, I’ll have done something productive. I will seduce Carol and earn money for my condo-to-be.

“Carol, hey…if you’re not ready to do this now, that’s cool. Just say the word.”

“She’s fine,” Patrick puts in. “She kept saying last night it was fine, really.”

“Right, yes. I’m fine.”

My best choice is to play along. While I appeal to Carol, she won’t admit she isn’t ready for a threesome until we’re almost naked. Or fully naked.

I cross my legs and sit back. “All right, then. Let’s get it on.”

*****

The three of us end up in the bedroom, and my prediction comes true. Carol explodes in anger before long. She yells at Patrick: “Why am I not enough for you? Why do you have to bring this woman in?” Passion and indignation flush her cheeks, and her fierce rawness freezes me for a second.

This woman, this Carol…she feels. Oh yes, she feels. Quite deeply. I find myself looking forward even more to the days that are coming, to peeling back the layers of Carol’s repression.

Patrick laughs. He says: “All right, all right, Carol. Calm down. We’ll do the threesome later, okay? Tonight?”

“No!”

“You just need to get to know Ennis. Hey, go out for coffee with her, huh? Just the two of you so you feel comfortable with her.”

Carol sits on the bed and uses her hands to mask the despair on her face. I say: “I’ll go,” but I don’t plan to actually go anywhere. No, Patrick will keep me here, or Carol will. The gesture is what matters—showing Carol that I’m on her side, that I care about her enough to leave. That’s part of how you win over a woman like her.

Carol rises from the bed. She contorts her face into good-hostess mode and says: “Don’t go, Ennis. We’ll do this.”

“You sure, Carol?” I ask. “We absolutely don’t need to do this now.”

“I have an idea,” Patrick puts in. “Let’s start off slow. Like, you and Ennis can kiss. Just for a bit. Then later, like next week, take it a little further. Do a little more each week. Until you’re ready to go all the way.”

Carol frowns. Yet again, I play good cop to Patrick’s bad cop: “I’m not a toy, Patrick,” I snap. “I thought this would be one time, then we’re done.”

Patrick’s dad calls then. Summons the dutiful son to the office, but Patrick can’t resist another attempt before he leaves: “Okay, so, I’ll be back soon. Uh, hey, maybe you two can kiss before I go?”

I glare at Patrick and say: “No.”

*****

Alone time with Carol. We go into the kitchen.

“I’m sorry,” I remark. “He told me you really wanted to do this—that it was more your idea than his.” Patrick, of course, told me no such thing, but to seduce Carol, I must convey that my intentions are as pure as possible. If she brings it up with him, he can explain it away as a miscommunication.

Carol chuckles nervously. “Want another drink?”

“Why are you doing this? You obviously don’t want to.”

“I want to,” she protests.

“You don’t.”

“Look, I wanna make Patrick happy, okay? What can this one little thing hurt?”

“It’s not a little thing to some people.”

“Guess we can’t all be like you,” Carol retorts, showing a flash of her raw, angry self.

I grin and brush hair out of my eyes. Few things are sexier than a woman with spunk. “Who were they?”

“Huh?”

“The women you wanted to be with.”

“I told you, I haven’t.”

“It’s not bad, you know,” I whisper. “To be attracted to women.”

“I know, I know,” Carol says hurriedly. “But I’m not gay or bisexual.”

“I’m gay. Did Patrick tell you that?”

Confusion wrinkles her forehead. “You’re gay? Then why...but…I don’t understand. Patrick’s a man. Why would you want a threesome with him?”

“Like I said, he told me it was your idea, that it was really for you. I figured I’d help a fellow woman out. It’s not like I’ll catch cooties if I happen to touch Patrick’s penis. Besides, I owe Patrick a couple of favors. He saved my neck a few times in college, and it could be fun.”

Indecision shines in Carol’s expression. “You think I’m Patrick’s toy, don’t you?”

I raise one of my eyebrows in pretend surprise, although Carol as Patrick’s toy is an apt description. She seems more scared of Patrick, more eager to please him, than in love with him.

“Not at all,” I say. “He’s a decent guy who doesn’t think sometimes. Typical male.” I laugh to underscore my point. One thing I never do in my line of work is blame a person I’m supposed to help. Right now, that person is Carol. No put downs. No criticisms. Never. Carol knows the truth, and she knows I know it too. There’s no need for me to point it out. It’s a Fantasy Land rule.

“Did Patrick say…did he tell you…well, I don’t please him?”

“No,” I reply gently, ignoring Patrick’s complaints about Carol’s terrible blow jobs and her even crappier hand jobs. I also overlook his comments about Carol having a stick up her ass. “It’s only something he wants to try. He’s happy with you.”

“Have you done threesomes?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“Lots?”

I grab the first number that comes to mind. “Five times.” In truth, I’ve probably done more than five. Comes with the call girl job.

“Foursomes? Fivesomes? Sixsomes?”

I laugh and flip my hair back. “I like you, Carol. You’re funny.”

She meets my eyes and smiles. She really is cute in her own way, and her grin is contagious. It’s a moment of true connection.

“I try,” Carol says.

I decide to capitalize on the moment by opening up. Rather, by opening Ennis up and showing a softer, more vulnerable side. “This is selfish on my part, too,” I admit.

“How so?”

I cast my gaze down in fake chagrin. “I haven’t had sex in a while. It’s been a few months.”

“Oh.”

I release a sigh and meet Carol’s gaze again. “I’ve been so busy with moving to D.C., starting the new job, and…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You had a breakup?” Carol asks.

A breakup? Sure, let’s go with that. “Yeah. Six months ago. Her name was Christine. I really thought we…ah, no. No. I won’t bore you.”

“I don’t mind,” Carol says.

I wave her comment away. I need to remain alluring and mysterious to Carol. “So, you said earlier that you work at Barnes & Noble.”

“Yeah, and you’re a wedding planner, right?”

“Yep.” Patrick and I agreed on this last week. My idea. I mean, I was a party planner in my other life, and my family and friends think I still do it. About fifty percent of my jobs were weddings, so wedding planner isn’t a huge leap. I can speak knowledgably on the subject if I need to.

“Do you like the work?” Carol asks.

“Other than the occasional Bridezilla, it’s good work. How about you at Barnes & Noble?”

“It’s okay. It’s work.”

I glance at the clock on the microwave. Patrick’s been gone about fifteen minutes, and I think I’ve done all I can for now.

“Sorry,” Carol says hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”

Her comment gives me the perfect opportunity to get a bit of flirting in and bolster Carol’s confidence. “Who says you were? I was checking how much time we have before Patrick gets back.” I glance toward the bedroom and smile suggestively. “Do you want to…?”

Carol’s gaze is blank.

“Well?” I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Oh! You want to…you want to…oh, no. Patrick wouldn’t like if we got started without him.”

“He’d get over it.” I wait a heartbeat, then nudge Carol in the rib. “Relax. I was kidding.”

“I know. I knew that.”

“No, you didn’t. But that’s okay. Look, uh…don’t do this if you don’t want to. Really. Patrick will live.” I make this statement confidently. I’ve hooked Carol enough. She’ll need more coaxing, but she’s in.

“One time, what can it hurt? I’m such a prude, anyway.”

“Yeah. Yeah, all right.”

“Why do you wanna do this, anyway? With me? I’m not very pretty.”

I make an incredulous sound. These actresses who win Oscars have nothing on me. “Come again?”

“I’m plain,” Carol says.

“You’re not.”

“You frowned when you saw me.”

“Uh…” Well, crap. I hadn’t realized I frowned. Also didn’t expect Carol to be this blunt. Or perceptive.

“Yeah. See.”

“No, no, Carol. I…” I rub my forehead. “You’re a beautiful woman.” She kind of is, actually. Like I said earlier, her lips are kissable. Confidence, that’s her problem. She lacks confidence and spark. So have I for almost two years, but I fake. She can’t even do that. “I didn’t realize I’d frowned. I apologize, but it’s not what you think. I was frowning because…”

“Why?”

“I thought it was a shame you were wasted on a man.”

Carol essentially melts before my eyes. She’s a starving woman, and I’ve thrown her a tasty morsel.

“You’re a smooth talker,” she says.

“Perhaps, but I speak the truth. You are beautiful.” I trace Carol’s jaw. Her skin is clean and smooth under my fingertips. Makes me want to never touch a man’s grizzly scruff again. “Look at that structure.”

“My face is round.”

“Nope, no round face. You have high, nice cheekbones.” This part is true. If Carol weighed, say, six hundred pounds, I could never get away with this. I wouldn’t disrespect her by trying in the first place.

“My hair, then. It’s mousy.”

Well, okay. I wouldn’t characterize her hair as mousy, but she does nothing with it. No styling. Not that I care, except I have a job to do. “Are you kidding?” I giggle and run one of my hands through her hair. “Shiny. Well taken care of. Smells good too. Strawberries and cream?”

“My lips,” she says. “Thin lips.”

“Full, pouty, beautiful lips,” I murmur, and yeah, this is still true. I wouldn’t mind kissing her. Better her than my typical flavor of customer.

Need glimmers in Carol’s eyes, and I dial the charm up another notch by drawing back. “Wow,” I say, feigning embarrassment. “I don’t know why I…” I shake my head. “Wow. But you’re beautiful. Really.”

“I don’t feel beautiful.”

“Doesn’t Patrick tell you every day that you are?”

“He used to, but he hasn’t in months.”

No surprise. Lots of guys are like that. Sucks for their women. “Huh,” I say. “He shouldn’t take you for granted.”

Carol bites her lip. “Ennis?”

“Yeah?”

“I appreciate this, but I think I’m gonna…I have work to do.”

“Oh sure. Hey, I’ll give you my number. Call anytime.” I have two cellphones, one for personal use and one for work. Carol, naturally, gets the work number (and, of course, my voice mail doesn’t identify me by any name). I pay for both phones myself, so I don’t worry about using the work phone for freelance gigs.

After I leave Carol’s condo, I go to a Starbucks and try to relax. Can’t. I keep replaying our moment of true connection. What was that about? What exactly in her smile or in her eyes sparked it? I don’t connect with my clients that way. Don’t want to. But Carol isn’t a client. She’s a woman who thinks I’m genuine, who thinks I’m Ennis Evans. I keep feeling the smoothness of Carol’s skin under my fingers, keep replaying my lies to her.

A good person I am not.

Thinking about Carol won’t do, so I browse urns on my personal cellphone. Kind of funny, huh? I hoped that making Carol into a game would distract me from Isaiah, but here I am, using Isaiah to distract myself from Carol.

My son resides in a black vase-like urn. You know the type—standard. Kind of boring and adult. Isaiah’s father, a guy I had sex with to make sure I was gay, picked it out. That goes to show how much Kevin didn’t know his own child. Little guy would’ve hated the urn, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to seriously search for alternatives.

Now I search, and a metallic toy truck catches my eye. Hard to believe it’s an urn, but it is, sure enough. Pain squeezes my heart, making it beat faster and faster. This is it. This urn is perfect for Isaiah, and I order it.

Chapter Sixteen

The week brings more ass fucking, more blow jobs with Patrick. Yadda yadda yadda. He talks a little about Carol, and to be an attentive, dutiful whore, I ask questions about her favorite color, her hobbies, her top foods. Basic stuff, stuff I usually don’t give a shit about. However, thoughts of Carol have kept creeping up on me. Her shyness. The fact that she isn’t all about sex. It’s refreshing. Even in my free time, people see me as a sex object. The wolfish men in the grocery store, for example. But not Carol. Carol who hung back, Carol who…Carol who needs help. She is a woman waiting to bloom, a sexual being who needs guidance. Patrick isn’t the one for her.

The comments Patrick makes about Carol are no different from what he’s said before, but they carry additional meaning now that I know her.

For example: “She doesn’t get why I can’t be home early. I work! Duh. It’s my first fucking year!”

“If you didn’t see me, you’d be home earlier.”

Patrick gives me a black look. “Whose side are you on?”

Oops. So much for Fantasy Land, for never criticizing clients. “Just saying.”

“Whatever,” Patrick mutters angrily. He does not leave a tip, but I still plan to show up at his condo Saturday as agreed.

*****

“You look nice,” my mother says as she kisses me goodbye on Saturday.

“Thanks, Ma.” I’m wearing a black dress carried over from my other life. I bought the dress for only a hundred dollars, and it hasn’t fallen victim to wear and tear. One of my best purchases. It’s perfect for pretty much any event, and it brings out my long legs, my auburn hair and my hazel eyes better than other dresses can. It’s a hooker dress from before I was a hooker. Ha!

“I’m glad to see you dating again,” Ma says.

I sigh. “I told you, Ma. Tonight isn’t a date. It’s more like a…” I gesture, trying to make my point. “An icebreaker. It’s a business dinner, okay?”

Ma grins. “An icebreaker with the potential for more. You want to know how I know it’s a date?”

“Oh yes, Mother, please grace me with your infinite wisdom,” I drawl. I usually don’t mind Ma living with me. She moved in after a semi-suicide attempt on my part, and I love providing for her after all she’s done for me. But, geez. Sometimes she’s annoying.

“The dress. You used to wear it for first dates you were excited about.”

I stare at my mother. At the premature lines in her face, at her saggy jowls. Her words rattle around the living room. First dates you were excited about.

Is she right? Well, maybe the old Elena did subconsciously wear this dress for first dates she was excited about. However, the new, less-improved Elena has continued to wear the dress once in a while, and certainly not for dates. Ma’s nuts.

“Don’t forget your crazy meds,” I say blithely.

Ma chuckles. “A mother knows.”

“Then a mother would know I wore this dress, let’s see, two months ago when I catered that business dinner.”

Ma’s eyes gleam. “This mother says you’re being defensive.”

I snort. “I’m out of here.”

Ma’s expression turns keen. “Wait. What about Felicianna?”

I grab my purse. “What about her?”

“She loves you,” Ma whispers.

“Well, I don’t love her back, and she knows that. Besides, for the hundredth time, tonight is business. Gotta go. Don’t wait up.”

*****

I put Ma and her silly ideas out of my mind during the (brief) cab ride over to Patrick and Carol’s condo. A date? Laughable. True, Carol and I did have that moment of connection, but a moment is all it was.

Patrick lets me into the condo, and his eyes widen in appreciation of the dress. “Nice,” he rumbles. He wears jeans and a green T-shirt, and Carol’s dressed similarly in jeans and a white T-shirt. Well, shit. Here I am, crazily overdressed. What has gotten into me?

“Hey,” Carol says, but she can’t quite meet my eyes.

I shrink to about two point three inches tall. My stupid black dress and I have bungled this. Carol probably feels a hundred times less attractive, and that wasn’t my intent at all.

“That’s a really, yeah…” Patrick smacks his lips. “Nice dress. Where’d you get it?”

“Why do you care?” I ask.

Patrick shrugs. “Maybe for Carol. You want a dress like this, Carol?”

“My body’s not made for that.”

Patrick frowns. “Oh. I guess.”

“I think she’d look good in it,” I argue. I’ve got to do what I can to salvage the remnants of Carol’s confidence.

“There’s one way to find out,” Patrick says. “Carol, you could…” Lust hardens his voice. “You could undress Ennis and see if the, uh…if her dress fits you.”

*****

When we’re in the bedroom, Patrick asks Carol to kiss me. She shows no signs of budging, so he asks me to kiss her instead.

Yeah, right.

I say: “You sure this is okay, Carol?”

She sighs. She does wear jeans and a T-shirt, but she curled her hair. It falls in graceful waves around her shoulders. Somehow, this fact depresses me. I preferred when she did nothing with her hair. She truly was just as beautiful then.

Carol says: “Why don’t you two, you know…do your thing and I’ll watch?”

Patrick grunts. “Come on, Carol baby. It won’t be any fun without you.”

“You’d manage.”

Time for me to swoop in and rescue the damsel in distress. “Hey, Patrick, let me take Carol out. We’ll go dancing, whatever, have some drinks, have some fun. I’ll loosen her up.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize I asked for his permission (let me, let me, oh Patrick, please let me take her out, let me, let me). That’s all well and good if I want to maximize my earnings but not so good if I want a clearer conscience. Carol deserves to make her own decisions.

“Huh,” Patrick says. “Well, okay.”

“So what do you think?” I ask Carol.

“Okay, all right,” she agrees with a small smile, but I’m still two point three inches tall.

*****

I take Carol’s hand once we’re out of the building. On purpose, I pick her right hand—the one without her engagement ring. It would be tacky to choose the left hand, no? Carol doesn’t complain about our touch. No surprised exclamations, no jerking away, nothing. I’m happy that she’s fine holding hands with a woman in public.

“Where to?” I ask.

“There are bars a few blocks down.” Carol’s voice is stifled. I know what that means—she’s aroused, she’s turned on, and she’s trying to conceal it. Good, good. “Lead the way,” I tell her.

We start walking. Before we left the condo, Carol changed into an emerald green dress. It ends about mid-thigh, and the V-neck offers intriguing hints of cleavage. Generally speaking, it’s a daring dress. Not a dress I would’ve expected to find in the closet of a Catholic square. Looks great on her.

“I was going to call you for tips. Ideas for the wedding,” Carol says.

I shoot her a sideways glance. “Then you should’ve called.”

“I guess.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Dunno. I didn’t want to bother you.”

I laugh. “I gave you my number for a reason, Carol. For you to call. When’s the wedding?”

“December fifteenth.”

“That’s still some time off.”

Carol bites her lip. “Seems too soon.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Regular jitters, nothing worth mentioning.” In other words, Carol’s content for now to keep rowing the waters of De Nile.

She leads me into a bar, or maybe it’s a club, or maybe it’s a restaurant. The music nearly explodes my eardrums. Ugh. This so isn’t my scene, especially since it’s geared toward straight people. Oh well.

We order drinks, and I charm Carol some—a lot. It’s ridiculously easy. She’s very into me, but it’s because of what her life lacks rather than from what I purportedly have to offer. I know Carol’s type, see it often in my line of work. She’s lonely, and she doesn’t feel needed. Basically, my course of action entails pretending to be a friend who’s attracted to her.

I turn on the charm even more, and she blushes, laughs and looks at me like I am the most wondrous creature on Earth. I get that gaze a lot: from clients, from strangers on the street, from Felicianna. When Isaiah was little, I got it from him, too.

On the spur of the moment, I ask Carol to slow dance—something I haven’t done in years. Carol and I go to the center of the dance floor, and we hold each other and sway. She’s firm, yet soft. Her body is snug in my arms. Being with her is different, you know? She isn’t a client. She really isn’t, but nor is she a demanding best friend. It is nice to be Ennis Evans, non-hooker, for a while. But of course I am still Elena Marie Elise, a.k.a. Katherine Rivers, hooker. Call girl.

Remember Carol is a game you’re going to win. First through the finish line, baby!

The old Elena might have experienced a few romantic heart flutters and a few romantic stomach flutters from slow dancing with Carol, but the new Elena doesn’t. Instead, a stricken conscience is what flutters my heart. Carol truly is adorably shy; it’s a brilliant treat to coax smile after smile from her. Besides, she looks at me as if I am clean and extraordinary—not as a sex object, not as a dirty hooker. And the way she does it is different from the way other people do it. They want. They need. Carol, on the other hand, wants nothing from me. In fact, I’m more or less a nuisance to her. I’m someone she tolerates to make her fiance happy, and despite this, she’s polite and gracious.

I’m wrong to make Carol a game. I should tell her right then and there that she does not deserve her lying, cheating asshole of a fiance. Usually, I don’t judge (or care about) the men who come to me. I understand people have needs and that a lot of other people are closed-minded about how those needs can be serviced. Basically, monogamy is overrated, and secrecy is underrated.

But I’ve never had to lie like this. I’ve never had to get to know these men’s girlfriends, fiancees or wives.

Game. She’s a game, and that’s fine. Better you than another third who wouldn’t look out for her. Hey, make it fun, raise the stakes. See if you can get in her pants before the threesome. You’d do her a favor. She needs away from Patrick.

We continue to slow dance, and I accept my silent bet.

Next is a movie. We stand in line, a long line, for our tickets, and I hold her hand again. She likes it. She even tightens her grip on me and whispers: “You’re beautiful.”

She breaks our touch to wipe at her eyes.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she rasps.

Nothing, my ass. “You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you happy?” I ask.

Carol returns the question: “Are you happy?”

“I’m happy. Yes.” Ha! What a lie, me happy.

“Why?”

I smile and say: “Life works out in the end.” I hope this’ll turn out to be true, at least for Carol. As for me, maybe a day will come when I want my life to work out, but that day isn’t now.

The movie is an action flick—shooting, car chases and bombs. I cannot believe I am doing this, holding Carol’s hand. Acting as if we’re on a date. Acting as if I have not been screwing for weeks the man she plans to marry. Acting that it’s fine and dandy I am making a game of her.

Who have I become? Why did I agree to this?

After the movie, Carol says: “I should call Patrick.”

Reflexively, I frown. Can’t the woman go one evening without talking to her asshole fiance? Apparently not.

Carol presses a button on her cellphone, and I walk a few steps away to give her privacy. Despite the distance and the bustle of DuPont Circle nightlife, I hear a few snatches from Carol’s end of the conversation: Change of plan…not tonight…late.

It isn’t until she meets my gaze that I realize I studied her as she talked. She’s a good woman, she really is. She doesn’t deserve to be deceived like this, not that anyone deserves it. I replay Patrick’s glee when he imagined telling Carol: “You’re one to talk. You did a hooker. And you loved it. You begged for more.”

He wouldn’t do that, would he? He wouldn’t tell her and hurt her like that? No matter what?

Good grief, Elena. What do you care? Do not let her problems become your problems.

Too bad I’m finding her more beautiful as the night goes on. Too bad I also find in her a sort of solidarity. We internalize. We pretend nothing’s wrong, or if we can’t do that, we throw ourselves into other pursuits. For me, pursuits such as hooking. Yeah, we’re kindred spirits: this shy near virgin and this high-class call girl.

“I can’t do it tonight,” Carol says. “Maybe next weekend.”

I knew that was coming, and part of me is glad because that part wants to get to know Carol more. Another part of me, however, wishes Carol would give in and do the threesome tonight. There, it’d be over. Easy peasy. I’d never need to see her again.

“You’re brave,” I say softly. “If I were in your shoes, I probably couldn’t do it at all.” The old Elena certainly couldn’t. That Elena, the one before Isaiah died, was too busy being a mother to seriously date, much less engage in wild and wanton threesomes. Something was wrong with each woman I dated. No click. Didn’t want kids. Or kids were okay, but she didn’t seem to mesh with Isaiah. That kind of stuff.

Surprise widens Carol’s eyes. “What? But haven’t you done five threesomes?”

“Yes, but not with anyone I loved. Not when I was in a serious relationship. That’s tough with all these strong emotions floating around. I mean, I know it can be done. But I dunno…I don’t think I could do it if I wasn’t the third person or if it wasn’t a fling sort of thing.”

“Oh.”

“Does that make sense? It’s not for everybody—and so, Carol, don’t feel bad. It doesn’t mean you’re closed-minded or anything. Really. Like I said, you’re brave.” I lean into her and hope my words carry some comfort and bolster her confidence. She is being brave. I don’t know if many women in her position would even consider a threesome, but then again, these women are probably straight. Carol sure isn’t.

“What’s the wildest thing you’ve done?” I ask.

“Wildest thing? You mean in bed?”

“Sure. Or in general. In life.”

“Um…” Carol flips through a mental Rolodex and apparently can’t find what she’s looking for. “What’s the wildest thing you’ve done?” she asks.

“Oh no, no, you first.” I know at least several wild things she’s done. There’s the way she and Patrick met, not to mention they had a few subsequent sexual encounters in public bathrooms and in a plane bathroom.

“I had sex with a stranger,” Carol admits. “Our eyes met across a crowded coffee shop. We went into the bathroom, and he took me. It was hot. We kept our clothes on.”

I grin. “Hey, that’s pretty wild.”

“I’m not sure it counts. He didn’t remain a stranger. It was…well, you know. Patrick. That’s how we met. He didn’t tell you? Bragging about his conquest or whatnot?”

“Yeah, he told me.” I want to apologize, which is absurd. It’s his place, not mine, to say sorry.

Carol sighs. “So, your turn. Wildest thing you’ve done?”

While Carol riffled through her mental Rolodex, I scribbled on mental index cards to come up with a fantastic story. A story that would make Carol a bigger blob of putty in my hands, a story that would make Carol do the threesome sooner rather than later. A story that fits the Ennis Evans personality Patrick described. Ennis is an adventurer, a lover of life. What if she wasn’t always that way? What if she used to be like Carol? What if I can show Carol there’s a way out?

The story begins: “I joined the circus right out of high school. I was very close with my family. I was a shy, perfect girl. I loved my home. I loved my life. It couldn’t have been better. But guess what? I ran away from home. I worried and pissed the hell out of my parents.”

Carol laughs. She doesn’t believe me. That’s because she can’t see herself running off anywhere and starting a new life.

Carol’s smile fades. “Seriously? You joined the circus? Why?”

“To follow a girl, to be with her. She was seventeen, like me. Oh, I loved her.” I visualize myself starring in a movie, and the screen becomes hazy and dreamy. “She had the most pure blond hair and the deepest blue eyes. My first love. But she loved the circus more than she loved me. When it came time to show up to college, I was there. I was never the same again, though. That summer unblinded me to the world, and I couldn’t wait to try everything.”

“Wow.”

I love the reaction my story tickles in Carol—her glowing cheeks, her awed eyes. Her expression tells me: You’re wondrous, Ennis. I like you. I want to be like you.

Yeah, make that two of us. I want to be like Ennis, too. More than that, I am truly Ennis Renee Evans to one person. Ennis doesn’t have a son who drowned mere yards from her. Ennis is not a hooker. She’s someone to look up to.

“What did you do in the circus?” Carol asks.

“I had grand dreams of juggling fire and knives or of being a trapeze artist. But I sold popcorn.” I chuckle. “The good old days.”

“She must’ve been a special girl.”

“She was. But…eh. Wasn’t meant to be.”

“Do you think I’m blind? To the world?”

“I know you see, Carol.” What else am I supposed to say? You see, but you choose your own blind spots. For example, you can’t admit you like women, and you can’t admit you’re not in love with Patrick. That’s okay, though. I’m here to help guide you toward the truth.

“Maybe I don’t see…maybe I don’t see some things,” Carol says.

Bingo! There you go. A success for the circus story. “None of us see everything,” I reply easily. It’s not my job to give Carol yes/no answers. She’ll have to take care of the chewing and heavy processing herself. “So, uh, it’s kinda late. Are you going home?”

“Might as well.”

“Want me to walk you back?” I offer.

“I’ll be okay. It’ll be busy out for a while.”

“Be safe. Call if you need anything, any help with the wedding, whatever.”

“I will. Hey, where do you live?”

The question catches me off guard, and I scramble to remember what Patrick and I agreed on. “Um,” I say. “Near Union Station.”

“Hey, Ennis?”

“Yes?”

“Want to get together for lunch or dinner sometime this week? For…I could use some advice on flower arrangements. I’ll pay you for your time, of course. Maybe one hour?”

I grin. “I would love to.” Sad thing is, I think I mean it.

Chapter Seventeen

On Tuesday, I go to the Barnes & Noble where Carol works, although I am meeting her that very evening to discuss floral arrangements. I’ve just finished screwing a client a few blocks over, and if I were Ennis, I would want to see Carol. Ennis-me doesn’t find Carol, though, and I don’t ask a worker where she is.

I spend an hour in my bedroom that afternoon. I sit at my desk and puzzle over a blank sheet of paper. Carol loves my handwriting, but I can’t think of anything good to write. About four o’clock, my mother knocks on the door.

“Come in, Ma.”

Ma enters the room and displays a smallish brown box. “The UPS man was here.”

It’s the urn. Has to be.

“Thanks, Ma. You can put that on the bed.”

Ma does as I requested—then sits on the bed. “What’s in the box?” she asks.

I make a vague noise. I don’t like talking about Isaiah to Ma, not that I enjoy discussing him with anyone. With Ma, she usually gets this terrible, strained expression that makes me want to cry, that makes me feel too damn much. Isaiah was not just my son. He was much like Ma’s own child too, considering I had him when I was only eighteen years old. She took care of him while I commuted to college and lived a semi-normal life. The three of us lived together until I was twenty-two.

“What’s in the box?” Ma repeats.

“I don’t know.”

“Elena, dear, the box says it’s from the Carthage Urn Company.”

“The box talks? Wow.”

“The label,” Ma huffs. Apparently, she isn’t in a joking mood.

“Then you didn’t need to ask me what was inside.”

Ma exhales an exasperated sigh. “Did you buy a different urn for Isaiah?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

I picture the horrid vase thing Kevin bought. It’s in Isaiah’s former bedroom, now Ma’s room. I can’t bear it to be in my room. “Because, Ma,” I say patiently, “Isaiah wouldn’t have liked the piece of crap Kevin got.”

Ma chuckles. “Do you know what? I agree one hundred percent.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Ma’s gaze is cautious. “I thought you hadn’t been ready to do anything about it. My mistake.”

“Guess so.”

“Should I…” Ma scratches her nose. “How about I transfer the ashes? I’d like to see this new urn, anyway.”

Gratitude swells inside me. Thank God for Ma. Thank God I don’t have to deal with Isaiah’s ashes, his sand, his bone fragments. I don’t have to wonder: Is this part of the tooth he chipped playing baseball? I don’t have to look at a blessed thing. “I would appreciate that, Ma. Thanks.”

“I’ll throw away the old urn.” Ma pats my shoulder, retrieves the box and is gone.

The blank piece of paper on my desk calls out. For words, for anything. I wish I could be like it. Fresh. Pure. Capable of starting anew. I wish I could grieve like Ma, like so-called normal people grieve. Instead, I became a call girl because I’m numb and eager to punish myself. I’m reluctant to feel anything positive.

About three months before Isaiah died, I planned a party for a client. She took me out to lunch to thank me. She said I had the perfect look for an escort and that I could be making so much more money than I was as a party planner for Betsy Branaugh. I told her thanks but no thanks. I had nothing against sex, I said. Sex was nothing to be ashamed of. Just wasn’t the job for me. She gave me her card, anyway.

Isaiah was brain dead for five days. I kept him hooked up to machines, hoping, praying for a miracle. When I got it through my thick skull that wouldn’t happen, Kevin and I told the doctors to disconnect him, donate his organs, save lives, all that jazz. I went home, got into the bathtub, and began to slit my wrist. Felicianna found me. I was back in the hospital for a while. On the crazies ward. When I got home, for some reason, I remembered the card. I turned the place upside down looking for it. Found it in a book packed away in a box. Funny thing is, I had that woman’s contact information on my computer. I’d called and emailed her countless times while I planned her party. Just goes to show my mind wasn’t all present. I didn’t want to think anymore. Didn’t want to be a party planner anymore. This would be easy money, and I could pay off bills and give Ma what she deserved. Best of all, I could do it without feeling anything.

I looked in the mirror. My hair was stringy, and I had circles the size of Jupiter under my eyes. I waited two weeks until I looked better and called the madam. I told her what happened, about Isaiah and me being in the hospital. She said not to worry, I was perfect, and I passed the background check and psych exam. She put me right to work, and here I am one and a half years later and hundreds of clients later. Yes, I wish I could become a fresh sheet of paper.

*****

I shower, blow dry my hair and get ready for the night with Carol. Casual clothes, jeans, the usual yellow bracelet (right wrist) and the usual purple bracelet (left wrist). Bracelets are something I got into after I returned home from the crazies ward. My wrists don’t show scars because Felicianna got to me before any damage was done. I want scars, though. I want scarlet letters. I need to be punished. Maybe this is hypocritical, but I don’t want to be jailed for prostitution. Being jailed for Isaiah’s death—I’d welcome that.

Oh damn well.

Enter the bracelets. They’re not scars, but they’re constant reminders. Secret scarlet letters. I’ve come to love them, and I buy new bracelets every month or so. They help me feel closer to Isaiah than the stuff that’s in the urn.

The paper destined for Carol remains blank. I’ll have to leave without writing anything.

“I’m off,” I tell Ma in the living room. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“Have fun,” Ma says. Thankfully, she doesn’t ask questions this time around.

As I am out the door, a message strikes me. Roses are red, Violets are blue. It’s perfect, isn’t it? Dovetails with the flower theme. I rush back into my bedroom and carefully stroke the words.

Then…then…I look up, straight at the wall. “Jesus Christ,” I hiss. “What am I doing?” Making a fool out of myself simply because to this particular woman, I am Ennis Evans—unblemished?

Why do I tuck the note into my pocket anyway? Why?

I go back and forth on whether to continue with this scheme of Patrick’s. This scheme of ours. The gig will end like this—Carol will like me, a lot. From her perspective, we will have fantastic sex. Maybe I’ll even allow a few stolen kisses after Patrick is asleep. Then Carol will say, through teary eyes, that she loves him, can’t leave him. I will say nothing. I will not fight for her. Because I am a hooker, because I lied to her, because I don’t deserve her. Because, in truth, I don’t feel for her, although she believes I must.

Yes, I need to keep telling myself that. You don’t feel for her. That’s your guilty conscience thinking you might.

Ennis Evans I’m not.

That’s exactly how it will end, but I march stupidly on toward my fate, toward a collapse that cannot be avoided. I tell myself I do it for Carol, to help her realize who she is. To get her away from Patrick. I do it for myself too. Debating the ethics of the game is much preferable to reliving the moment I went from a mother to a…to not a mother.

I remain in rather deep denial of a tiny kernel of hope (where is it? Perhaps next to the Isaiah-coal in my heart?) that maybe…maybe…! This experience will help my heart shrug off some of its indifference and become colorfully alive.

*****

So, I go to Carol’s condo. I’m not sure if I want Patrick to be there. He has not met with me the past few days, nor has he called. I wonder if Carol shared the circus story with him. I wonder if she fucks him and thinks about me.

Carol answers my buzz with a: “Hey, Ennis. Come on up. It’s just us tonight.” She’s waiting at the condo door when I step onto the third floor. She dressed up. No jeans and simple shirt for her. Nope, she wears tight black pants and an even tighter dressy white shirt that does crazy things with her chest. The good kind of crazy. I want to stare, and that won’t do.

Game. She’s a game. No feelings.

I grin seductively, masking my inner turmoil. “Carol.”

She waves me inside. “Howdy.”

“What are you in the mood for?” I survey her clothes, refusing to let my gaze linger anywhere. “Pizza still? Or did you want to go out?”

“I’m in the mood for anything.” Her voice lilts playfully.

Oh boy. Tonight will be hard. Carol’s bolder—and just when I’m getting timid. Perfect timing. I force a laugh, and it comes out sounding natural. I’ve had enough experience covering up feelings to make this second nature. “Anything, huh?” I purr.

Carol smirks. “Anything,” she replies.

Okay, fine. I’ll throw in the towel. I clasp my hands together and say: “Well. I’ve had a long day. I don’t feel like going out, so can we still order pizza?”

*****

After Carol calls for the pizza, she joins me on the living room couch. “Pizza will be here in forty-five minutes. Guess we should talk about the wedding?”

“What kind of wedding is it?” I ask.

“Church wedding, but I wish it could be outside. It’ll be huge. I probably won’t know half the people there.”

“How is the church set up? How many aisles?”

“One, I guess. Unless the aisles on the ends count?”

“Sure, let’s count them.”

“Three aisles, then.”

I ask about every detail imaginable. I do it to fill time. Because, you know, if we discussed flowers, that would take five minutes. Maybe ten. That leaves a whole honkin’ lot of empty space to fill. Best to save flowers for last and focus on the bridesmaids, the reception, the music, the guest list and the like.

Carol goes along with the conversation, giving my questions careful thought and consideration as if I truly need to know all the answers to proclaim the perfect wedding flowers. It kind of breaks my heart. She is possibly naive enough and trusting enough to believe every iota of this information is necessary.

Shit, shit. Why does she have to be so innocent? So gullible? Why can’t she snap like she did with Patrick and yell: “What the hell do you need to know this for?”

After the pizza arrives, we move to the dining room. “I’d love to elope,” Carol confesses over her greasefest of a pizza slice, “but Patrick’s mom and my mom would be crushed.”

“Are Patrick’s mom and your mom the ones getting married?”

Carol giggles. That light, unrestrained sound again. Damn it. Her laugh, her giggles, really are like Isaiah’s. The mean side of me thinks: Hey, Carol. You laugh like a ten-year-old boy. Sexy? You decide.

“Point taken,” Carol says after she’s done laughing. “Eh, can we not talk about the wedding?”

“Isn’t that why you wanted to get together?”

“To talk about the flowers. But you haven’t asked about them.”

I can’t help but smile. About time she brought up that point. “You’re absolutely correct. I haven’t. Oh, hey. I was in Georgetown today about noon so I stopped by Barnes & Noble. I didn’t see you.”

Carol’s expression freezes—not quite the reaction I expected. “Noon?” she asks slowly. “I was on my lunch break. I usually break at noon for thirty minutes.”

“Too bad. I wanted to see you,” I say.

“I’m here now.”

I meet her gaze, and Isaiah’s laughter rings in my ears. Mom! Can I go swim now? I’ll be careful, I promise. “That you are,” I whisper.

After dinner, Carol and I watch a movie. The air crackles with tension and electricity, and I pretend it’s mostly from Carol’s side. I imagine myself saying to Carol: Hey girl, I don’t actually like you, you see. I’m only pretending because I need money and a distraction. Hey, you’re convenient and not half bad looking.

In truth, her laugh tonight has unlocked a part of my brain I thought was inaccessible or gone. I can almost hear Isaiah’s last words. They’re on the tip of my tongue. If Carol laughs again, I might well remember the words, and the possibility is terrifying.

Patrick calls about three-fourths through the film. Mom! Look at that sand castle. Mom, is that a surfboard? Mom, why’d you bring a book? You’re not coming in with me? MomMomMomMom

I keep drawing blanks.

After Carol ends her conversation with Patrick, she eases over to me just a little. I’m too absorbed in Isaiah to pay her much mind, though. Oops.

After the film credits roll, I get up to leave. “I had a great time, thanks,” I say, but I can’t smile. Why can’t I remember his last words, damn it? Even if they were mundane, everyday words, I ought to be capable of recalling them.

“You okay?” Carol asks.

“Oh, I’m fine. You okay?”

“I’d be better if—” She stops abruptly.

If I kissed you? If I stayed? Both? “You’d be better if what?”

She swallows. “I don’t know.”

“Nervous about Saturday? That is if we’re still on for that?”

“We’re on.”

Me trying to reassure her: “Don’t be nervous. Although I know…okay. Okay. Go on. Be nervous. Me telling you not to is making it worse. Saturday will be fun, though. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I’m not nervous about that.”

“What, then?”

“Nervous about now,” Carol whispers.

I’ve done well bringing the note. It’ll give Carol a tangible item to hold onto and to moon over without me having to kiss her. Otherwise, if she wants a kiss, she’ll have to go in for it. I won’t make everything easy for her. “Um,” I say. “About the flowers.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Oh, I’m sure, but…”

“But what?”

“An idea or two about flowers. They’ll work with what you told me earlier.” I transfer the paper to Carol’s hand, and our fingertips brush. There’s no mistaking the shiver up my spine, but I attribute it to the thrill of the game. To the thrill of the hunt. Except the game is no longer Carol’s seduction. Nope, the game has become trying to remember and hear Isaiah’s final words down to every last inflection, every last a, an and the. Maybe if I can endure that, the punishment of that, I’ll be able to move on, at least a little. I clearly see his green swimming trunks. See the mass of freckles covering his face, his body. I see his toothy smile. Now the words…the words. The words, please. “Call if you have questions,” I tell Carol.

Patrick arrives home a moment after. He walks me outside and bores into me: “What in the hell are you doing?”

“What you wanted me to do. I’m letting her get comfortable with me so you can get what you want with us.”

He dismisses my explanation with disdain: “You’re trying to make easy money.”

He’s partly correct, but I’ll not admit it. “No.”

“Don’t expect me to pay for this. For sitting around on your ass and eating dinner with her and watching movies while I work! Let’s get something straight. Money isn’t a problem, but that doesn’t mean you can run around with her willy-nilly. If she wants to do something with you, you let me know so I can approve it. Understand? It’s my money. I must approve all expenses first.”

“I thought she would’ve told you about our plans.”

He sighs, suddenly looks weary beyond his years. “No.”

I feel bad for him, a little. “It was a misunderstanding. Tonight’s on me, okay? I had fun anyway. She’s nice. It was time well spent.”

Patrick scoffs. “Remember who you are. You’re a hooker. Your job is to do what I tell you. And I’m telling you right now, don’t become her friend. Carol and I may not have said our vows, but she’s my wife. She wears my ring. You do what I tell you to do. Got that?”

“Of course,” I say sweetly. Remember who you are, Patrick. A fucking asshole.

*****

Ma’s in bed when I get home, but Felicianna’s sprawled on the couch.

“Hey, Elena!” she chirps. “Your mom let me in.”

“Hey yourself.” I’m drained. I’m not in the best mood after being reamed out by Patrick, but there’s no polite way to tell your best friend to wank off.

Felicianna reaches for me, hugs me quickly. “You okay?”

“Oh, fine. Fine.”

“Where were you?”

“With a friend. No one you know.” I clear my throat. “So, did you bring food?”

“Yeah, of course I did. Ice cream.”

Of course she did, indeed. Junk food and a movie is Felicianna’s way of telling me she’s ready for some quality time in bed. I usually give in. Why the heck not? Awkward humping is as a good a way as any to pass time, and on a few lucky nights, an orgasm ekes out of me.

“Let’s skip the ice cream and movie,” I suggest.

Felicianna’s green eyes glow, but I can’t bring myself to feel guilty. She knows I don’t like her that way. She has to know. She had to know that first night I was home from the crazies ward, and she got in bed with me the second night anyway and made love to me. Rather, she made love for her own sake. Me, what I felt was the usual numbness, plus dread in my heart.

“Did your mom take sleeping pills tonight?” Felicianna asks as we settle into bed.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I have no clue,” Felicianna says.

“So, let’s be as quiet as possible.”

She grins. “No problemo.”

We begin to kiss, and she tastes of mints. Oops. I haven’t brushed my teeth since before dinner. Oh well. Felicianna will live. She unbuttons my jeans and slides her hand into my underwear. I can’t imagine I’m even one iota wet, so I press myself into her, nibble the nape of her neck. I slide my hand into her sweat pants. She’s a river—no surprise.

My work phone blares jazz music. “I’ve gotta get that,” I mumble, but Felicianna knows. This has happened before, and I’ve no idea if she buys my story that I left Betsy’s business to become a freelance party planner. Nor do I care if she believes it as long as she leaves the issue alone. No asking questions.

I get the phone from my drawer. “Hello?”

“Hey, Ennis. This is Carol.”

“Hey, Carol. Hold on a sec.” I hold up a finger for Felicianna to indicate I’ll be a minute, and I head into the kitchen. “Okay, you had questions about the flowers?”

I hear Carol breathing. Can practically hear her hesitate, too. “I was supposed to go out with a beautiful woman this week,” she says at last.

“Oh?”

“Yes, but turns out she has to walk her dogs. I thought…well. Maybe you and I could do something instead. If you’re free. Thursday? I mean, tonight was fun. If you can’t Thursday, then maybe some other night? We could meet at a Starbucks.”

I replay Patrick’s snarling, his demands for monetary approvals. “Thursday should work. I’ll let you know for sure tomorrow.” Because, you know, I have to ask your swaggering, insecure He-man husband-to-be for permission.

“Okay,” she says.

“Carol?”

“Yes?”

“Tell Patrick this time. Tell him in advance we’re hanging out.”

“Did he say something when he walked you out?”

“No. He just…he should know if you and I are doing something, that’s all. With a threesome, things can get complicated if…look, just as a courtesy, all right? Keep everything clear and aboveboard.”

“Do you and he do stuff sometimes that I don’t know about? Lunches? Like when he found out you were living in D.C. but didn’t tell me for a week?”

“Um.” Do we, Carol? Do blow jobs, hand jobs and ass fucking count? Yes? Well, then…we sure do! Oops, did he forget to tell you? “We…well, there was that, but no, not really. Anyway. Thursday, all right?”

“Cool,” Carol says. “Hope to see you.”

I feel like such a layer of slime as I hang up, but I remind myself that this mission benefits Carol long term. Hopefully it’ll give her insight into herself and give her enough strength to leave Patrick. The sea holds plenty of fish that would be lucky to have her.

“Sorry about that,” I say as I return to Felicianna and slide the phone back into the drawer.

Felicianna yawns. “Running off now?”

“No.” I crawl into bed. “I’m not going anywhere. Now kiss me.”

She obliges happily, and for a flash, I hear Isaiah laugh. The pain squeezes my heart, punishes my heart, and I imagine Carol is the woman kissing me. The area between my legs sighs.

It’s because of Felicianna, I tell myself.

Chapter Eighteen

Patrick and I meet the next day. He’s contrite. He apologizes, says it’s really nice of me not to bill for the night before. He explains he had a long day at work and was…well, you know.

I know.

“Carol would like to see me tomorrow evening,” I say casually. “I think at the Starbucks closest to your condo. I’m not sure if she plans anything afterward.”

Patrick squints. “Is that right?”

“Yep.”

He glances around the hotel room. We’re at the Georgetown Four Seasons, and I can read the thought balloons above his thick blond hair. He’s panicked and unsure. He’s in over his head. His fiancee isn’t supposed to want to spend this much time with me. Of course, he doesn’t confess his insecurities. “I’m glad you’re spending time with Carol,” he says. “She’s bolder, more confident.”

“She’s ready for the threesome.”

He grins, his insecurities paling next to his libido. He becomes a little boy on Christmas. “About damn time.”

“So, I take it you’re fine with tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

*****

The next evening, Carol and I meet at Starbucks. Her face lights up when I approach her table, her eyes shine, and…just how she looks at me with that slightly off-kilter smile, the cocked head, the shyness. My stomach flutters, and my body reacts as it did last night when I imagined Carol kissing me. Guilty conscience, that’s what it is.

After Starbucks, we walk to her condo and play chess. Ever the charmer, I flirt with her, touch her hands, help her guide her pieces. Carol tries to capture one of my pawns with a knight.

“Nope,” I say sternly.

“Hey! Why not?”

“Today’s Thursday. On Thursdays, knights can capture pawns only during even-numbered hours.”

She bursts out laughing, but it’s not a carefree, unrestrained laugh. More of a you-gotta-be-kidding laugh. “Today’s opposite-day Thursday,” she counters.

“Even better. That means my pawn captures your knight.”

Carol blinks, confused. Tricked. “Um…um…” She stammers, trying for a comeback, struggling to save face. She’s so cute.

She grins. “Sure. Go on, get my knight. If you win, that means I win and you lose. Opposite-day Thursday, right?”

“You suck,” I inform her.

“You’d like to find out.”

I raise an eyebrow, and we proceed to play a totally ridiculous game of chess in which there are no rules. I win, but because it’s opposite day, she wins.

*****

Conversation gets more serious after the game. Carol is intensely curious about me. The mysterious, alluring me.

“Ennis?” she asks. “What was it like, ah…losing your virginity? Was it with the circus girl? What was her name? Have you had sex with a man?”

“Full of questions, aren’t you.”

“Bursting.”

I don’t want to lie any more than I have to, and I lack the heart and the willpower to create yet another story rivaling the circus girl fabrication. So, I echo one question onto Carol: “Tell me about your first time. Was it good?”

“No,” she says with a blush. “He was an idiot boyfriend of mine in college. I…well, I come from a very strict Catholic family. I basically grew up thinking sex was bad. So, I was a virgin until I was twenty. That first time was bad. Really bad.” She chuckles. “He didn’t know where to insert his junk, and the sad thing is that I wasn’t sure, either. We spent too much time figuring out the exact locations of holes.”

“Nothing wrong with waiting until twenty. Sex is overrated.”

Carol snorts. “Sex is overrated? You’re saying this? The free spirit who has had five threesomes? Who won’t settle down with someone?”

For some reason, Carol’s comment wounds me. “Hey, hey. When did I say I wouldn’t settle down?”

“You didn’t. I guess I…I don’t know. It’s a gut feeling.”

“Ah.” I reach for the black queen and study the knob in the middle of her crown. Somewhat resembles a clit. Your Dark Majesty’s Clitness… I’ve been “settled” all my adult life. A baby tends to have that effect.

Get a grip, girl. You’re Ennis, not Elena. You’re doing your job exactly right if Carol believes you’re not the settling-down type.

“Hey.” Carol grasps my other hand. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“You’re forgiven.”

“Did you want to settle down with Christine? That’s her name, right? Your most recent ex?”

I wonder what the black queen would be like in bed if she were a person. Interesting, I suppose. The only woman in the world with a head clit. “Let’s not talk about this,” I tell Carol. I get to my feet. “I better go. It’s getting late.”

“You’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” I force a cheerful smile.

“What if I can’t please you?” Carol asks. “I’ve never—and what if I’m bad?”

I search Carol’s stricken expression. For one and a half years, my job has been to please others. To fake my own grunts and moans and orgasms. To conceal boredom and pass it off as excitement. I even have to do it with Felicianna. When clients look at me, they see a hooker named Katherine Rivers. When Felicianna looks at me, she sees a woman who lost her child, a woman who, in her grief, is allowing Felicianna in her bed. Carol sees me as a woman—a woman who has the same rights as everybody else. I am not a lowly hooker in her eyes, and she wants to please me.

My heart melts. How can it not?

“What’s that look for?” Carol asks.

“Oh, Carol.” I reach for her hand. Can’t help it. I do like holding her hand. It’s so…old-fashioned. Harkens back to a simpler time without ass fucking and blow jobs and whips and chains. Hand holding, sweet and simple. I grin and say: “I just…no. No.”

“What? What?”

“Well.” I can’t quite meet her eyes, not because I’m scared to, but because I don’t deserve to. I don’t deserve Carol’s kindness. “That was a very sweet thing to say. Really sweet. You’re sweet.”

“It’s sweet that I’m worried about pleasing you? Why wouldn’t I be?”

I release her touch and busy my hands with a murder mystery novel on the coffee table. The cover shows a man in dark shadows. He wears a trench coat. Other than that, I can’t make out much of him. He’s me. He’s my job, this job with Carol. I’m not supposed to reveal too much of myself or of my Ennis creation, only vague shadows.

Carol ventures: “Do you…I’m an amateur with women. I don’t know much about…”

I can’t let this crap, this appealing vulnerability, continue. I’ve let Carol’s endearing shyness sneak up on me, infiltrate me. Time to nip that in the bud. I must become the seducer again and wrest the upper hand. I must remember this is a game. Yes. Yes. I must refocus and think of Carol as an object, not as a person. Maybe my victory will be hollow and short-lived, but it will be a victory.

I say: “Carol, don’t worry about pleasing me Saturday. Focus on pleasing Patrick.”

“I’m in the threesome too. It’s going to happen.”

I nod. “Looks like it.”

“I’d like to get all I can out of it, and that means making sure you have fun, too.”

Ah, poor, deluded, sweet Carol. Whatever happens, I won’t have fun. Any amusement on my part will come long after the threesome. Maybe if, or when, I buy a condo in the Yale Steam building, I’ll block off a square foot or two and label that piece of wall “the fun from the threesome.”

No, I won’t have fun, especially if my conscience keeps butting its fat blobby ass into my affairs.

“I appreciate that,” I say. “But remember it’s just sex.”

“I know. I won’t get possessive and clingy with you. I won’t fall for you. That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?”

“Everyone will have fun,” I say abruptly.

Carol wanders into the kitchen, and I plot my next move. When I’m ready, I sidle up to Carol, who is at the sink, and turn on the sexual magic. I am all confidence and no cowardice. My breasts press into Carol’s back, and my lips hover millimeters from her neck. “What do you like?” I ask her. “In bed? Anything you’d want to explore with me?”

Carol trembles, and I reach around her and finish drying her dish with a dish towel.

“Put the dish down. It’s dry,” I say.

Carol obeys, and I weave our hands together. Rest them on her stomach. “Where’s your ring?”

“I took it off,” Carol explains. “I always do for dishes and showers. Stuff like that.”

“Hmm. So. Answer me. What do you like in bed? Anything you want to try?”

She doesn’t answer, and her breathing is strained. Aroused.

“Problem?” I ask playfully.

Carol inhales a deep breath, and I switch tactics: “Do you masturbate?”

Carol shudders. “No. Not really.”

“Not really?”

“I told you my parents are strict Catholics. Bad things happen to boys and girls who touch themselves.”

I laugh. “That explains why you turned out so good.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Mmm.” I nuzzle Carol’s neck and rouse gooseflesh. The feel of her skin under my lips is…well, it’s dangerous. I won’t dwell on it. “Masturbation’s good, you know, Carol.”

“I know. I’ve done it a few times. My first time was when—”

“Tell me.”

“I was twenty-one,” Carol says. “It was my first orgasm.”

“And it was good?”

“Oh yes. So I kept doing it for a while. I felt guilty, of course, but why not keep doing it? Then I met Patrick and stopped when we got serious. It felt like I was cheating.”

I chuckle. “I’m sure he does it himself.”

“I know he does.”

“So you ought to have your own fun too.”

“Yes.”

I leave another trail of kisses on Carol’s neck and decide the time has come for the serious stuff. I creep my hand into Carol’s jeans, and willing girl she is, she unbuttons them. I continue my ministrations on her neck and compliment myself on my skills. On my acting. Ah, the necessities of denial.

I reach my fingers inside Carol. If Felicianna was a river, Carol is a roaring waterfall. “You’re wet,” I groan. “Fucking wet.”

“Am I a challenge to you?” Carol asks. “Another notch on your belt?”

I find Carol’s clit (Your Dark Majesty’s Clitness). She arches her hips and moans. I can’t help but press my need into her ass.

“Yes,” I whisper. “But you like that, don’t you?”

Carol’s response is a spate of heavy breathing.

After a few moments, I withdraw my hand even though Carol is wet, slick, quivering. Ready. This may be a game, but I need to play fair. I can’t shove guilt onto her, the knowledge she cheated on her fiance. She will not become prey to my lonely, plotting wolverine. “That’s enough for now.”

“Hey!” Carol faces me accusingly, and I lick my wet fingers. “Preview,” I say with a wink.

“That’s mean. You’re mean.”

“No. I was only—” Her phone rings. Ah. The man of the house summons his lady. “That’ll be Patrick coming home,” I say. “So, you see. I was stopping before it became unbearable.”

A thunderstorm forms in Carol’s expression, and she mutters a few curse words. Answers the phone. I don’t hear the conversation.

I button Carol’s jeans after she hangs up. “Sex,” I whisper. “It’s just sex. Remember that.” If I can do it, you can too.

“I said I won’t fall for you! Don’t you believe me?”

I cup her cheek. Stroke it a moment. On the outside, I’m cool and confident. Inside, I’m a mess. A freaking mess. What is this? I don’t know which way is up, but all I can do is deliver Carol a good time. Make her see there’s better sex to be had than what she gets with Patrick. “Do you promise?” I ask.

“I promise I won’t fall for you.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I whisper. “On Saturday. To keep him out of the way. So it can be more you and me.” I kiss Carol on the cheek. “It’s okay if you like me a little bit. Patrick does—why shouldn’t you, too? Makes the sex better. More thrilling. Hmm? Now, go on, take care of yourself before he gets home. You know you want to. You need to.”

*****

The day of the threesome arrives, and it promises to be a busy Saturday. I have work appointments at eight a.m., noon and three p.m.

And, of course, eight p.m.

I awake at six a.m., and panic hums in my body. What have I gotten myself into? What if Patrick knows I put my hand in Carol’s underwear and caressed her wetness? What if Carol finds out about me and Patrick? What if Patrick wants another threesome with us? What if Carol chickens out yet again and I’m forced to spend another week or two with her? What if, what if, what if.

I am little more than a robot during the day. The first appointment is a two-girl gig at a hotel near National airport with Cindi, a prostitute I know from several previous encounters. Cindi is gorgeous: blond hair, blue eyes, implants up the wazoo, nary a blemish to be seen. Me, on the other hand…concealer goes only so far, and I fret in front of the mirror. “I’m a ghoul,” I mutter.

“You’re beautiful,” Cindi says out of kindness.

I scoff and apply more concealer to the circles under my eyes. Other than that, I don’t wear makeup.

“Rough night?” Cindi inquires.

“My mom,” I half-fib. “She gets bad acid reflux. Threw up three times last night.” I sigh and add: “I haven’t been sleeping well, anyway.” Might as well vent a little; Cindi is harmless, and you could say we are more than mere acquaintances, seeing as how I attended her wedding recently.

“I didn’t know you lived with your mom,” Cindi says.

“Darn. And I put that ad in the paper, too.”

Cindi grins. “Does she know what you do?”

“Oh, I sure hope not.”

“Why haven’t you been sleeping well?”

I force a bright smile, and it does more for the circles under my eyes than concealer can. “Hey, Cindi, so how’s married life?”

Cindi beams. “I love it! Mark’s so good to me.”

Interesting story, Cindi and Mark. He used to be her client, and they fell in love. He has no issues with her continuing the call girl job, which Cindi does out of true enjoyment. Crazy stuff.

“Do you want to warm up?” I ask Cindi. Some girls warm up before the client arrives: touching, making out, getting the brain and body limber and ready to go.

“Nah,” Cindi says with a yawn.

“Me either. It’s too early. Eight a.m.! What is he thinking?”

At eight-fifteen, the client, a portly man, shows up and frowns. “Why are there two of you?”

“Didn’t you want two?” I ask.

“No.” The client’s gaze hangs with Cindi’s. “You.” He points to her. “Stay.”

I bid goodbye, and on my way out, the client mock-whispers: “Did you see the suitcases under her eyes? I should’ve charged a baggage fee.”

I want to slap the hell out of him. I want to slap the hell out of all my clients, and I don’t mean in a kinky, playful way.

*****

The third appointment is, more or less, a full-blown orgy. It’s for a rich, tiny old man and his eighteen-year-old lovers, a twin brother and sister. Four of us from the service go—three women, one man. There is a lot of eating, a lot of penetration, a lot of moaning and groaning. A lot of condoms and dental dams. It’s boring as hell.

I wonder what Carol is like in bed. She can’t be all that squeamish—there’s the way she met Patrick, and he’s told me a few other things. They’ve had sex in public bathrooms several times and in a plane bathroom. They sneaked into her frowny Catholic parents’ house while the parents were at work and fucked in every room of the house. Carol laughed the whole time, Patrick said.

Carol laughing…

Carol who will marry Patrick. I know I don’t truly feel for her, or maybe that’s the denial talking. Still…still. A part deep down inside me whispers that I would like to do more than fuck her. I’d like to be her friend. I want to know her better, go out with her, hang out with her. Give her presents, nice things. Cuddle with her. Make her happy. Not sex, though. Not quite, not when sex is what I have in common with every other person on the damn planet. Not when my body is still basically a doormat, save for the few sighs between my legs.

Carol calls my cell right after I leave the orgy. Room 510. She and Patrick will start without me, and I’m jealous.

Chapter Nineteen

Patrick lets me in the room. I’m wearing a black dress I bought yesterday (and I’ve thrown out the other black dress. I don’t like Ma knowing me better than I know myself). Carol is beautiful, sultry, shyly sexual as she lounges on the bed. She would make a good prostitute; she has down pat the “good girl” quality most clients enjoy. Perhaps one way for me to get through the night is to pretend I’m testing her out. An interview of sorts. I had to do this in my own training before I was allowed to go out alone on “dates.”

Okay, so, Carol is a candidate for prostitution, and I analyze her objectively. She wears a blue slip that really…wow. Just wow. It’s the perfect complement to her dark hair and golden skin. A tiny part of her cleavage is exposed, and if I were Ennis Evans, I would be mmm and chocolaty inside. I’d be eager for the night to begin.

Yep, a bright future in prostitution awaits Candidate Carol. After tonight, she and I probably will never see each other again. It’s for the best, but I will forever be grateful to her for the way she looks at me, for the way she treats me. For reminding me that some people out there are pure. They don’t have agendas or plots.

Patrick, Carol and I establish ground rules, then I pull out a bottle of massage oil. Time to put Patrick to sleep so Carol and I can be alone a while. So I can give her more courage to do what’s right for herself and leave Patrick.

*****

I try to ignore the way Carol gazes at me as we massage her fiance’s back: the awe in her expression, the wonder in her eyes. Her ever-expanding, contagious smiles. I pretend the reason I’m returning these gazes is because I have to, because it’s part of the job, because I’m evaluating Carol’s suitability and acting skills for a prostitution gig. Guilt clenches my chest tight, but my mouth gives away free smile after free smile.

Soon enough, Patrick enters dreamland, and Carol and I go by the windows. Unsure what else to do, I pull the curtains back. I won’t kiss Carol or touch her sexually at this point. If she wants that, she needs to start it.

“Are you sure he’s asleep?” Carol asks, although she inspected Patrick after I did.

“He’s asleep. Trust me.”

“We need to wake him up. He’ll be so pissed—”

I press a finger to Carol’s lips. “He’s exhausted. He’s worn down to the bone. When he wakes up, he’ll be good to go. Better than he would’ve been.”

“He won’t see it that way.”

“Fine.” I can’t keep exasperation out of my voice. Maybe Carol is a lost cause. Maybe I’ve confused purity and innocence with spinelessness. “Go wake him up.”

“I should. I mean…I mean…”

“What?”

“What will we do? Look out the window until he wakes up?”

“It is a beautiful night.” I take Carol’s hand, and the Washington Monument says hello. Brings back a memory of Isaiah. A trip to the top of the monument with him, Kevin and Ma. A rare family outing and the last time Kevin saw his son alive. I wish Kevin would yell at me. You killed our child! What kind of mother are you? But, no. He is understanding and withholds blame. So does Ma. Is it any wonder I have to punish myself? No one else is willing to. Even the cops cleared me.

I’m going to cry. Shit, I’m going to cry here in front of Carol. No. No, I won’t. I just need to focus. Focus, Elena. Focus!

“Ennis? You okay?”

“Fine.” My voice is stiff.

“How did you plan it?” she asks.

“Plan what?”

“You know. Making him fall asleep. How did you know for sure he would?”

Isaiah is asleep. Forever. I laugh—and hear Isaiah’s excited squeals. Mom! Dad! Look at the Capitol! Grandma! Is that the president? Look! “I told you I’d keep Patrick out of the way as much as possible.”

“Yes, but I thought you meant like him watching us. He’d be awake. Not out of commission.”

I shrug. “You and I are only talking. Nothing he’ll howl about missing. Maybe I should let him listen to us. That’ll put him to sleep too, hmm?”

“Carol,” she says.

I blink. “What?”

“Say my name.”

“Carol. You like that?”

“On your tongue, my name isn’t plain,” Carol says.

“I like when you say my name too.” The statement may be true. May not be. I’ve never heard Carol say “Elena.”

“Ennis, Ennis.”

All of a sudden, I hate the sound of “Ennis” on her tongue. I can run all I like, I can try all I like, Carol can believe I’m Ennis all she wants to, but I’m a poseur, an amateur at a stupid pretend game.

Carol says: “I like your hair up. Down too. Any which way.”

I never let anyone take my hair down. It is mine, and mine only. But why not give Carol this little happiness?

“Take it down,” I tell her.

Carol stands behind me and runs her fingers across the back of my neck. Her touch is unbearable, but I tell her it tickles. She undoes my hair, and it falls. I don’t say anything. Neither does she. I stare at the monument, and she stares at it too. Or maybe she stares at her reflection in the window, or my reflection. Whatever.

Mom! Can I go in the water?

Mom! Can I swim now?

I wish Carol would hug me to her, but she goes to wake Patrick.

*****

For a few minutes while Patrick is in the bathroom, another part of me takes control of my mind, of my voice. Tonight is my last chance to make Carol understand that Patrick isn’t for her. I can’t yell or scream it; that will only drive her into Patrick’s arms. No, I have to be quiet and subtle and gentle, say words that will give her considerable pause. The pause might not occur tonight, but it should a few days from now. A week from now. A month from now.

“Does he love you?” I ask.

“Yes. Yes, he loves me. We’ve just been…it’s been difficult lately. We’re new here, like you are, and his job is crazy stressful. When we were in Pennsylvania, it was wonderful. It’ll be good again. You’ll see.”

“I’ll see? Who cares if I see? Will you see?”

Carol blinks and fondles the handcuffs she bought earlier.

“So Pennsylvania was paradise, huh?” I ask.

“It was.”

“In Pennsylvania, he thought blue didn’t drown out your eyes?”

“That’s not fair!”

I do a pretty good job of setting up a pause, I think.

*****

Now I am in the bathroom and brushing my hair. Heart hammering. When I go back out, the threesome will truly begin. No more massage. Time for kissing, fondling, moaning, groaning, sweat. Fantasy Land fakery.

My hair suitably tamed, I return to Carol and Patrick.

“Hey, En,” Patrick says. “Kiss Carol.”

“Carol,” I say.

“Yes?”

I crook a finger. “Come here.” And she does. That dratted engagement ring—the symbol of Patrick’s “ownership”—Carol hastily removes it, and I place her hands on my breasts. Her eyes are shiny, ornamented with desire. She is rewarded when I free one of my breasts.

“Mmmm,” says Ennis Evans.

Carol licks my nipple—once, then again. Ennis Evans’s knees tremble, and electricity surges through her. How soft, how tender Carol’s tongue is!

“Kiss me,” Ennis breathes. “My neck, my ear, my earlobes. Kiss me everywhere.”

Carol’s lips move to Ennis’s neck then to her cheek—heavenly, cotton candy caresses for Ennis Evans—then Carol’s mouth is on mine. Pardon me, on Ennis’s mouth. Carol holds back at first: tentative, unsure what Ennis likes. Doesn’t matter. Anything Carol does will be perfect because I’m paid to pretend everything is perfect.

Carol grows more bold, more daring, and our tongues flick to find each other. Carol’s a much better kisser than I imagined. Eons better than Felicianna. Shit, this is hard. Definitely too intimate. I don’t think I ought to let clients kiss me anymore after tonight. Not that Carol’s a client, but you know what I mean.

Ennis’s pussy (my pussy) is hot. Carol’s tongue is wet in my mouth. God, her magic tongue. A jolt shoots up my spine, and then—

A wail. Patrick comes. I’d forgotten about him. My gaze meets Carol’s for a split, horrified second as we are yanked from Fantasy Land and returned to this hotel room in Washington, D.C.

No matter.

I pull Carol onto a bed so she can continue eager joinings. She is soon among the clouds again, but then there’s Patrick clawing at her. I draw back a bit to let him have his fun. See how good Ennis Evans is? See how nice Ennis Evans can be? See how Ennis Evans (unintentionally) helps Carol and Patrick reach orgasm at the same time?

*****

Patrick wants Carol and me to strip. I toss my little black dress and underwear off. Fasten my gaze on Carol. She can’t believe her eyes. She must have me—all of me—because Ennis-me is so wondrous. I am a beautiful woman on the outside.

But.

Carol’s nervous about me seeing her naked, so I will be gentle. “May I take your slip off?” I inquire.

She lets me—then asks: “Am I okay?” Of course she is! Her legs are slender, her stomach is flat, the curve of her hips is just right. I divert the question to Patrick because he needs to answer, too.

“She’s more than okay. She’s smashing,” Patrick says.

I kiss Carol and try to express in the kiss just how deserving she is of a better person than Patrick. In case that isn’t enough, as my lips leave hers, I whisper the truth: “You’re perfect. You’re a pearl.”

Patrick wants Carol to eat me. He and I discussed this last week, too. In the one and a half years I’ve been a hooker, no client has eaten me. I’m making an exception for Carol, especially since she isn’t a client. I went down on Felicianna a few times after Isaiah died but before I became a call girl. Vice versa too—she went down on me. Nothing spectacular. This with Carol won’t be amazing, either. I’m going to fake orgasms quickly. I’m pretty good at it, to be honest. It’s a big part of training. We watch ourselves on video and use that feedback to tune our acting.

I pull out a dental dam. “This is a dental dam,” I explain.

Carol’s nose wrinkles. “What? Why? We don’t need that.”

“Just to be safe.”

“I’m clean. Aren’t you?”

“Yes, but for peace of mind.”

“Fine,” Carol mumbles.

Hey, what can I say? This? Oh, by the way, I’m a whore, prostitute, hooker, call girl, pick what word suits your fancy, and this is protection for just in case. Yeah, my vay-vay is clean seeing as how I don’t allow penetration, but this is common courtesy. Ha! Yeah, right. There’s really no reason for me to bother with the dental dam. I am extremely careful about taking precautions, so Carol is probably safer with me than with a random Doe off the street. My service is damn high class and requires biweekly testing for diseases. Clients get tested, too.

Maybe the dental dam move is subconscious on my part, a wake-up call to Carol: Hey, girl! Ennis Evans wouldn’t use protection, but a call girl would. Snap out of your haze, and don’t be so damn trusting.

Carol trails her lips across my chest, my breasts, down my stomach. Her tongue finds my clit. I shudder, a real shudder. She isn’t using the dental dam, and a thousand second thoughts howl inside my gray cells. Protection is good! Necessary. But…come on. Just fake quickly and be done with it. I am clean. I know this in my gut, but it’s the principle.

I ignore my protests and will myself to create the best faked orgasm ever. I grit my teeth and grasp my arms. My hips buck, buck, buck, and I “come” not once, not twice, but three times.

I really am not a good person.

*****

The rest of the threesome is over in a blink. Well, not really, but feels like it. I finger Carol, kiss her, explore her, and Patrick towers above us. He rubs himself so he can shoot off. I hope that, to Carol, he’s not there. She comes, I pretend to come, she comes, comes, comes, her clit alive and pulsing, and I continue my fakery. I show Carol how to diddle Patrick in the ass, but I can’t derive any enjoyment from her wearing a cute little dildo.

I’m numb again. Numb, numb, numb. I’m horrible. Preparing myself for our goodbye, for the inevitable.

Finally, Patrick is tired. His last climax takes a while, then he’s finished for the night. I yearn to get dressed right away, but Carol tugs me to the other bed and gathers me into her arms. Fine. I’ll humor her and stay a bit. “He will sleep well,” I murmur into Carol’s chest. “Just be sure he’s up by noon. That’s checkout time.”

“Are you staying the night?” Carol asks. Sweat slicks her body, and her heart goes thump thump thump thump. She is steady and reassuring.

“I should go.”

“Why?” Carol sounds hurt, and I try to meet her gaze.

“Because…well. I’m the number three.”

“How will you get home?”

“Cab.”

“Come on. No. That’s silly. Stay.”

“Patrick didn’t want me sleeping over.”

“Why not?”

“Why should I sleep over anyway?” Patrick never said for me not to stay, but I’m counting it as an “unapproved” expense. Besides, I need out. Right now. The room is hot. Stifling. So is my heart. I’ve done my job. I’ve shown Carol what being with a woman is like. The rest is up to her.

“Fine, okay, don’t sleep over, but will you stay a little longer? I like being with you. Please?”

I shoot Patrick a glance. He’s snoring, and I sure hope the snores are genuine. “I can’t stay,” I whisper. “I have to go.”

Carol takes my face into her hands. Traces the lines of my jaw. Oh. Oh. Oh. It isn’t fair. She isn’t playing fair. She can’t do this to me. I can’t let her do this to me.

“I’m adopted,” she says.

“What?”

Carol sucks in a breath. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“It’s something I don’t usually tell people because, well, my parents are my parents. Doesn’t matter if they’re blood or not. You know? But all my life, I never felt like I belonged anywhere. Do you get that feeling? Like you don’t belong?”

All the time, sweetie. All the damn time. “Oh, Carol, I really must go.”

“Patrick doesn’t know I’m adopted.”

“Really? Why?”

“Never felt the need to tell him.”

“Were you a baby?” I ask.

“Yes. From Lithuania. Don’t know my birth parents’ names. Won’t ever find out, and that’s cool. But I’d like to visit someday. Just curious to see the country.”

“You definitely should visit. Maybe adopt a child from there, too.”

“Wow,” Carol whispers. “I should. I really should. Can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

“I’m Idea Girl.”

“You’re a lot of things,” Carol says.

I chuckle. “You too, sweetie.” I kiss her. Little more than a peck, really. “Now I have to go before I fall asleep.”

“Don’t go.”

“I need to, Carol.”

Hurt and longing lay naked in Carol’s eyes. “I love you,” she blurts out.

My heart stops. Every nerve in my body freezes into a shard of ice. Carol does not love me, this woman she believes is Ennis Evans. She does not love me—Elena. No matter how heated, how intense her rushed words are. Still. Still. It’s been a long time since a lovely woman said these words to me, much less acted as if they were true. Even Felicianna doesn’t have the guts to say the words. She lets her puppy dog pathetic gazes do the talking.

I fight to keep my heart a muscle of steel. Some of my clients, and granted, Carol’s not a client, say they love me. These men don’t love me, though, and Carol’s like them. “You don’t love me. You hardly know me. Come on, Carol. You said you wouldn’t fall for me.”

Her embarrassed reply: “I know. It slipped out. I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t love you.”

Me: “Yeah.”

“But, Ennis, I really do like being with you. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You never had me in the first place.” I stop to gather words. Every fiber of me wants to tell Carol the truth that I’m a whore. Every fiber of me wants to tell Carol to leave me the fuck alone because if I’m with her much longer, I can’t keep my walls up. And I need my walls up, yes I do, because I haven’t served enough punishment. But I can’t do any of that. I can’t tell her the truth and hurt her. I continue: “I do like being with you, and I’m glad I got to know you.”

“Why are you acting like we won’t see each other again?” Carol asks.

“Because we can’t.”

“Ennis, please.”

“You’re engaged to be married,” I snap. “And I’m a—”

“What? You’re a what?”

Call girl. Killer. Someone who can’t be happy right now. Someone who doesn’t want to be happy. “Nothing.”

“You don’t do affairs?” Carol asks.

“Affairs? No. I don’t.”

“You put your hand in my underwear at the condo! You put a finger on my clit! You did stuff with my neck and…and…”

“That was to help with this threesome. Besides, it was a mistake—what I did at your place.”

Tears sting Carol’s eyes. “I didn’t mean it, about the affair. I wouldn’t do that either. No. No. Well, do you think we could do this again? A threesome?”

“It’s a bad idea. It’ll worsen things.”

“Oh,” Carol says.

“Think of tonight as a moment, okay?”

“A moment?”

I touch my mouth to Carol’s mouth. “Think of it as a wonderful, special, very extraordinary moment that isn’t meant to last.”

“Gee, I’ll get right on that.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be with Patrick,” I murmur.

Carol’s expression darkens, and she doesn’t address the issue. “Would candles have been good tonight?” she asks instead.

“Mmm. Yes.”

“I brought some, but Patrick said they’d ruin the mood. Because candles are for romance, and we’re not supposed to have feelings for you.”

“Carol, come on. Dump him. Don’t let him dictate your life.”

“I don’t know. We have a history, and...gosh. The wedding. So much of his family’s money’s gone into it. My mom would…oh. I don’t know. I’ll be all right. I love him.”

“That’s why you’re here telling me you love me.”

“Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not. Promise. Like I said, you never had me. I never had you. A kindergartener could have predicted this ending. But, Carol, it doesn’t matter if you love me or not. You don’t love him.”

“Relationships have ups and downs. Patrick and I are going through a phase.”

Fine, then. I’ve done my job, shown her there’s more to life than her fiance. Exit time. Her problem if she marries the asshole. “I’m leaving now.”

“Can I call you?” Carol asks.

No. Yes. No. Yes. “Yes,” I say, “But only if you really need to. Otherwise, please don’t. Um…take care, Carol.”

“We can’t be friends? We can’t hang out?”

“No.” I pull my black dress back on and bring Carol’s engagement ring to her. “It really is pretty,” I murmur. “I always…”

“What?”

“Always wondered what it’d be like to…to…well.” I stare at the ring—a symbol of love, ownership, longevity, fakery. I wonder what my life would be like if I never took Isaiah to the beach that day. Would I be married with another child on the way? “There’s a cheesy romantic in everyone, huh? I always wondered what it’d be like to find that one person—a soul mate. I don’t believe in them, but I’d like to look in that person’s eyes and know this is the one. She’s the one. She can make my pain go away. Don’t need rings for that, but this is pretty. It really is.” I chuckle. “Oh, boy. Listen to me.”

“Ennis.” Carol’s voice crackles. “What pain do you have? Maybe I can help.”

I slide the ring onto Carol’s finger. “Goodbye, Carol. Take care. And, uh…yeah. Do call if you need to.” I blow her a kiss. “You’ll be fine, champ.”

“Ennis! Please let me help.”

“No one can help,” I say.

“I refuse to believe that.” Carol spreads pleading kisses around my mouth and my cheeks. “I can help. Let me help. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Oh, Carol.”

“Ennis, please. Let me help.”

I indicate Patrick. “You can help by going to sleep.”

“Don’t push me away, please.”

“I…I’m not a good person, Carol. I hurt people. That’s what I do. Now I must go. Goodbye.”

“Ennis.”

I get the hell out of the room. I get the hell out of Carol Ann Thomas’s life before I give in to her deep, soulful pleading eyes. Ennis Renee Evans would stay and let Carol help, but I’m Elena Marie Elise, and I need my thick, protective walls.

Chapter Twenty

In the hotel lobby, I use my personal cellphone to call a cab. Part of me hopes to see Carol dash wild-eyed into the lobby, but no Carol sprints after me. The taxi arrives ten minutes later, and the driver is the silent type. Good. I need to be left alone in my dark desolation. I don’t cry, and when I get home, I head straight to the bathroom. I strip and take a hot, steamy, cleansing shower.

I shiver and tremble despite the scalding water. Roaches crawl over me, dig into me, nest into me. I never should have agreed to this threesome. Never, ever. I never should have agreed to deceive Carol. It was a little thing really—a way to make extra money—until I met her. And liked her as a person.

Now I’m caught in a whirlwind of conscience.

“I love you,” Carol had said.

“She doesn’t,” I whisper, and I scrub and scrub my skin raw. “She doesn’t.” However, the resolve and the sheer determination in Carol’s eyes shines through my memory. No, Carol doesn’t love me, but in that moment, she meant what she said.

Carol is a good woman. She deserves the complete, no-holds-barred truth about Patrick.

I turn off the water and stumble against one wall of the shower. I sit. I stare blankly at the opposite wall—so bright and white it is. I’ll be all right. I simply need to get through the next few days, then the next few weeks. A bit at a time.

I’ll be all right, and Carol will be all right. We’ll be glorious and perfect and numb in our all rightyness.

*****

I spend Sunday cleaning furiously and doing, doing, doing. I ignore Ma’s questions about what’s wrong. If I sit idle, Carol-thoughts will encroach me, will take over. Patrick does not call to make an appointment, and on a whim, I contact the booking agent and drop Patrick as a client. There. He’ll never see me again.

Sunday night, I venture into the room where Ma sleeps. Isaiah’s former bedroom. It had contained a bed with an Atlanta Braves comforter and the usual odds and assortments of a ten-year-old boy’s room: a basketball, a baseball and glove, model cars and trucks, books, video game cases, clothes scattered about. Messes.

Now it holds Ma’s bed and dresser, the toy truck urn and two boxes of Isaiah’s stuff that Ma and I didn’t sell. The truck is on top of one of the boxes, and I sit on the floor and lean against the wall. I made the right choice; the new urn is precious.

Felicianna pokes her head in a few minutes later. “Hey, Elena.”

“Felicianna.”

Her gaze falls to the urn. “What’s that?” She sits next to me and reaches for the truck.

“What are you doing here? Isn’t the store open?”

“Your mom called. She was worried.”

I scoff. “So you closed Antiques by Anna early to rush over?”

“Sunday nights are slow.” Felicianna examines the truck. “Is this an urn?”

“Yeah. You’re holding Isaiah.”

Felicianna shoots me a sideways glance. “You could’ve gotten an urn for free at the store.”

“You sell urns?”

“We have a few, and we have containers that could serve as urns. Cremation’s been around longer than people think.”

“That’s nice, but I needed something Isaiah would like.”

She frowns. “He liked my store.”

“He did,” I acknowledge. “Yes, he did.” Felicianna opened Antiques by Anna a couple of months before Isaiah died. Previously, she worked at another antiques store, which is where Isaiah and I met her.

She takes my hand, and I let her. She continues holding my son in her lap, and before long, hot tears roll down my cheeks. Felicianna puts Isaiah down and wraps her arms around me. I love her, I really do. If only I could be in love with her.

*****

I have four clients to see Monday, and I cancel three. For whatever reason, I keep the appointment with former U.S. secretary of state Carter Pullham. Maybe because he doesn’t want sex much. Maybe because he mostly pays me just to listen, to keep him company, to tell him stories from my fakey fake pretend bogus sham counterfeit childhood.

Maybe because he taught me chess, and because of him, I was able to beat Carol at chess. Carter has a soft spot for me, considers me more a daughter than a hooker.

I suppose I do not cancel the session because I consider him a friend.

The appointment is for two p.m. I go to his townhouse, where we have most of our liaisons. I am let in discreetly by a trustworthy staff member who whispers that the wife is at home too.

Wonderful.

Carter introduces me to his wife. She looks me over, apparently finds me acceptable. She is in her early fifties compared with Carter’s late eighties. She is not handsome. She is a horse-faced, broad-shouldered woman.

“So this is your whore,” the wife sneers, and her gaze is keen on me. I don’t give her the flinch she wants.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m the whore.” Patrick’s right. I’m a hooker. I need to remember that always. Tears spring to my eyes, and I bite my lip, willing them not to fall. Shit. Shit. When will this serial crying stop?

I dab at the wetness, and Carter Pullham’s wife sniffs. She turns and leaves. Disgusted, probably. Her husband only stares. Then: “What’s wrong, Katherine? Don’t pay any mind to my wife.”

More tears. I shake my head.

He awkwardly pats my shoulder. “Now, now, then. It’ll be all right.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” I whimper through my thickening tears.

“No, no,” he says soothingly, pretending he knows what I’m going on about. His tenderness provokes more sobs from me. “No, of course not. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

Why did Isaiah have to drown? Why did Carol have to say these three little words? Why am I so affected? It’s not like Carol meant what she said. It’s not like multiple clients haven’t said these words, too.

I can’t believe who I’ve become, how I’ve let my lust for punishment overtake my life. I can’t believe I’ve lived one and a half years like this, taking disease tests every two weeks. I can’t believe I’ve been sneaking around and lying to my family and friends about what I do.

I can’t believe I’ve lived such a dark, soulless existence. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten what hope is. Everything, everything clashes in that moment. I’m sick of it, all the lying, all the looks the other way. I’m tired of the orgies, but what can I do? I refuse to return to the life of a grieving mother. I refuse to become a party planner again and pretend my life is the same as it was before, only without my son. But maybe now I can hope for a better life one day.

I gratefully take a couple of tissues Carter offers. I dry my sobs and say, “Carter, I can’t see you today. I’m sorry, but my son died.”

Carter’s lips part. “Your…pardon me?”

“My son died.” Guess what? This is the first time I’ve said the words out loud, although I’ve said them internally more times than I can count. My son died. Isaiah died. My son drowned. Even when I was on the phone with the madam asking if a call girl job was available, I put Isaiah’s death like this: My son, he…he…he’s gone. I hate the word “gone” when it’s supposed to mean dead. Gone is too lightweight, but it serves its purpose. It layers pain, and I had to use “gone” with the madam.

I tell Carter: “His name was Isaiah, and he drowned almost two years ago.”

The color drains from Carter’s face. “I’m sorry, Katherine.”

“It feels good to say it, that he died.”

“I imagine so. Now, go home and be with your family. It’s perfectly all right. We’ll meet next week.”

*****

A month, and then two, and then three, go by. I rack up more and more money for a Yale Steam Laundry condo, and I think of Carol a lot. I wonder what she’s up to, if she’s left Patrick’s ass. He hasn’t called since the threesome. I don’t even know if he knows I dropped him.

It just builds and builds and builds, my overwhelming desire to see Carol again. To come clean with her, to tell her the truth. So I take a slow step toward it. I go to the Barnes & Noble where she works—but I go during her lunch break. I stay from twelve-fifteen to twelve thirty-five. No Carol.

I do the same three more times that month. No Carol, but that’s okay. The fact that I am trying is enough for now, even though I’m not trying very well. At least I’m in her workplace, I’m near her, and when the time is right, we’ll find each other.

I don’t envision a future for us, of course. Nor do I want one. I continue to tell myself I don’t feel for her and never have. I convince myself that the visits are more of follow-ups, more to check that she’s left Patrick and if she hasn’t, then I need to tell her that he frequents (frequented?) prostitutes. She can’t marry him, at least not without that vital information.

I see her on my fifth visit to the store. I’m on the second floor of Barnes & Noble, and she’s on the first floor. A woman enters the store, sneaks up behind Carol, wraps her arms around Carol. Kisses Carol on the cheek.

Carol grins. Laughs. Turns and kisses the woman on the mouth.

I stare. And stare. The Isaiah coal in my heart clenches. Expands. The woman is pretty and has an Indian look (Indian as in Native American). And gosh, she does seem to make Carol happy.

Well, then. There it is. My job is truly done. Carol has left Patrick, she won’t marry him, and I have no reason to return to this store ever again. I have no reason to think of Carol again. I’m free to go on, free to start feeling numb again. Carol never loved me, and I never genuinely felt for her.

*****

Time passes, as it has a way of doing. Isaiah’s final words remain elusive, and Carol fades in my memory banks. Once in a while, she does pop up in my dreams and at random moments. As soon as she does, I shove her away. I don’t wonder if she’s still with that woman. I don’t wonder if we’d have been good together if I lowered my walls. No point. After a while, I’ve convinced myself for the hundredth time that I never felt for her.

Yes, time passes, and I keep telling myself this is my last month as a whore. This time next month, I’ll be out of the business. Ha! Laughable. It doesn’t happen. I’m only a bit closer to forgiving myself for Isaiah’s death, and I’m enjoying the materialism of the job more. Ma and I move into the Yale Steam condo, and I buy tons of swag for her.

Hundreds of clients come and go. Doctors, politicians, judges, lawyers. Lots of lawyers.

Then in October, little more than a year after I saw Carol in another woman’s arms, the booking agent calls. Her name is Amanda, and I hear a smirk in her voice as she says: “You have a new client who picked you out specially.”

The fact that Amanda’s calling is odd in itself. Usually, the calendar sync application is enough to keep appointments straight. So, this client must be a big one. “Okay. Who is he?” Another Supreme Court justice?

“Her,” Amanda says smugly.

“Fine, fine. Who is she?”

“Her name is Frances Dourne. And guess what? She was a client three years ago, too. What a hypocrite.”

I’m stunned silent. Frances Dourne. Frances Dourne. Wow. I see a blond woman crying on TV for days and days after the kidnapping of her daughter. Frances Dourne, the controversial leader of Gay is a Choice. Wow. She probably punishes herself as much as I punish myself. This woman fascinates me. She always has. I read her memoir the first week it came out.

“She wants sex?” I say in a croak.

“Here are her exact words: ‘No sex, no touching, no kissing. I want a friend.’ ” An eye-roll in Amanda’s tone. At least half the clients proclaim they don’t want sex, but they do. Oh yes, they do.

“You interested?” Amanda asks.

My throat knots. Someone who is as bad a mother as I am. Someone who has hurt lots of people. Someone who is on my level, someone who deserves me. “Yeah. Of course I am. Frances Dourne. Wow.”

PART 2—January 2013

Chapter Twenty-One

Carol Speaks

I am on my knees and re-shelving books when I notice Frances Dourne is standing mere feet away. My heart jumps into my throat, and I blink stupidly at the book I am about to reshelf. Commanding the Storm: Civil War Battles in the Words of the Generals Who Fought Them, the title reads. The photo on the cover displays a group of Civil War soldiers behind a wagon carrying a cannon and a box of what is presumably gunpowder.

I return the book to its resting place. Please let Frances be gone.

She isn’t. Even worse, she’s gazing straight at me. “Excuse me?” she calls. “Do you work here?”

I scramble to my feet and approach her. “Uh, yes. How can I help you?”

She smiles, and I can’t deny she’s a beautiful woman. Not just for her age, but a beautiful woman, period. Blond hair, lines of character radiating from her blue eyes. Jealousy I thought was long gone returns to simmer. What does Frances have that I don’t? Why did Elena give this woman a shot? Why not me? Is it because Frances has money? Because she grieved over a child too?

Stop, Carol. Don’t drive yourself crazy again.

“My daughter’s taken an interest in the Civil War,” Frances says. “I thought I’d buy her a couple of books. Know any that a teenager might like to read?”

I don’t. Really, I don’t, but I ought to, seeing that I’ve been assistant store manager almost a year. Landed the gig due to my stellar work as head cashier. Yay me!

“Of course,” I say blithely. “I have two books in mind.”

“Great!” Frances enthuses.

“Oh hey, does Victoria like any particular aspect of the Civil War?”

Almost imperceptibly, Frances’s eyes narrow. Guess she hoped I hadn’t a clue as to her identity, as to her daughter’s identity. Must be weird for her that strangers pretty much everywhere know the nooks and crannies of her life. “No,” Frances says. “All of the war interests her right now.”

“Great. Great. Well, uh…” I study the selection of Civil War books, which isn’t much, about three shelves’ worth. One book, Civil War Blunders, jumps out almost immediately. It’s encased in plastic wrap, and I draw it out. “She’ll love this.”

Frances skims the back of the book. What it says, I have no idea, but Frances chuckles. “Many leaders couldn’t speak English? I didn’t know that.”

“Oh yeah. It’s crazy, right?”

“Maybe I’ll read this after Victoria finishes.”

“And, uh…” I’ve been furiously scanning the shelves, and I’m rewarded with Civil War Trivia. “This is the other book I had in mind.”

Frances leafs through the pages. “Looks great. I like the pictures.” She grins. “Thanks for your help.”

“Sure, no problem. Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

She turns and walks toward the cash registers. I can’t help but relive the few months after I found out Ennis/Katherine’s real name. All kinds of emotions warred: shock, jealousy, outrage. Sorrow, too. Apparently Elena became a call girl after the death of her son. Her friend Felicianna said it was so Elena could escape into her grief. I kept replaying Elena saying: I’d like to look in that person’s eyes and know this is the one. She’s the one. She can make my pain go away.

What pain, indeed. The death of a child. Guess Frances took care of that.

My mixed emotions had subsided, and I’d put Elena out of my mind a second time—until now. Damn it. Damn Victoria Dourne and her newfound interest in the Civil War. Damn her for stirring up feelings forever unresolved.

Forever unresolved unless I take action.

Before I can stop myself, I’m trotting after Frances. Was Elena faking everything with me? Was any part of it genuine? What the heck does it matter? It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. I can’t help but dwell on it, though. I did fall hard for the woman. It’d be nice to know we had something a teeny wee small bit real.

“Hey,” I say as I catch up to Frances.

“Yes?”

Sand pours into my throat, and a jackhammer takes over my heart. “Um, uh…I knew Elena. We lost touch, but could you pass on the message that her old pal Ennis Evans says hi?”

Frances’s lips tug up. “I sure will. How do you know Elena?”

“I’ll let her tell you that story.”

If my answer gives Frances pause, she doesn’t show it. “Thank you, Ennis. Elena doesn’t have many friends these days, so this will mean a lot to her.”

“Great!” I reply.

*****

Carrie and I have grilled chicken and baked potatoes for dinner. Our conversation is limited. We are inching into the stagnant territory of my parents. She talks about her day; she teaches at a community college in Northern Virginia. I moved in with her last year, and I hate the commute to the Georgetown Barnes & Noble. I never should’ve agreed to the move.

Ah well. Life is full of sacrifices.

After Carrie stops laughing about a student of hers who likes to imitate Bugs Bunny, I venture: “Guess who saw Frances Dourne today?”

Carrie’s eyes go wide. “No! Really?”

“Yep. She came into the store to buy books for her daughter.”

“Did you get her autograph?”

“Nah.”

“How’s she look in person?”

“Not bad. About the same as she does on TV.”

Carrie doesn’t know about me and Elena. No one other than Patrick does, and I haven’t talked to him since our breakup.

“Was Frances nice?” Carrie asks.

“Mmm. Yeah, she was nice.”

Carrie grins. “Look at you, hobnobbing with celebrities.”

“Hobnobbing? Hardly.” Sure, celebrities come into the store once in a while. Most are middling-level famous, but sometimes, yeah, we get big shots.

“Is she still with that prostitute?”

My gut pricks, and I chew on my chicken. “I think so.”

“I couldn’t do it.”

“Do what?”

Carrie shivers. “Be with a prostitute. Imagine the filth inside Elena. Layers and layers of scummy semen. It’s disgusting. It’s not something you can scrub out.”

“Maybe Elena is a nice woman.”

Carrie shrugs. “I’m sure she is. Doesn’t mean I want to be with her.”

“It never was proved she was a prostitute.”

Carrie’s jaw drops. “Seriously? Come on. Where’s your beachfront property in Nebraska?”

I manage a weak laugh. “I was kidding.”

*****

I can’t sleep that night. Why, oh why, did I chase after Frances? Why couldn’t I have left Ennis Evans in the past? What if Elena comes to see me? What the heck is she going to say? She’s with Frances. She’s in love with Frances. Even if Elena did feel a little something for me, she sure as heck doesn’t now and wouldn’t admit she used to. So, she’ll say: “Gee, Carol, I was performing a job. Sorry I hurt you, but get over it.”

What can I say in response? “Gee, Elena, I thought I was over it—twice—but then again, I’m not a two-faced slut.”

Snnn-zzz-kk. Snnn-zzzz-kk. Carrie has a minor cold, gets one every January. It isn’t too bad, but it is big enough to cause her to snore. I roll out of bed and fire up the laptop. A horrible, pathetic confession: after I found out about Elena and gained tremendous, sudden access to her through the media, I would watch videos of her on the news and on YouTube. The video I watched most: her first “live” appearance after the news broke that she was a prostitute who serviced Frances Dourne.

Now, I pull up that video and press play. A cloudy and gray sky greets me. Elena wears dark sunglasses, and she’s arm in arm with her mother. They’re leaving a doctor’s office.

“Please let me and my mother get in the car,” Elena says, her teeth clenched.

“Elena Marie Elise!” reporters howl, jamming their microphones in Elena’s face, in her mother’s face. Several Christmas trees’ worth of lights flash.

“Is it true Frances Dourne paid you for sex?”

“Was she good in bed?”

“Do you think Marissa should stay with her father?”

“Did she want kinky stuff? S&M?”

“Do you have photos? Videos?”

“How has your son’s death changed your outlook on life?”

“Is it true you tried to kill yourself after he drowned?”

“Is Frances Dourne a good kisser?”

“Do you want more children?”

Elena and her mother wade through the crowd, and Elena mutters: “No comment, no comment, no comment.”

I’m not sure why this video affected me so much, and apparently, continues to affect me. Maybe because reporters got to shout questions, and I never got to. What would I lobby Elena’s way if I had the chance?

Did you feel bad? At all?

What did you think of me? A pathetic cow? Plain? Ugly? What?

Why Frances? Why not me? Didn’t I deserve a chance?

What the hell kind of bitch are you, fucking my fiance, deceiving me and making me fall for you?

How could I have been so stupid to let myself fall?

Screw you. Fuck you.

How many other people like me are out there, and by that, I mean dumbasses who thought you were a kind, beautiful wedding planner?

What did you buy with the money you earned for playing with my mind?

I watch a few more videos. Elena and Frances in an airport with the green-haired, fourteen-year-old Victoria Cove between them. Elena and Frances holding hands. Elena shopping with Victoria.

I rub my forehead and shut down the laptop. I hope Frances didn’t pass on my message to Elena. I hope Elena doesn’t visit. I don’t want the hard, cold truth that Elena felt squat for me. I’d rather keep possibilities open.

Most of all, I really, really, really do not want to see Elena Marie Elise in person again. Why, then, does my stomach twirl at the prospect?

Chapter Twenty-Two

Elena Speaks

I have been ready for at least two years to haul ass out of D.C. It’s turned into a sort of haunted town. Seems like I can’t go a month without bumping into a ghost. In other words, a former client. We both lower our gazes, pretend our paths never crossed, and go on with our lives. Still, these encounters are more than annoying; they are downright painful punches to my gut and to my heart. A few times, hesitantly and in a roundabout manner, I have brought up to Frances my desire to move. Each time, Frances says that we can’t uproot her daughter. What’s more, Victoria plans to attend college right here in D.C. She was separated from her mother long enough and won’t allow it to happen again. Forget about Frances and me moving to, say, New York City or San Francisco or a small, quiet town. Mama bear wants to stay close to baby bear, and baby bear clings to mama bear.

I suppose it’s my own fault for not explaining exactly why I want to move and how badly I want to move.

Anyhow, the fact I am still in the D.C. area is about to catch up to me, courtesy of Sharon Burke. She knocks on my office door at three p.m. on a Wednesday in January. I am expecting a woman named Allison McCall, and I get up from my desk to greet my visitor.

Nope, no Allison McCall.

Sharon Burke.

I extend my hand in welcome, all the while cringing inside. If anything is worse than a former client, it is a former client’s wife. I know very few of these women on sight, but obviously, Sharon Burke is one. She and U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice Martin Burke have been married at least three decades, and they cut a handsome, dashing pair across Washington. Martin with his slim build, his coffee-colored features, and Sharon with her even slimmer build, dark, dark skin and lively, blazing green-colored contact lenses.

I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. “Nice to meet you. I’m Elena.”

Sharon laughs as she eases herself into the chair across from my desk. “Who else would you be? I’m Sharon Burke.”

I smile. “You’re the chief justice’s wife.”

“Hope you don’t find it disingenuous I booked our appointment under a different name. You know how it is when you’re famous.”

“I do,” I whisper, searching Sharon’s expression for clues that the woman is aware of the history between her husband and me.

Three sessions. Six hours altogether.

What I find can be interpreted either way. But why would Sharon Burke be here otherwise? Why would the chief justice’s wife want to hire the infamous Elena Marie Elise to plan a party? I can count on one thumb the number of high-profile clients I’ve landed since my face was pancaked across the nation. My business never achieved great heights, but it crept upward slowly and steadily. People love to gawk at a former high-class call girl, gossip about her, spread rumors about her, but hire her to plan a party? No. Nah.

I clear my throat. “It’s an honor, Mrs. Burke.”

“Call me Sharon.”

“Sharon. Great! You said on the phone you’re interviewing party planners for your daughter-in-law’s baby shower.”

Sharon nods eagerly. “I’ve heard nothing but great things about you.”

I force my lips to tug upward. Heard great things about me from…your husband? Oh, Martin. You didn’t blab to your wife. Please tell me you didn’t.

He did, though. Must have. Sharon’s presence isn’t coincidence. No matter. I refuse to do business with her.

“When would you like the shower?” I ask.

“Next weekend.”

“Oh my. That’s short notice, and unfortunately, I have prior commitments.” I reach for my Rolodex. “May I recommend Annette Fa—”

“I want you,” Sharon says, jabbing her finger like she is an Uncle Sam poster. “You, Elena. My dates are flexible. When can you do the party?”

“Annette is a better fit.”

Sharon scoffs. “You’re in. You understand? You have no choice unless you want everyone, and that includes the police, to know about you and my husband.”

“I see.”

She smiles sweetly. “Take some time to think about it. Let’s meet again Friday.”

I smile even more sweetly. “Let’s.”

*****

Friday doesn’t start well. At nine a.m. is my second meeting with Sharon. I haven’t told Frances about the woman. I don’t want to see that look in Frances’s eyes. The million questions in Frances’s eyes: The chief justice! Was he before or after the king? During? What did you do with him? Who else were you with? How many people?

My former client list is a sore point in our relationship. I refuse to tell Frances who all I used to service. She knows about Albert X, of course, but that is it. Frances thinks I don’t trust her, but I have explained repeatedly that isn’t the case. The issue: my clientele is in my past, and sexual details tend to screw up many relationships. Plus, numbers and names can prove overwhelming and misleading. Frances protests that “details” won’t bother her, but I keep my mouth shut. I want these damn clients locked in my past, if for no other reason than I’m ashamed of who I used to be. No way will I give my clients fresh life in Frances’s brain.

I almost skip the meeting with Sharon, and outrage thrums through my veins. Outrage and guilt. I don’t take kindly to blackmail, but what other choice do I have? I can give in, plan Sharon’s rinky-dink baby shower, answer the no-doubt gazillion questions Sharon has about her husband, listen to Sharon whine about the state of her marriage, pretend to be Sharon’s friend, and get it over with.

Or I can play Miss High and Mighty and risk that the media will start its blarings again. The headlines: EXPOSED! SCOTUS CHIEF JUSTICE MARTIN BURKE WAS CLIENT OF ELENA MARIE ELISE! Subheadline: PILLOW TALK LEAKED INFO ON COURT DECISIONS BEFORE THEY CAME OUT, BURKE ALLOWED PROSTITUTE’S INPUT INTO CASES! POLICE OPEN INVESTIGATION, ARRESTS IMMENIENT.

Some scorned wives taste their bitter medicine and know what the bitterness means: something is wrong with this marriage. They leave. Divorce. Or try healthy, adult counseling. Other scorned wives know very little boundaries. They don’t care about dragging their own names through the mud, don’t care about dragging the names of their children through the mud. The ultimate success is embarrassing the husband and the other woman, no matter who else gets hurt in the process.

This is Sharon Burke—apparently. And I don’t dare try to call Martin and further enrage his wife if she finds out.

I show up at five after nine. I’m not willing to gamble with my freedom and my peace of mind. I only hope that Sharon will go away after the baby shower.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say kindly as I let Sharon into my office. I do sympathize with this woman in a way; finding out your husband frequented prostitutes can’t be easy. Once we are seated, I take a deep breath and say: “Let’s get this out into the open, okay? Let’s lay all our cards on the table. Even the jokers.”

Sharon plays the confused doe eyes card, but I ignore it.

“Did Martin tell you?” I ask. “Did he get drunk one night and confess?”

Sharon’s lips set in a thin line. “You’re being rude. We’ll do this my way. I want to give my daughter-in-law a perfect baby shower.”

“Is she even pregnant? Is this, is this…Mrs. Burke, why—”

“We will do this my way,” Sharon Burke hisses. “Now, show me the list of baby shower ideas you’ve come up with.”

*****

So, that’s where I am emotionally when Frances finds me. Physically, I’m burrowed under the bedcovers at her penthouse. I didn’t want to go home because Ma would shoot tons of questions my way.

“Hey honey!” Frances calls. “I saw your car in the parking garage!”

I don’t answer. Frances should be at work. Damn it. I feel her sit on the bed. “Elena? I’m home.”

“Mmm.”

Frances tugs the bedcovers off my face. Her gaze is concerned. “Elena? What’s wrong?”

I shake my head.

Frances crawls under the covers and wraps her arms around me. “Is it money for your business? I can inject some fresh cash into—”

“No. It’s…hold me. Hold me for a while.”

So Frances does. For a long time, perhaps an hour. I inhale her soft, sweet smell, and she runs her hands through the fine strands of my hair. We’ve been together two years and two months, but we’ve drifted apart. We don’t get many moments like this. Being in her arms again is nice, and it makes me optimistic. I’ll ensure Frances and I get back to the way we were.

“Sharon Burke is blackmailing me,” I say without warning. “Sharon Burke as in the chief justice’s wife.”

“W-why?”

“Because her husband used to be a client of mine.”

A muscle clenches at Frances’s jaw. “That kind of client?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

I think of Victoria. She’s a teenager with whom Frances and I have had one, only one, real conversation about my old job. Frances cut the conversation short; it made her uncomfortable talking to her daughter about herself, sex and call girls.

“Sharon Burke,” Frances says, trying the name. “Martin Burke. The chief justice. What, how did you…? Gosh, Elena. That’s a huge client. And I thought Albert X was big.”

I laugh, a raspy, wretched laugh. “Neither of them is big.”

Frances grins, catching my innuendo. “Is that right?”

“They’re about this big.” I wag my pinky finger, but the levity doesn’t last long. “Why are you home early?”

Frances presses her lips to my mouth. “I had a headache.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes! Of course I do.”

“I’ll always be a call girl. Tainted.”

“Not to me. You’re my love. What we did brought us together. Now tell me about Sharon Burke. How can I help?”

“I need to move. I need to get out of D.C.”

“We’ve discussed—”

“I know we’ve discussed it! We’ve also discussed having kids, and guess what? I still don’t want them. My son died! He died in front of me! I still feel guilt for…for…come on, Frances. Can’t Victoria be enough?”

“I’m not moving,” Frances says firmly. “And as of a year ago, you wanted more kids. You still do. You’re just scared. Once you hold a baby or a child, you’ll—”

“You get those divorce papers,” I mutter, “and I’ll rethink having a kid.” What bothers me most of all is that Frances won’t divorce her husband. She argues that if, or when, he resurfaces, she’ll be in a much better position to help him legally if she’s his wife. She claims it’s for Victoria’s sake, and I believe her. Everything Frances does is for Victoria, and I know if I present an ultimatum, she’ll choose her daughter over me. She fails to realize it doesn’t have to be that way. She doesn’t need to choose. Victoria will be fine living elsewhere. Daniel will be fine as a divorced man. In any case, I won’t move in with Frances until she cuts these legal ties.

“Oh, Elena. Don’t do this again,” Frances says.

I roll out of bed. “I’ll say this as many times as I need to. Think about it, Frances. Why should I have a child with a woman who won’t divorce her husband? On that note, I’m going home. Bye.”

*****

Ma and I play rummy that evening, and I check my voice mail after Ma goes to bed. I have one message—from Frances.

“Elena,” she says, “call me. I don’t want us to go to sleep mad.”

Really? I think sarcastically. So how do you explain last week and the week before that and the week before that?

“I have an idea about Sharon,” Frances continues. “Call me. Bye.” She makes a kissing noise.

I call her back. “What’s your idea?”

“I don’t have one,” she confesses. “I wanted to make sure we got to say good night to each other.”

“Great. That’s just great.”

“I miss you,” Frances whispers. “I miss you sleeping over.”

I remain silent. I haven’t stayed overnight at Frances’s penthouse in two weeks at least. Up to about half a year ago, I spent probably ninety percent of my nights there. Frances misses me? Fine. Then she ought to see a lawyer about divorcing her husband.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Frances says. “I was at Barnes & Noble this morning. The one in Georgetown. I ran into an old friend of yours. Ennis Evans?”

The name takes a couple of seconds to grip me. Ennis who? I don’t—oh! Ennis Evans. Shit. Alarm bells ring, and my stomach slices in half.

“Do you remember her?” Frances asks.

I chew on my lower lip. “Maybe. Can you describe her?”

“She had dark hair. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention, but she was pretty.”

“Yes,” I say smoothly. “I remember Ennis. She still works at Barnes & Noble?”

“Yep. How do you know her?”

“What happened? Did she come up to you?”

“No, I saw her shelving books and asked if she knew of any teenager-friendly Civil War books.”

“And Ennis helped?”

“She sure did. Victoria’s in the middle of one of the books. Did you know many Civil War leaders didn’t know how to work a cannon? Had no idea where its head was from its ass.” Frances laughs. “Breech and muzzle, rather.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“So, how do you know Ennis?” Frances repeats.

“Hey, I have to go. Ma needs me.” I end the conversation, and my stomach further slices itself. Chop, chop, chop, chop. Great. Not only do I have Sharon Burke to contend with, there’s Carol now. The biggest, most scary ghost of them all, and she wasn’t even a client. I rarely think about her, but the “I love you” floods back. The hurt and longing in her blue eyes flood back.

I can only imagine what Carol went through one particular November after she realized that the woman she knew as Ennis Evans was a call girl. Unless Patrick told her already.

Do I go see Carol or not? What does she want? Why did she introduce “Ennis” to Frances? Why am I even considering visiting her? I lower my gaze when I cross paths with a ghost. I don’t go out of my freaking way to seek one out. Then again, I owe the other ghosts nothing. No apology. No damn thing. They paid me, and I serviced them.

Carol, on the other hand…yeah. A shy, beautiful, endearing woman who did nothing wrong. I owe her an apology, and maybe she wants to smack me. Leave a big ol’ handprint on my cheek. Fine. I deserve it. In fact, I deserve much worse.

*****

Monday morning, I meet with Sharon. I’ve booked a reception hall for her daughter-in-law’s baby shower, which will take place two weekends from now. I’m mailing invitations today, and Sharon insisted on coming by to help.

I retrieve two envelope moisteners to help seal the envelopes. Sharon and I get started, and a respectable pile grows. Sharon has invited fifty people to the shower, and she has absolutely no reason to “help” me today other than to remind me of what I did with her husband.

“We’ve not discussed your fee,” Sharon points out after most of the envelopes are sealed.

“I assume you prefer I work gratis.”

Sharon chuckles. “You must have a low opinion of yourself.”

“Why is that?”

“Giving your work away for free.”

I fight to keep my expression syrupy sweet. “No,” I say amiably. “It’s the least I can do, considering.”

Sharon drops her happy mask. Scowls. “I have every intention of paying you.”

“I’m sure.” Paying as in payback.

“What do you charge?”

“The cost of the supplies and decorations will be…” I perform quick calculations and add the result to my hourly fee. “I’ve already put in five hours of work, and I expect about five hours more, so…” More calculations. “I’m guessing you don’t want me to stay for the shower.”

Sharon peers at the calculator. “All right.”

“I usually require a thirty percent deposit up front.”

Sharon snorts. “A deposit. Let me ask you this, Elena. Did my husband, ah, give you any deposits?”

Finally. Thank goodness. About time we clear some hurdles. “No, ma’am,” I say.

“Why?”

“Why? Well, it was part of my rules.”

Sharon leans in. “Your rules?”

“I saw your husband very close to the end of my former career.”

“When exactly?”

“September or October 2010.”

“Okay. What’s that have to do with deposits?”

I take my time with phrasing: “I never was crazy about deposits. Never really allowed them except for a few times when I was starting out. Just wasn’t my thing, plus I didn’t want to get pregnant. Birth control and condoms aren’t a hundred percent effective. When I met your husband, I was at a point where I could afford to be extremely selective about what I was willing to do and what I wasn’t willing to do. I didn’t allow anyone to penetrate me anally or vaginally. So, no deposits.”

Interest glimmers in Sharon’s eyes. She likes my frank language. “I see.”

I seal the last envelope and move on to postage stamps. Pebbles rattle in my stomach as I wait for Sharon’s next question.

“What did you and Martin do?” she asks.

“What did he tell you we did?”

She narrows her eyes. “You tell me what you did with my husband. What did he say about me?”

Martin probably told her we mostly talked. Maybe some light petting. He, of course, would have sworn he breathed not a word about his wife.

“He said he…”

“The truth, Elena. Please, the truth. I can’t trust anything he says.”

I meet her gaze. “He said he didn’t love you anymore. He felt trapped.”

Sharon is a statue. Stiff, unblinking.

I reach out and take her hand. “I’m sorry.”

Tears fill her eyes. “Me too.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Carol Speaks

A few days pass. Elena doesn’t visit the store, at least not that I know of. Relief, not anger, should fill me, so of course anger predominates. Elena really never cared. Doesn’t care enough now to pay me a mere call. Fine. Whatever. I’ll let her live in her fairy-tale ivory tower with her millionaire girlfriend and that picture-perfect seventeen-year-old girl who doesn’t drink or party and instead reads books on the Civil War.

Then at precisely one-fifteen, I spot Elena wandering the first floor, and my heart melts. The Barnes & Noble is three floors, and I’ve just finished inspecting the women’s bathroom on the second floor. You’d be surprised at how often the toilets get stopped up. Customers, even the ones who don’t cause blockages, are reluctant to report poo issues. At least as assistant manager, I don’t have to actually eradicate stoppages.

I’ve kept my eyes peeled for Elena the past few days, and here she is—more beautiful than ever. She’s near the escalators, and she has only to glance up to catch me watching her. She ambles a few feet toward the magazines. Plucks one from a rack and leafs through it. Bides her time.

I wish I wasn’t compelled to watch her, and I won’t go down to her. I’ll make her find me. Let her suffer. Let her hurt as she hurt me, as she broke my heart.

A small part of me, though…yes. A small part of me re-falls for her. How can it not? Her nervousness, her anxiety, is appealing. Her mere presence speaks volumes. And her beauty…oh, Lord. I replay the first day we met. Her tracing my jaw in the kitchen after Patrick left. She said: You’re beautiful. Really.

Maybe she did mean it, and I keep watching her. I hate how my heart crumbles so easily, but strangely enough, that only steels my resolve. I refuse to display one iota of affection this time around.

Elena tracks down a cashier named Jeff Fisher. They speak briefly, and I backtrack so they can’t see me. So I can’t see them.

Crackle. My walkie-talkie. I free it from my clip. “Hey, Carol?” It’s Jeff.

“Yeah?”

“There’s a lady here wants to see you. We’re on the first floor near the magazines.”

“Roger that. I’ll be down soon.”

Dread prickles my stomach as I step onto the escalator. The trek down seems impossibly short. It should be long, at least ten minutes—because after three and a half years, I’m about to see Elena again.

Elena and Jeff chat and laugh as I descend. He hands her a piece of paper, maybe a napkin, and she signs it. Gives it back to him. Gee, an autograph. Nice of her.

I so don’t want to talk to her, so don’t want to interact with her. Too much time has passed, and we knew each other, what, three weeks?

I flex my fists, take a deep breath and approach her. Jeff grins and says: “Here’s Carol.”

Elena’s gaze freezes on mine, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Jeff leave. Elena says nothing, so finally, I have to. I’m impelled.

“Hello, Elena,” I say. “How are you?” Hello, Katherine. Hello, Ennis. Back for more games?

Her tense expression dissolves into a smile. “Carol,” she replies. “Jeff told me you’re assistant manager. That’s great. When did that happen?”

My heart deflects the praise in her voice. “I hear you made a career change as well.”

She glances down, gulps. Meets my gaze again. There’s no mistaking the sting in her eyes, and I don’t feel good. No vindication. “What do you want, Elena? Or should I say Ennis?”

“I’m sure you’re busy here, so I won’t take up your time. Can we have dinner soon?”

“No. Anything else you need?”

“Carol,” Elena says. “Carol, come on. We need to talk. Will you give me five minutes now?”

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll buy you a drink in the cafe.” Eh, what can I say? I’m still a sucker for my name on her tongue.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Elena Speaks

We go to the cafe, which is on the second floor. Carol gets us both mocha frappuccinos. The cashier can’t conceal his interest, his surprise. Here’s his assistant manager buying a drink for one of the most scandalized women in Washington. Yeah, even two years later, I’m easily recognizable.

Carol and I sit by a window. I study the steady stream-belch of people and cars below. I can’t bring myself to start a conversation. Anything I say will be wrong, especially since we’re in public and on limited time. So, I study the scene below us—such a brilliant, sunny, cold mid-January day, and we do not talk.

After a few minutes, Carol says: “My break’s over.”

“Okay,” I whisper. I study Carol—her sharp profile, the loose strands of her dark hair, her avoidance of my gaze. She’s lost weight. Her face is narrower. Harder, too. Much harder. She isn’t the innocent, trusting Carol I knew.

She catches my stare on her, and flecks of green amplify her blue eyes. How did I miss that before?

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Carol asks harshly.

“Because you…you look good.” I don’t dare say: You look beautiful. That’s crossing a line.

Carol frowns. “I lost a few pounds. Whoop de doo.”

“No! I didn’t mean…no, I didn’t mean that you weren’t beautiful before or…or…Carol, it’s great to see you again.”

Her expression is dark. “I have to go.”

“After the…um, I used to come in here after the, what we did. I needed to make sure you wouldn’t marry Patrick, so I figured I would tell you the truth. I came during your lunch hour. Lunch half-hour, rather. Baby steps, right?”

Carol furrows her brows. “What are you talking about?”

“One day, I saw a woman kiss you. You kissed her back. I figured, well, you’re not with Patrick anymore. Good for you. No need for me to return.”

Carol’s expression is icy. “I need to get back to work.”

We both push our chairs back and stand. Our drinks are barely touched.

“Please don’t come back,” Carol says.

“I won’t. I’m sorry that I bothered you.”

“Take care.” Carol walks off, and I catch my breath, collect my thoughts.

“Carol!” I call. She hasn’t traveled but a few steps.

She turns. “What?” Her eyes are as dark and as powerful as her anger at me. I flash back to the passion and indignation that flushed her cheeks when she yelled at Patrick that first day she and I met. As it did then, her fierce rawness freezes me for a second.

My heart flutters. I can’t let her go. I can’t.

I close the distance separating us. “Dinner tonight. Please. Let me explain.”

“What is there to explain?”

I scribble my address on a discarded receipt. I don’t dare add my phone number or e-mail address; Carol might stalk away in the extra time that takes. I shove the paper into her hands. “Seven tonight. I hope to see you.”

*****

When I get home, I tell Ma she needs to be out of the condo tonight between six forty-five and nine.

“Why?” she asks.

“I invited a friend for dinner.”

“I’ll stay in my room.”

“No, Ma. Find something to do. I’ll pay for a cab to take you to a movie.”

“Who’s this friend?”

“Ma! I’m an adult woman. I am not obligated to answer to you.”

Ma glares. “I didn’t ask enough questions before. I let too much go unsaid. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“Good for you, Ma. Just make sure you’re out tonight.”

I walk into my bedroom. I have to decide what to wear tonight and what to cook. Or if I should cook. Ordering out might be easier.

Ma follows me. “Is this friend a woman?”

“Ma!”

“Okay, your friend’s a woman. Elena, dear, is this a date?”

“No! I’m with Frances.”

“You’ve hit a rough patch with her.”

“So? Doesn’t mean I’m gonna invite women over so we can make hay between the sheets. The person coming tonight is a friend, Ma. I don’t have to explain certain things to you.”

“Elena—”

“Jesus, Ma.” I grab my cellphone and call Frances. Her voice mail picks up, and I say: “Hey, Frances. I have a friend coming for dinner tonight. A woman, and Ma’s freaking out. Oh my gosh! Maybe it’s a date! Maybe I’m cheating on you! Oh my gosh. Well, here I am telling you she’s a friend. Maybe Ma will shut up now. There, Ma. I’m not cheating. Happy?” I press a mwah-kiss into the phone. “Love you, Frances.”

I end the call, and Ma’s sharp eyes bear into me. “Maybe it’s time I move out.”

The statement is a blow to my chest. “What?”

“You heard me, and what you said is right. You don’t need your mother around anymore.”

Fight drains out of my pores. “But…but…Ma, we can work through this. Where would you go?”

“I lived alone just fine before Isaiah died. I can live alone just fine again.”

“Ma.”

Lines deepen under my mother’s eyes. “I’m holding you back, aren’t I? From moving in with Frances.”

“No. You know I won’t move in with her until she starts divorce proceedings.” But maybe Ma is holding me back, a little.

Ma pats my arm. “I’ll explore my options, dear.”

*****

Seven o’clock arrives. Ma’s gone to a movie, and I survey the condo. My favorite feature is in the living room. It’s a bookcase that spans one wall, floor to ceiling. A ladder rests against the case, and I imagine myself telling Carol: “Oh hey, guess what? You could say that Patrick paid for most of this bookcase.”

Knots in my stomach—thick, tough, ever-moving knots. Butterflies too, lots of them. Butterflies I pretend don’t exist. I’ve asked Carol over so we can clear the air between us. No other reason.

In the bathroom, I splash water onto my face and study myself in the mirror. I am very obviously scared. I squashed my feelings for Carol three and a half years ago, and that’s turned out to be a problem because…

Because, well, seeing her has rekindled the feelings. What do I do with them? Can I hide them away a second time? Should I? Maybe I ought to face facts for once and for all. Frances and I are careening toward a great stone wall. No, actually. We’re past that. We’ve crashed into the stone wall already. We’re done, and we sneed to accept it.

I freshen my deodorant and change my shirt for the third time that evening. My new top is a green polo, and at seven-thirty, I reconcile myself to Carol not coming. I call Frances and get voice mail again.

“We need to talk,” I say, my voice breaking. “We need to talk. Soon. I’m unhappy. You’re unhappy. Call me.”

Two minutes after I leave the message, the buzzer sounds. I inhale a deep breath, flex sweaty palms and let my visitor in.

*****

I give Carol a quick tour of the condo. She says very little. Her expression also conveys very little.

“So!” I say once we’re back in the living room. “Want me to cook something really quick or do you want to order out?”

“I don’t need to eat,” Carol says.

“Well, you need a drink. So do I.” I pour us two generous glasses of wine. “Come on. Have a seat.”

We sit on the couch, Carol a considerable distance from me. We haven’t touched. At all.

The wine is sweet. Bitter, too. Like the past. “I’m sure you have questions,” I murmur.

Carol’s mouth twists wryly. “Perhaps a few.”

I nod. “Okay. Okay, well, should I start or do you want to ask your questions first?”

Carol sips from her wine. “You start.”

“Okay.” Problem is, I’m not sure where to start. Doubts and fears congest my mind. Was asking Carol over the best idea? “Ah, um…well, first of all, how are you? Are you happy? Where are you living these days?”

Carol forces a smile. “Can we skip this part?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Sure.” I finish my glass of wine and decide against pouring another glass. “Okay. Well, I suppose you’ve figured out that Patrick hired me for the threesome.”

“Gee, have I?”

“I want to say I’m sorry. So incredibly sorry. If I could change one thing from my time as a…as a hooker, it’d be my lying to you. I can’t imagine what it was like when you saw my face everywhere in the news and realized the truth.”

Carol crosses her legs. Gazes idly at the TV. At least, she pretends to gaze idly. “I already knew. Patrick told me everything when I broke up with him.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. Good.”

“I’m glad you would change that you lied to me,” Carol says sarcastically. “Would you change putting me at risk of disease, too?”

“Yes. Yes. In a heartbeat.”

Carol grips her wineglass, and I half expect it to shatter. “Would you change having unprotected sex with me?”

“Yes. I’d change everything.”

Even tighter gripping of the wineglass. Fierce, intense blue eyes. Flaring nostrils. “I wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

Carol releases the wineglass onto the coffee table. “Let’s face it. I was a loser. I needed help. If you hadn’t happened by, I’d be married to Patrick now. Married and miserable.”

“You weren’t a loser.”

“Yeah, I was.”

“No. No. You were not a loser. Not at all.”

“Then what was I?”

“You were refreshing.”

Carol laughs. “Refreshing?”

“Yes. You were refreshing. Endearing. Shy. You weren’t obsessed with sex. You wanted to get to know me as a person. I was the loser, Carol.” I jab my pointer finger into my chest. “I was the big fat loser.” Ma flashes into my mind. Ma wanting to move out, Frances refusing to move, refusing to divorce her husband. I see my son’s body and the waste of his life. I see the waste of my life since he died.

“I still am the loser, Carol. My best friend hated me so much that she outed me as a prostitute, and I don’t have friends anymore. My business sucks, I’m lonely, and I liked you very much. A winner would have the guts to do something about it. I couldn’t even admit to myself I liked you. I lied to you, I treated you like a game, and I hurt you immensely. Trust me, you’re not the loser here. I am. I am!”

I detect a flicker of sympathy in Carol’s intense eyes. Then two flickers. Then three. “Oh, Elena,” she says at last. “Do you remember when we played chess, and it was opposite day?”

“Yes.”

“Today’s another opposite day, so that means you’re not a loser.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m a winner one day of the week. Good.”

Carol tucks hair behind her ear and smiles right at me. She warms my heart, warms my body and makes me feel like things might be okay again. Her smile makes me feel less lonely.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Carol Speaks

Elena and I slowly eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She nibbles the crust; I bite straight into the gooey goodness she prepared. I can’t take my eyes off her. For that matter, I can hardly breathe. She did like me. We did have a connection. We weren’t some cheap pony show.

My chest feels like it’ll burst, and I struggle to remind myself that this woman was a hooker. She was dirty. Icky. She slept with Patrick for two months, and who knows how many other people she fucked. She lied to me.

However, a voice in the back of my mind cautions me to not be so black and white. I like this woman. I really like this woman. Can’t help it, and I must get more answers. Halfway through my sandwich, I ask: “What happened with you and Frances?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you liked me like you said, then why her? Why not me?”

Elena makes an incredulous sound. “Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

She sighs. “Carol, I never had a chance with you.”

“Why’s that?”

“I lied to you! I didn’t deserve you, so I wasn’t gonna try. I couldn’t even acknowledge to myself I had feelings for you. Look, I met you. I met someone great under dishonest circumstances. I’d made you suffer enough. It didn’t matter that we clicked. I was still fucking your fiance. Still lying to you. And, uh, I was in a bad place, you know? Still working through Isaiah’s death. That part will never completely go away, I guess. Frances was in a bad place, too.” Elena chuckles. “Just as bad as I was, maybe worse. You were in a much better place, Carol. I’m not saying this right, but I felt like Frances and I were equals. We both did bad things, and we were both suffering. I felt more comfortable letting her in. You were innocent. You were above me.”

I force down a bite of peanut butter and jelly. This isn’t what I expected to hear. At all.

Elena continues: “My son drowned while I read a book on the beach. Frances’s husband kidnapped their daughter because Frances was anti-gay and wouldn’t let him see his own child. I was drawn to…” She gulps. “I was drawn to someone who might be as bad a mother as I was. Frances and I also had more time together. More appointments.”

“So if I had resisted the threesome longer…”

Elena crooks a smile. “Maybe, but see, the big thing is, Frances and I were on the same playing ground. I didn’t have to deceive her. She knew I was a call girl, and I really didn’t want to tell you the truth about who I was and hurt you unnecessarily. I would have in the end, if I’d had to. If it’d stop you from marrying Patrick, but it didn’t come to that.”

I try to keep my emotions cold and still. “I understand.”

Elena nibbles more crust. “Also, more time had passed since Isaiah died, so…oh, I don’t know. I was sick of being a call girl. I was more ready to be happy again. When I was with you, I couldn’t imagine letting my walls down and allowing myself to take a risk.” She grits her teeth. “I can’t eat this. I don’t want to eat.”

My heart goes out to her, and I want nothing more than to soothe her pain. “I’m glad you found Frances,” I whisper. Amazingly enough, I think I mean it. “You two really do seem happy together.”

“We’re not,” Elena replies flatly.

“Oh.”

“She won’t divorce Daniel, yet she wants me to move in with her and have a baby or adopt a child. If that’s not enough, I see people from my old life all the time here in D.C. I want to move. She doesn’t. Her focus is Victoria, but Victoria would be happy anywhere. She’s an adventurer.”

“I’m sorry.”

Elena flaps my comment off. “I hope you have good news. Tell me you’re happy.”

“I’m hanging in there.”

“That doesn’t sound optimistic.”

“I’m going to have to leave my girlfriend,” I say. “Carrie, that’s her name.”

Elena’s cinnamon-colored eyes darken. “Why?”

I manage an awkward smile. “I won’t bore you with the details. Well, dinner was delicious. Thank you.”

Elena cracks a grin. “Glad it wasn’t too fancy for your tastes.”

“It was, though. Bit too fancy.”

“We can have cat food next time. Gourmet cat food. How’s that for fancy?”

“Next time?”

Elena blinks. “Oh. I meant…” Red flushes her cheeks. “I guess I just...”

“You want to get together again?”

She doesn’t answer right away. “Yes,” she says carefully at last. “Do you?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“When we were together before, you said you had an ex-girlfriend named Christine and that you ran away from home to join the circus when you were seventeen. Is either true?”

Elena bites her lip. “No, but everything else I said was true.”

“Everything else? Hardly.”

“The important stuff was true,” Elena retorts hotly.

“What was the important stuff? Seems to me at least ninety percent of what you said was lies. You didn’t live near Union Station. You probably had more than five threesomes. None of what we were based on was true. Did you even enjoy the sex? Were your orgasms true?”

Elena snaps an angry bite out of her sandwich. Fury reddens her cheeks. She turns me on. “The important part was that you weren’t in love with Patrick! You couldn’t marry him.”

“Did you really go to Barnes & Noble several times after the threesome?”

“Yes,” Elena insists. “No matter what, I wouldn’t have let you marry him. At least not without the information you needed to make a valid choice.”

I wish Carrie hadn’t come into Barnes & Noble. Elena would’ve been forced to seek me out eventually. To tell me the truth. To, perhaps, let me in.

“Next time,” I say tentatively, testing the idea. “Next time. Gourmet cat food. Sure.”

Elena’s face breaks out into a grin. She gives me that look. The look that means trouble, that makes my stomach churn and my pulse pound. The look that makes the air around us thick and almost unbearable.

“Please don’t deceive me again,” I say.

“Never. I promise.”

I swallow. Elena and I are on the same playing field now, I hope. “I’m wondering if something else you said is true. You wondered what finding a soul mate would be like. To look in a person’s eyes and know she was the one to make your pain go away.”

“I…yes. I did genuinely wish for that.”

I hold my breath. “Is Frances that person?”

Elena casts her gaze downward, then back up. Hurt radiates in her expression. “That’ll never happen. There’s no one who can make my pain go away. I’ll always have a hole in my heart from Isaiah. Soul mates aren’t real, or if they are, Isaiah was mine. The people we meet, the people we end up with romantically, that’s just timing. Circumstances.”

The breath I’ve been holding creaks free through Elena’s opening. “You hurt me. You really did hurt me.”

A tremor touches Elena’s smooth face. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

I get to my feet. “That’s not…that’s not what I’m trying to say.”

Elena pushes her chair back and rises as well. “What are you trying to say? Where are you going?”

My heart beats thump thump thump. I step into Elena and wrap my arms around her. Miracle of miracles, she lets me. Her hands even find the small of my back, and she tightens our embrace. Our breasts press together, and we enjoy each other like that for a while. Eventually, I kiss her on the cheek, and her skin is hot. Burning. My lips thirst for more of her, but I draw back. “I would love a next time for dinner of gourmet cat food, but there can’t be a next time. You didn’t hurt me enough, so I can’t be your friend right now.”

Confusion and dismay glitter in her eyes. “I didn’t hurt you enough?”

I hope I’m not about to make one of the biggest mistakes of my life by passing down what could be an incredible friendship. Somehow, I know I’m not. It’s time to move on. I have my closure, and that’s what I needed from Elena more than anything. Our already sordid tale doesn’t need further debasing into an affair. “I like you, Elena. I like you a lot. You know? I probably always will. You were the first person who really made me feel. You made me into a woman.”

“Are you, are you…what…” Elena’s brain can’t coordinate with her tongue.

“I think we would’ve been good together. Really good. Incredible. If Carrie hadn’t shown up at Barnes & Noble when she did or if you had told me the truth early on, or if I had been more of a wimp and kept postponing the threesome, then we might be together right now. I don’t know. I, uh, I wish you’d given me that chance to be on an even playing field with you.”

“Carol, wait.”

“I’d have helped you the best I could with Isaiah, and I really think we...anyway. Um, I’m going home, and I’m breaking up with Carrie. After that, I don’t know what will happen, but I can’t be your friend.”

“You’re still mad at me.”

“Maybe, but that’s not it. Elena, my heart goes like this every time I see you.” I use one of my hands to demonstrate the pitter-patter of a heartbeat. “I can’t be your friend because what I feel for you isn’t what a friend feels for a friend. But if you ever…” Doubts swirl through my head, but I press on. “If you ever find yourself single again, look me up. If you want. Or if you…” I sigh. “Do you think I’m right? Would we have been good together? Is there no chance at all you’d look me up if you were single again? Please be honest. You said you wouldn’t deceive me again.”

Elena doesn’t say anything, only stands in stunned silence. That’s my cue to leave—while the getting’s good, but my feet are blocks of concrete. I wonder if I’m doing this on purpose. Trying to hurt her on purpose. Maybe I am. Is this revenge? Who the heck knows? Does it matter? It’s best this way, it really is. I won’t be made a fool of again. I won’t be the woman on the side while Elena’s relationship with Frances deteriorates.

“Oh, Carol,” she says, and this amazing, painful longing shines in her voice. Reflects my own pain and longing. “Carol, don’t go. Can’t we talk about this? I’m willing to try a friendship on whatever terms you set. I, I…yes, you’re right. I did like you. I didn’t lie about that just now. I liked you a lot, but I wasn’t ready to let you in. I wasn’t ready to maybe be happy again. I wasn’t fair to you. My body wasn’t ready for sex, you know? For making love. I physically and emotionally wasn’t ready, but when I saw that woman kiss you at Barnes & Noble…” Elena squeezes her eyes shut for a second. “I felt lonely. So incredibly lonely. I still do.”

I smile. Her words are bittersweet music to my ears. To my heart. “We had bad timing and bad circumstances,” I say. “So, uh, you know, like I said, look me up if you’re single again. Maybe then we can start a second time.”

“We really can’t try to be friends now?”

Oh, the irony. Similar lines as a few years ago, but spoken by the opposite people. I reach into my purse for paper and pen. My hands shake slightly as I write my e-mail address and my cell number. I fold the paper in half and place it on the dining-room table because I don’t dare touch Elena. I don’t dare touch our fingers together. “My email and my phone number,” I say. “They’ll make it easier for you to look me up if you get the chance. Otherwise, please don’t contact me. Think of this as a moment, okay? A special, extraordinary moment that isn’t meant to last.”

Elena grabs my hand. “Carol! Stop. Can we have some more wine and talk? Please?”

I jerk out of her touch. “You have my information.” I turn the doorknob and step into the hall. The staircase is two doors down on the right, and I make it there without collapsing into tears. In fact, I make it through the breakup with Carrie and through the next day without crying.

Closure is nice. It really is. Lonely and sad, too. I guess that’s how Elena felt when she had to let me go three years ago.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Elena Speaks

It’s funny how some things come full circle. Oh, not ha-ha funny, but strange funny. Odd funny. Sad funny. Three years ago, I had to end my “relationship” with Carol because we couldn’t be together. Now it’s over again, but at her hand (not that a relationship re-started between us, but you know what I mean). Good for her, I guess. She’s much stronger, much more confident now. I’d pat myself on the back for my part in bolstering her confidence if I wasn’t too busy staggering in muddy layers of self-pity.

I hurt her. I really hurt her, and I like her so much. No more trying to convince myself I feel nothing for her. I like her, and yes, we’d be good together.

Ma gets home at ten, later than I expected. She met an “older gentleman” (her words) at the movie, and they went for coffee afterward. She can’t shut up about him. His name is Gary, and they’re going out again tomorrow.

Tears leak as I curl up in bed that night. I study Carol’s contact information and then try to sleep. More tears leak throughout the next day too, and they leak again when Frances calls. I hope she can’t hear my sniffles.

“I’m not unhappy,” she says. “I’m not, and I didn’t realize you…you…that you felt so horribly. But I should have.” No, Frances probably can’t hear my sniffles because of her own tears.

That damn call I made right before Carol showed up. Ugh.

“How was dinner with your friend?” Frances asks.

“Illuminating.”

A sniffle from Frances. “Is there something you need to tell me about her?”

“No.”

“Okay. Okay, uh…can you meet me at the HoJo tonight? Our usual room?”

I smile. Frances and I haven’t been to the HoJo in about a year, and her request cheers my heart. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

*****

I park at the HoJo and head to our room. Frances greets me with a hug and a long, passionate kiss. Red tinges her eyes. “I love you,” she murmurs, her voice thick and unsteady.

I inhale the fierce smell of her perfume. “I love you too, Frances.” And I mean it. I do love this woman. Thank goodness Carol didn’t let me do something dumb last night.

Frances takes a deep breath. A nervous, deep breath. Been quite a while since I’ve seen her anxious like this. “Come here.” She leads me to the bed where she’s piled her briefcase and a few other things. We sit, and Frances rummages through her briefcase. Comes out with a thick green folder. The bottom of the first page sticks out, and this is what I glimpse:

______________________________

FRANCES DOURNE, Petitioner

______________________________

DANIEL DOURNE, Respondent

My heart leaps into my throat, and I don’t bother to open the folder. “You met with a lawyer about divorcing Daniel!”

Frances grins. “Yep. We’ll have to do an affidavit of diligent search, of course, but that won’t be a problem. After the judge approves it, I’ll have to run notices in the newspapers for four weeks and then…” Another grin. “Then I ought to be free and clear.”

“Oh, wow. Wow.”

Frances’s expression turns somber. “I’ve been stupid, and I’m sorry. You are the love of my life. You are my love, now and forever. I hate that you’ve been unhappy with me, and I absolutely don’t need another child. I have more than enough blessings in you and Victoria.”

“I…I don’t know what to say.” I stare at the green folder and picture myself pregnant. Another baby, another child…could I? Perhaps. “I don’t want you to resent me if Daniel comes back two years from now and you can’t help him as much as you could’ve otherwise.”

“That’s Daniel’s problem,” Frances says firmly. “Victoria and I have given him enough time, and she understands.” Frances runs her thumb across my cheek. “I won’t resent you. Ever. I promise.”

My tongue is heavy and awkward.

“About moving,” Frances says. “Victoria really is happy here, but she would be happy elsewhere, you’re right.”

My brain clicks into gear. “No. We don’t need to move.”

“What?”

“You’re right that she needs stability. We won’t uproot her. I’ll move in with you at the penthouse. That’s all the transplanting I need.”

Frances glows. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Your mother’s welcome to—”

“No. Ma’s sick of me.” I laugh. “She can have the condo all to herself.”

Frances kisses me, and I relish the feel of her. “I love you,” she says. “I love you.” Then she takes the most anxious breath of them all and draws a ring from one of her pockets.

“Elena,” she says, “will you marry me?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Carol Speaks

I am teary-eyed for most of the train ride to Pennsylvania. Mom and Dad know I’m coming for the weekend—I called right after I saw on People.com that Frances and Elena are engaged to be married. I had to get the heck out of D.C. for a few days. Even in memory, Frances’s and Elena’s beaming smiles and their beaming ring stab my gut. Funny how two warring concepts can rage in the same body and toward the same person—love and hate. I remember my own engagement to Patrick and our ring. What a failure he and I were, but I hope he’s happy.

At my parents’ house, Mom takes me in her arms, and Dad makes himself scarce. I spill the whole story to Mom. About how Patrick wanted a threesome, about how I fell for number three, about how I found out number three was a prostitute. About how I told Frances Dourne to pass on a message. About how I told Elena I couldn’t be her friend.

Mom lets me cry and cry and talk. She listens and says nary a word. When I’m exhausted, she fixes iced tea. Forces me to drink some. No Mom-yells along the lines of: WHAT! YOU HAD A THREESOME? SEX WITH A PROSTITUTE? THAT ELENA MARIE ELISE?

Sunday arrives, and I don’t want to head back to D.C. I’ve broken up with Carrie, and she wants me out of the apartment as soon as possible.

“I wanna stay,” I mumble. “I want you to take care of me.”

“Go home,” Mom says gently. “I’ll drive you to the train station.”

*****

For the first fifteen minutes of the train ride, I’m absorbed in my internal sob fest. Oh, woe is me, life sucks for me, waaah waaah, who cares if it’ll get better soon? I’m miserable right now, waaah waaah waaah, where’s a cave I can crawl into?

Yeah, I sit at the window and watch the world whirl by, which explains why I don’t notice my seatmate until she leans into me, nudging her shoulder to mine.

“You okay?” she asks.

I continue staring out the window. I didn’t have a seatmate when the train left, which means this person has decided to nose in on my business, and I want to be left alone. It’s not like I’ve been crying externally or anything that would prompt a stranger to swoop to my rescue.

“I’m fine,” I say in a monotone.

“Where are you headed?”

I twist to face her. Words (Hey, I was hoping for a quiet ride. Do you mind?) on the tip of my tongue never materialize.

My seatmate looks a good deal like Elena. Auburn hair, light-colored brown-green eyes. Even her nose and chin are similar. It’s crazy. Eerie. Startling.

She flashes a grin. “I know, I know. I look like that call girl.”

“You…you really do.”

Humor glints in her gaze. “Never again will I have to pay for my own drinks at a bar. So, hey, are you headed to D.C.?”

“Yes, it’s where I live.”

“Cool. I’m thinking about taking a job there. I have interviews tomorrow.”

My body is on full alert. Could this woman be…could she…nah. Stuff like this doesn’t happen. But maybe! Maybe she is who I think she is. “Have you been to D.C.?” I ask. “Where are you from?”

“Oh, I’m from all around, but I got on the train in Boston, so it’s been a long ride.” She giggles. “Yeah, I’ve been to D.C. a few times. Never stayed long. What are some fun things to do?”

“If you want, I could show you around.”

Her face lights up. “That’d be awesome!” She shakes my hand heartily. “I’m Ennis Evans.”

I laugh. And laugh. I half expect Patrick to pop out and yell: Psych! “I’m Carol Thomas.”

“What’s so funny?” Ennis asks.

“It’s a long story. Luckily, we’re stuck on a train.”

“We sure are.”

I begin my story: “Once upon a time, there was a neglected woman and her ambitious attorney fiance. The woman, of course, was me. One night, the fiance got home late from work. Dinner’s cold, but he’s chipper and cheerful. He’s found the perfect woman for a threesome.”

“Okay,” Ennis says slowly.

“You’ll never guess her name.”

Ennis grins. “Good.”

“Her name is Ennis Evans. She’s an old college buddy of the fiance, and she’s just moved to D.C. She has auburn hair and brown-green eyes.”

Ennis’s eyes pop out. “Wait, what?”

Ennis listens with rapt attention, and when the train arrives at Union Station, we get off together. We make plans to meet for dinner that night.

Timing and circumstances, indeed.

THE END

Timeline for “Strange Bedfellows”
and “Three’s a Crowd”

September 2007- Isaiah drowns

February 2008- Elena becomes a call girl

January 2009- Elena’s first appointment with Albert X

June 2009- Elena and Carol meet

October 2010- Frances and Elena meet

November 2010- Elena’s second appointment with Albert X, Felicianna exposes Elena as a call girl servicing Frances Dourne

January 2013- Present day (part two) of “Three’s a Crowd.” Elena and Frances have been together two years and two months.

About the Author

Fact One: Q. Kelly likes corny jokes. If you have any good ones, send them her way! (yllek_q@yahoo.com)

Fact Two: Q. Kelly’s favorite color is purple, but her writing is gray. Life is not black and white. She often writes about issues and characters where there is no "right" answer.

Fact Three: Q. Kelly is weird. She likes being weird.

Acknowledgements

As always, I give thanks to my wife, Melanie, for her support and her beta reading skills. I’d also like to thank my other beta/editorial readers: Linda S. North, Lee Fitzsimmons, Jalee Tuma, Eve Marzuki and the others who wished not to be listed.

Cover design by Melody Simmons

Ebookindiecovers.com

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar

www.gopublished.com

Ride the Rainbow Books

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced without the permission of the author.

Three’s a Crowd by Q. Kelly © August 2006 (when writing began) and February 2013 (first publication)

Q. Kelly on the Internet

http://qkellybooks.com

Email Q. Kelly

yllek_q@yahoo.com

Q. Kelly's Novels

Strange Bedfellows (Book 1 of the Strange Bedfellows Series)

Three’s a Crowd (Book 2 of the Strange Bedfellows Series)

Waiting

All in the Family

Third

The Odd Couple

Switch

Q. Kelly’s Novellas

The Girl Prince and Her Princess

Love’s Spell

Q. Kelly’s Short-Story Collections

The Old Woman and Other Lesbian Stories

Cupid Pulls a Prank and Other Lesbian Tales

Miss Lucy Parker and Other Short Stories