Warm and Willing - Lawrence Block [30]
When the embrace stopped, when they came up for air, the married woman noticed Rhoda for the first time. She blushed deeply. Her girl friend didn’t seem to care. She slipped an arm around the married woman’s waist, her fingertips just inches below the rise of her breasts, and led her off toward the bedrooms.
Rhoda drained her drink. She was glad, suddenly, that she had found her way into the shadows in the proper order, that she had ended her marriage before she had found Megan. It could have happened the other way around, and that seemed to be a very special sort of hell.
Bobbie was holding her hand. She stood swaying slightly and looked up into Bobbie’s eyes.
“Megan is so lucky,” Bobbie said.
“Why?”
“To have you.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Yes. Don’t you know that I can’t stop it?”
A stretch of silence. “I love Megan.”
“I know you do.”
“Oh, damn it—”
“It won’t last forever. Nothing ever does, you know.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Why not? It’s the truth, Rho. Megan is your first and you always think the first will last forever. Later on you try and fool yourself, but sooner or later you realize how transient every little affair is. You two won’t last forever.”
“Megan says—”
“She knows better. We’ll be together some day, you and I, I feel it, Rho. Don’t you?”
“Stop it!”
“I’m not even touching you, Rho.” A smile, fading quickly. “I’m sorry if I’m getting to you. Don’t blame me. And don’t blame yourself for feeling it. We can’t help it, neither of us.”
She never remembered getting back to the apartment. She did not know afterward whether they had taken a cab or walked. The last hour of the party was a blur in her mind, the last few minutes blacked out completely along with the trip back to the apartment on Cornelia Street. It was frightening, losing a whole little piece of your life that way. You were left with guilt over what might have happened, what you might have done. And with a blank blind spot where a memory ought to have been.
Then they were home, in the apartment, and she was standing awkwardly while Megan sat on the couch with her shoulders slumped. Megan was crying and she stood there stupidly and wondered what she had done and what she ought to do.
“I’m losing you, Rhoda. Oh, God help me, I’m losing you.”
Megan’s eyes, tear-stained, looking up at her, “What’s happening to us?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t want me any more, Rhoda.”
“That’s not true—”
“You danced all night with Bobbie. She’s trying to steal you away and you’ll let yourself be stolen.”
“I looked for you—”
“You didn’t look very hard, Rhoda.”
Madness, she thought. Just hours ago she had been home waiting for Megan, and then she had been the jealous one, blindly, bitterly, irrationally jealous. The roles were reversed now. But why did it have to be like this? They loved each other. Why couldn’t they relax in the security of one another’s love? Why couldn’t they coast along smoothly, happy with what they had, instead of shifting from bitter to sweet?
Bitter and sweet. You had to take them both together, she thought dully. But you should be able to blend them, to soften each with the other—
She said, “I love you, Megan.”
“Do you?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Then—”
“I don’t know, I was drunk, I was mixed up and Bobbie was nice to me. That was all. We danced and we talked a little. I don’t feel anything for her, Megan. Believe me.”
“I want to.”
She sat on the couch with Megan, put her arm around the blonde girl. Megan was avoiding her eyes. She leaned over to kiss Megan’s throat, Megan stiffened momentarily, then relaxed.
“Coffee?”
“I don’t want any.”
“Can I do anything for you, darling?”
“Just love me.”
“Forever, Megan.”
And now it was as it had been with that girl on the dance floor—she had to do the leading. Her hand moved upward over Megan’s back, touched the nape of her neck. Megan locked into her eyes, and Megan’s face held an expression she had seen there before. Wide eyes, an unsure upper lip. Little Girl Lost.
She drew