This Time Is Different Read online

  “Thank God. That’s the other thing about that tour I went to. The songs were terrible. Like truly terrible. I like Achtung Baby.”

  “Agreed that Pop is a low point in their discography. So, you’re a fan?” I said, excited by the possibility that there was another rational basis to support the connection I felt with her.

  “I mean, I like them. But fan is a strong word. I was more into jam bands. Phish and Dave Matthews.”

  “Are you a Deadhead?”

  “No, but there was this moment in the late nineties when that whole scene was really popular and I was kinda into it.”

  “I missed that entirely. I was married with kids then.”

  I realized my misstep of pointing out our age difference. If my math was right, she was married with a kid around then, too. I twined our fingers together and stroked her thumb with mine. “So, Dave Matthews. Been to any of their shows?”

  “At this point, probably a dozen. I try to see them once a year.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and it’s funny. Because it’s the same crowd that was going to their shows twenty years ago. Like literally the same people. I usually meet up with my college friend who lives in Nashville. The best shows I’ve gone to were at Red Rocks when we lived in Denver, but that’s like a lifetime ago now.”

  “Jam bands and spy novels and orthodontics. A woman of many interests.” I found a parking spot and maneuvered the car to a stop. “Ready to go get your mob fix?”

  9

  Amy

  “I know it’s not real food. I know it was one hundred percent created in a lab somewhere. I know it will clog my arteries,” I said, continuing to press the dispense button as I drowned my popcorn in golden faux-melted buttery goodness. Once every kernel was drenched, I let go and looked up at him, waiting for the judgment. It didn’t come.

  “I get it. I’m still not sure how I’m going to make it through a movie without Milk Duds.”

  “Yeah, you really shouldn’t do sticky caramels until Diana gives you the all clear. Or gum.”

  “I guess the Junior Mints will have to do,” he said, holding up the box and rattling it.

  “Test your mettle,” I teased him. I liked that I could play with him this way. That he seemed to actually appreciate my natural silliness.

  “The test with me and candy is whether I can stop myself from eating it.”

  “A little sweet tooth?”

  “I’m surprised it didn’t show up on the X-ray. Were you a Seinfeld fan?” he asked, as we walked toward the theater.

  “Make that question into the present tense and the answer is yes.”

  “So, the episode when the gang was at a car dealer and George’s candy bar was stolen and he did the candy line up.”

  “You’d be the people who ate the free candy?” I guessed, envisioning Thomas shoving chocolate in his face like Augustus Gloop.

  “No. In that situation, I’d be George,” he said, gesturing to a row in the middle of the theater with a few open seats. “Middle good for you?”

  “It’s perfect,” I said, as I began to carefully walk up the steps with a gigantic Diet Coke in one hand and my heavy bag of popcorn in the other. I bobbled a bit, and a big hand settled on my lower back. I liked feeling him near me. When we got to the theater, he’d to let go of my hand and I didn’t like that. “Thanks,” I said over my shoulder.

  Once we were seated, I took a sip of my drink and pulled out the giant stash of napkins from my purse, strategically balancing them and the bag of popcorn on the folded seat next to me. “So how were you George in that episode?” I asked, leaning in so that he could hear me over the loud pre-trailer ads.

  “How people couldn’t tell candy bars apart. Like how people don't know the difference between Jujubes and Dots. Or the simple math of Three Musketeers plus caramel equals a Milky Way, and a Milky Way plus peanuts equals a Snickers. I don’t get how people don’t know that.”

  “So you’re telling me that you’re fluent in candy. Because that isn’t on your web bio.”

  “Clearly an oversight. I’ll fix it on Monday.”

  “Okay, Captain Sweetness. That’s a pretty impressive super power,” I said, shoveling a handful of popcorn into my mouth and washing it down with more Diet Coke.

  I set my cup back in its holder and I shifted to face him, the light from the screen casting his profile in a flickering rainbow of light. He was handsome. I’d only known him for a few days, but age was a friend to him. He didn’t look old. He looked confident. Capable.

  And very, very kissable.

  I snagged a napkin and wiped the faux-butter off my hands as best I could. Before I could think too much, I reached between us, grabbed his Junior Mints from the cup holder, and lifted the arm rest and pushed it up, out of the way. I could feel him studying me. And under his gaze, the nerves returned. The rush of heat to my cheeks and lengthening of my spine and tightness in my chest. I cast my eyes down. Suddenly unsure and hesitating about going for that kiss I’d wanted. Maybe I’d overstepped.

  His arm wrapped around my shoulders, I felt the chair shift as his hips scooted against the upholstered seat and he brought our bodies together, pulling my back into his chest.

  “Comfy?” he asked.

  I nodded and opened his box of candy for him, offering it to him. He cupped his hand in front of me, and I shook a few of the dark, round candies into his palm. “Thanks.”

  Blood Bond wasn’t Donnie Brasco, my favorite of the mob genre. It wasn’t Scarface. It wasn’t near the holy trinity of the Godfather series. And yes, I counted the third as a legitimate part of the franchise. But I might not be the best critic, because the only thing I paid attention to was the man I was wrapped up in.

  The movie ended and we walked out of the theater hand in hand. “You still want dinner?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” I said.

  “How about going downtown?”

  The image of his head pressed between my thighs—I clinched my pussy as the pressure built.

  “I’m up for that,” I said, smiling at the dirty thought that had caught me off guard. Suddenly my two sexless years felt like two decades. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this want and desire.

  “Great. I’ve got a table booked at Pig and Barley in thirty minutes.”

  My heart stopped as his words slammed me back into the real world. Pig and Barley—my ex’s restaurant.

  “Um, how about we just go to the bar at Houston’s?” I said, pointing at the restaurant across the parking lot.

  “That’s fine. Not a fan of Pig and Barley, then?”

  “Oh, it’s a great place. One of the best restaurants in the city.” I exhaled and went for it. “It’s also owned by my ex.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, the soft words a contrast to his anxious eyes. “I didn’t know. Sorry. Houston’s it is.”

  “No worries,” I said squeezing his hand with mine. “I’m just going to rip the Band Aid off now, okay?”

  He nodded and, as we strolled to the restaurant across the hot summer pavement, I let it spill as concisely as I could, sifting through words before letting them pass through my lips. That I’d gotten married during my senior year of college, that Grady had been born shortly after graduation, that Bert and I had been married for thirteen years. That my ex-husband wasn’t awful. He’d never hit me or abused me. But that it was over. And that I didn’t go to Pig and Barley unless it was with our son.

  Thomas didn’t interrupt. He didn’t ask questions. I knew I was acting like a loon and tried to be thankful for the dinner and movie we’d already shared—forcing the gray clouds that loomed in my mind to have tiny silver linings. Better luck next time.

  He held open the door to Houston’s and kept our hands together as we snaked our way through the Saturday evening crowd to the bar.

  “You deserve a drink after that,” he said, snagging a bar menu and passing it to me. I settled on the only empty stool at the bar.

 
“No, really, I’m sorry,” I began apologizing for my verbal vomit with even more words.

  “Hey, really,” he said, cutting me off. “You don’t need to apologize. What do you like to drink?”

  “Red wine.”

  “That’s a broad category,” he said, gently pushing me to give him more, to tell him what I wanted.

  “Big bodied. But not a Syrah.” I passed the menu back to him.

  He nodded at me and ordered two glasses of Cabernet and a sampling of appetizers. “For us, to share. Does that work for you?”

  I returned his nod, thankful for his steady hand. A seat at the bar opened up next to me and he took it.

  “My wife Laurie passed away eight years ago.”

  “Oh!” My hands flew to my opened mouth. “I’m so sorry and you don’t need to share. Just because I just told you all about me, doesn’t mean that you need to share. Really.”

  “No, it’s fair. And I want you to know.”

  10

  Thomas

  I thought this day might come, but didn’t really believe it would happen until it was happening. Me, talking about my life with Laurie with another woman. A woman who I was certain I was about ready to score with until things went a little sideways in the parking lot.

  “It was a car accident,” I said, by now expert at reducing everything that had gone wrong in my life to a single, vague sentence.

  “Really,” she said, reaching out and grasping my hand with a firm squeeze. “You don’t need to.”

  “It’s okay. The girls were twelve. They’re twenty now. Miller was fifteen. It was a hard time. We got through it. We’re good.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. The wine was before us. I lifted my glass and looked at the face that was filled with kindness but lacked that wide smile I liked.

  “I wish I had something pithy to say here. Or clever. Or even halfway funny,” I said wondering why I was proposing a toast and what I was even toasting. That we’d made it through the nutshell versions of our lives without either of us fleeing? Then I remembered my intention. To treasure. To enjoy this for what it was.

  She lifted her glass. “I’ve got something. And it’s not even halfway funny, but it’s fitting. And it’s stolen from my ex, so that just really caps this whole discussion off nicely, doesn’t it?” The smile crept back into her face as she rambled. “And now I’ve oversold it. Anyway, ‘Waste not fresh tears over old griefs.’”

  Glasses clinked and sips taken, I spoke. “That’s very philosophical.”

  “He was. I mean, that’s his thing. He was a classics major. I was a chemistry major, so don’t ask me where it’s from or if it’s really wisdom from the ages or if I even got the words right.”

  “I think you got them right, Amy,” I said, enjoying the way her cheeks flushed under my gaze.

  “So, that’s done. Now tell me something happy,” she demanded, lifting an eyebrow at me before taking another sip of wine.

  “I like you.” My bluntness surprised me but it was honest. May have been the most honest thing I’d said to a stranger in years. But she didn’t feel like a stranger.

  “I like you, too.” Those words from that smiling face. I was a happy man.

  Again, in her driveway, I shifted the car into park. “Thanks for tonight,” I said leaning over the console for a kiss, surprised to find her meeting me halfway, our faces only inches apart. I cradled her jaw with my hand and she leaned into it, readily accepting my gesture of affection and making me want more. Need more. “I’m going to kiss you.”

  Her smile faltered, and in the pale golden light from her porch lights, I saw her bottom lip briefly dip into her lush mouth before her pink tongue danced on both her lips. That’s a yes. I closed the distance, ever so gently kissing her, my lips on hers, urging her without words to give me more, open for me, give me anything she would. Because I’d take it. Because I wanted it. Because I needed it. Releasing my mouth from hers with my fingers still entwined in her hair I asked, “Am I pressing my luck if I ask to see you tomorrow?”

  “Grady’s sleeping at a friend’s house tonight. You want to come in for a drink?”

  I hadn’t been expecting this. Hoping? Sure. Wishing? Definitely. And I’d thought about it last night after I dropped her off. And again, in the shower before our date. “Sounds good.” I turned off the car and trailed her up to her house, watching her ass move under the summer dress she’d worn. I don’t think I’d ever adjust to the sweltering summers of Memphis, but women in their summer dresses almost made up for it.

  She placed her purse on a chair in the foyer, kicked off her tall sandals, and reached out her hand, which I took. “Come, let’s get you a glass of wine and I’ll give you a tour.”

  Please let the tour include your bedroom.

  “Have you always lived here?” I asked, wondering if this is where she’d lived with her ex.

  “No. We both bought new houses after the divorce. I didn’t want it to feel to Grady like someone was getting kicked out.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “As much sense as anything else, I guess. Sticking with red? I’ve also got white wine and beer. I don’t keep liquor in the house with Grady living here.”

  “That also makes sense,” I laughed. “I probably should have done that sooner too, but for a while, somedays the only thing that got me through was the thought of a quiet few minutes alone with a glass of Scotch at the end of the day.” My honest words surprised me. Darkness was too light a word to describe how my grief had nearly consumed me. Consumed the four of us. And I wasn’t going back to that place ever again.

  “That makes sense,” she said, a happy tease in her voice as she pulled a bottle of wine from the rack in her kitchen. I was thankful she didn’t follow up on my offhand comment. “Also, confession time. If you’re a wine guy, you’re about to be disappointed. It was on sale at the grocery last week. I may or may not have bought it because of the giant rooster on the label.”

  She held the bottle to me, offering it for my inspection. You like big cocks? I didn’t say the words, and I couldn’t believe I’d thought them. Frat boy humor brought to the surface at the prospect of sex with her.

  “It also has a very classy screw top,” she said, pulling the bottle back from me before I could take things to a naughty place.

  I watched her calves flex as she popped up onto her toes to grab two stemless wine glasses from a cabinet. Twisting the lid off, she poured two generous glasses and passed one to me.

  “Thank you.”

  “You haven’t tried it yet,” she protested

  “Not why I’m thanking you,” I replied.

  She blushed, her hand coming up to brush curls out of her face and tuck them behind an ear, her fingers fiddling with a gold earring. “So, a tour.”

  Kitchen, living room, sunroom, dining room. “You really like beige?” I asked as we left the fourth room of blandness.

  “No, but my decorator did. She said it was greige and I went with it.”

  “You used a decorator?” I said, amazed that she’d do that. Laurie would have never let a stranger pick out things for our home.

  “Of course. I know my limits. And, when we moved, I wasn’t exactly in the right headspace to be buying drapes, but I needed a home for Grady. Not a crash pad like his dad would give him. My only requirement was this.” She gestured into a den, oversized sofa, walls lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a TV nestled among them.

  “Wanna curl up?” She sat in the middle of the big leather sofa, tucking her legs under her body, and cocking her head at me, exposing her long neck as she swept her hair back from her face yet again.

  I shucked off my loafers and joined her, not thinking about it and just doing what felt right to me—to put my arm around her, to hold her as I had at the movies. I leaned back into the sofa, sinking in to the buttery soft cushion, weighed down by the warmth of her body on mine.

  “Want to watch TV?” she asked.

  “No,�
� I said. “I’m good.”

  “Wanna talk?”

  I placed my nearly empty glass of wine on the side table and took hers as well, setting it next to mine.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Wanna make out?” she asked with a laugh.

  “Is that an invitation?” I asked, enjoying the blush that colored her cheeks and chest. Her combination of forthright and shy was killing me.

  “Gonna make me ask again? But really, how’s the lip?” Her gaze dropped to my mouth.

  How’s my lip? Then I remembered. My tongue shot to the scab. The ache. She’s not going to kiss me like this.

  “It’s good,” I replied.

  “Good enough?”

  “That’s your call.” Her green eyes rose to meet mine. And I saw it all. The desire, the want, the need, balanced with a timidity, a wariness. “Yeah, me too,” I whispered, pulling her to sit on my lap and diving in to kiss her, my hands cupping her face, my fingers laced in the edges of her hair. This wasn’t a first kiss, a tight pucker. This wasn’t a lazy soft smooch of years together. This was fire.

  My lip screamed at me in both pleasure and pain, but I didn’t give a damn. I had no thought but to keep going, to keep giving and taking more. To pull more of her happy sighs and pleasure-filled groans from her body.

  11

  Amy

  I felt the rumble in his chest. Not his chest. The garage door opening. Oh hell.

  I pushed myself off of his lap and before I could explain, flew to the far end of the sofa and grabbed a remote off the coffee table. Thomas’s face was a mix of surprise and concern. I could tell that he was wondering what had just happened and if he’d done anything wrong. Nope. Nothing wrong at all. He’d done everything more than right.