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Back A Small Affair Save as PDF
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Author
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. Part Two
  22. 1
  23. 2
  24. 3
  25. 4
  26. 5
  27. 6
  28. 7
  29. 8
  30. 9
  31. 10
  32. 11
  33. 12
  34. 13
  35. 14
  36. 15
  37. 16
  38. 17
  39. 18
  40. 19
  41. Part Three
  42. 1
  43. 2
  44. 3
  45. 4
  46. 5
  47. 6
  48. 7
  49. 8
  50. 9
  51. 10
  52. EPILOGUE
  53. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  54. Booklist

Toward the back of the house was a garden. He turned on the lights and we peered through the sliding doors at a swing, a red wagon left overturned near some dying, browned hydrangeas that should have been clipped over the winter months. It occurred to me, then, that though he was giving me a tour, there had been few words spoken. No stories of the architectural history of his house, of the origin of the furniture he collected, of the art on his walls. But I didn’t mind. Something about the silence was comforting.

We went upstairs, then, to his library, stacked with coffee-table books, novels on the shelves still crisp and unread. He put on some music, something almost hip like Beach House, and he started talking again.

“What do you think?” he asked, taking a sip of his scotch.

I smirked. “It should be bigger.”

His eyebrows danced in shock, before I let a liquid smile appear on my lips. “Oh, good one,” he chuckled softly.

“You’re so proud of it.”

He took off his jacket, ran a hand through his hair. “I am. I mean, to be perfectly honest, I don’t know much about the things in this place. We—my ex and I—hired an interior designer to take care of all that. But it’s cool, isn’t it? This sound system, too, is unbelievable. Sometimes I lie here, on this couch, and put the music on top volume and close my eyes. It almost feels like I’m tripping, to have all those reverberations running through me. The whole home is soundproofed, too, so I never get any complaints.”

I’d tuned him out at this point. He looked so cute, so exposed, even in his own home. His dark hair was in little spikes, his button-down rumpled. I stopped him midsentence with a kiss, bit his bottom lip, heard him moan slightly as we began to undress each other.

We didn’t finish the house tour. He never showed me what was upstairs. And I didn’t care to ask. Maybe, maybe if, when he fell asleep on the couch spooning me, his breathing heavy and loud, his stubble tickling my cheek, I had gently gotten up and tiptoed across the library floor, felt my way up the stairs and onto the third floor, things would be different.

But then again, maybe not. Maybe I only ever saw what I wanted to see. And in some ways, that’s the hardest part of all.

6

Present day