“I have 45 minutes.
My mom’s with Milo.” His reply comes back in under a minute.
Where?
Municipal pool lot.
It’s closed for the season, nobody’s there.
omw How fast can you actually get here?
Define fast.
45 minutes total, Jonah, the clock’s already running.
I’m already in the car.
I’m parked when his pulls in 2 spaces down, and he crosses to mine without running, every line of him saying he’s in more of a hurry than he’s letting on.
He climbs in and pulls the door shut and just looks at me for a second.
“45 minutes,” he says.
“That’s— that’s oddly specific.” “That’s how long the grocery store takes.
Allegedly.” “What were you— what were you allegedly buying?” “Milk.
I’ve forgotten it 3 weeks running.
My mother thinks I have a problem.” “Do you?” “Get over here and find out.” “That’s not an answer.” “Jonah.” “Yes, ma’am.” He climbs across the console instead of going around to switch seats, because we don’t have 45 minutes to spend on logistics, and his knee catches my thigh and his elbow lands square on the gearshift and the car lets out an offended little beep.
“Sorry.
Sorry, it’s— it’s tight in here.” “It’s a sedan, Jonah, not a minivan.” “Noted, for future reference.” “There’s not gonna be a future minivan situation, this is a one—” “Margaux…” “What?” “Stop talking.” He kisses me before I can argue with that, one hand finding the back of my neck, the other already working the buttons of my blouse.
I get my hands into his hair and pull him in deeper, both of us laughing into it when his other elbow finds the horn and the car honks, short and absurd, into the empty lot.
“Oh my god.” “That wasn’t me.” “It was absolutely you.” “In my defense, there’s— there’s nowhere to put my arms.” “Put them somewhere useful, then.” “Bossy.” “You love it.” “I really do.” He does put them somewhere useful.
His hand slides under my skirt and finds me through the lace, and I make a sound I didn’t plan, half gasp and half relief, because I’ve been wet since the second text and he knows it, I can feel him smile against my throat when his fingers slide through the slick heat of me.
He doesn’t tease or wait for a signal.
He just pushes my panties aside and finds my clit with the blunt pressure of 2 calloused fingers, and my hips roll forward without asking permission, grinding against his palm, and the leather seat groans under me, the steering wheel is digging into my spine and none of it matters.
“Tell me,” he says, low, his mouth at my ear.
“What do you— what do you want?” The question lands in my chest before it lands anywhere else.
Grant never asks.
He executes and finishes and rolls over, and I spent 8 years thinking that was normal.
Jonah asks every time, and every time it cracks me open in a place I didn’t know was still locked.
“I want you inside me,” I say, and my voice is raw, barely mine.
“Now.
We have 30 minutes.” “That’s not what I asked.” “Jonah.” “I want to— I want to hear you say it.” “I want you to fuck me.” The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, and it’s filthy, honest and true, and his eyes go dark and his hands tighten on my hips and I feel the gearshift press into my thigh and I don’t care, I don’t care about any of it, the cramped seats and the fogged windows and the fact that anyone could drive past the lot and see a sedan rocking on its suspension in broad daylight.
I climb across the console, my knee catching the horn one more time, the car honking into the empty lot like it’s announcing us, and then I’m straddling him, my skirt bunched around my waist, and he’s working his jeans down and his cock springs free and I wrap my hand around him and feel the pulse of it against my palm, hot and thick and already leaking pre-cum at the tip.
I guide him between my legs and sink down onto him in one slow, aching inch at a time, my breath catching in my throat, my nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.
He fills me completely, stretching me open, and for a second neither of us moves, just breathing, his forehead pressed to mine, the windows already opaque with our heat.
“You okay?” he says.
“I’m fantastic.” “You’re— you’re shaking.” “I know.” “Is that good?” “It’s so good.
Jonah, please, move.” He moves.
His hands grip my hips and he thrusts up into me, hard and deep, and my head falls back and hits the roof of the car and I laugh, a ragged, breathless sound, because nothing about this is dignified, nothing about this is comfortable, and I don’t want it to be.
I want it to be exactly this: the smell of his cheap detergent mixing with the fog on the windows, the slick wet obscene sound of him moving inside me, the steering wheel digging a bruise into my lower back that I’ll feel tomorrow and not regret.
I roll my hips against his, finding the rhythm, his mouth on my throat, his hands under my shirt, my name coming out of him in fragments I want to record and keep.
“Harder,” I say, and the word surprises me.
“Don’t— don’t be gentle.” “You sure?” “I’m sure.
Just fuck me, Jonah.
I want to feel it tomorrow.” He doesn’t argue.
His grip tightens and he drives up into me, hard and punishing, the car rocking with every thrust, and I’m loud, I’m so loud, sounds tearing out of me that I’ve never made before, sounds that belong to a woman who isn’t performing, who isn’t managing her volume, who isn’t trying to be quiet so her husband doesn’t wake up.
I feel the orgasm building low in my stomach, a tight, hot pressure that has nothing to do with efficiency and everything to do with the way his hands are gripping my ass and his mouth is on my breast through my shirt and his hips are slamming up into mine like he’s trying to crawl inside me.
“Come on,” he says, his voice wrecked, his breath hot against my collarbone.
“Come for me, Margaux.
I’ve got you.” That’s what does it.
Not the rhythm, not the friction, and not the angle, but the sentence.
I’ve got you.
Three words nobody has said to me in years, because Grant doesn’t have me, he has never had me, Grant had a wife-shaped object he kept in a house and forgot to touch.
Jonah says I’ve got you and I believe him, and the belief detonates inside my chest, and I come with a sob that cracks out of me, raw and involuntary, my body clamping down around his cock, my face buried in his neck, my hips still grinding against his through the aftershocks because I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop, I want to stay in this moment forever.
He follows me a few seconds later, his body going rigid under mine, a groan tearing out of his chest as he comes inside me, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks.
I feel the heat of him, the pulse of him, and I hold him through it, my forehead against his, both of us breathing like we’ve been running.
We don’t move.
The car settles around us, the windows still fogged solid, the smell of sex, sweat and cheap upholstery filling the cabin.
My skirt is ruined, my shirt is missing 2 buttons, and I can feel him still inside me, softening, and I don’t move off him because moving means this is over and I’m not ready for it to be over.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, quieter, into my hair.
“I know.” “I mean it.” “I know you mean it.” That’s the problem, I think.
He means it.
He’s 26 and he means it and I’m 34 and married and I’m sitting in his lap in a closed parking lot with his cum dripping down my thigh and my mother waiting at home with my son and my husband probably in a hotel room with someone else’s wife, and Jonah means it, and I don’t know what to do with that except sit here, breathe and pretend the windows aren’t going to unfog eventually.
Afterward I end up sideways in the reclined passenger seat, his jacket draped over me though it’s not actually cold, my legs over his lap, both of us breathing too fast for 2 people who’d technically just been sitting still.
“I haven’t laughed during that,” I say, “in longer than I want to admit.” “During what, the car part or the— or the rest of it?” “Either…
both.” “Is that a compliment or an insult to my technique?” “It’s a compliment.
Mostly.” “Mostly.” “Don’t fish.” “For the record,” he says, “I’m blaming the car.
Not my technique.” “The car can’t defend itself, so that’s convenient.” “It’s also true.” “Sure, Jonah.” “How much time do we actually have left?” “Twelve minutes.
Maybe 10 if there’s traffic on the way back.” “That’s somehow worse than not knowing.” “Welcome to my life.” He traces a slow line up my shin, thoughtful, quiet for a second.
“Grant doesn’t— doesn’t laugh with you?” “Grant doesn’t really do anything with me.
Not lately.” “What does he do?” “Comes home late, says he’s tired, and doesn’t ask how my day was, hasn’t in months.” I look at the fogged glass instead of him.
“My mother thinks something’s going on with him, not us.
Him and someone else.” His hand stops on my shin.
“What makes her— what makes her think that?” “She didn’t say it outright.
She just looked at me doing the dishes and said your father had that same look, right before he started smelling like a different woman, and for a second I thought she meant me.
And then she pointed at Grant’s car in the driveway.” “Jesus.” “Yeah.” “Does she know?
About us?” “No.
I don’t think so.
She suspects something, but I think she’s pointed it at him instead of me, which is either lucky or about to become very unlucky.” “How do you mean?” “If she’s looking that hard at one of us, she’s going to find something eventually.
I’d just— I’d just rather it be him.” “That’s a hell of a thing to want, for your own father’s pattern to repeat on someone else.” “I’m aware.” “Doesn’t that bother you?
Hoping your husband cheats on you.
It’s basically the same hope your mother had pointed at your father, just pointed somewhere else now.” “It’s not— it’s not the same.” “Isn’t it?” “I’m not making Grant do anything by hoping it.
I’m not the one deciding what he does with his hands.” “I didn’t say you made it happen.
I said you’re hoping for it.” “I’m allowed to hope for things that make my life easier.” “Sure.
I just think it’s worth knowing that about yourself.” He’s quiet for a long moment after that, his thumb moving against my ankle, not quite still.
“Would you be relieved?” he asks finally.
“If he was?” “What?” “If he’s cheating.
Would that be a relief?
To you?” “That’s a— that’s a strange question.” “It’s not, though.
Is it?” “Why do you want to know?” “Because I think about it.
What happens to us if he’s not the only one stepping outside that marriage?” “Nothing happens.
We’re already what we are.” “Are we, though?
Right now this is something that exists in the gaps.
45 minutes here, a Tuesday there.
If he’s already gone somewhere else, the gaps get bigger, and I don’t know what we’d be then.” “Bigger gaps doesn’t mean anything different.” “Doesn’t it?” I don’t answer right away, because the honest answer is somewhere I haven’t let myself go yet, not even alone, not even in the bath at midnight with my own hand between my legs and his name behind my teeth.
If Grant is the one who broke it first, I get to be the wounded one instead of the guilty one.
I get a story where I’m allowed to leave.
“I don’t know,” I say, which isn’t a lie, exactly.
It’s just not the whole answer.
“You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?” “Does it matter?” “Kind of, yeah.” “Why?” “Because if you’re hoping he’s cheating so you get an excuse, that’s one thing.
If you’re hoping he’s cheating because some part of you wants out regardless, that’s a different thing entirely, and I’d like to know which one I’m in.” “You’re not ‘in’ anything, Jonah, you’re—” I stop myself, because I don’t actually know how to finish that sentence in a way that doesn’t sound worse than the truth.
“I’m what?” “I don’t know.
That’s the honest answer.
I don’t know what you are to me yet.
I just know I keep ending up in your car or your apartment instead of anywhere I’m supposed to be.” “That’s not nothing.” “I didn’t say it was nothing.” “Then what was it?” “Jonah.” “I’m not— I’m not trying to corner you.
I just want to know if I’m wasting my time.” “You’re not wasting your time.” “How do you know?” “Because I don’t drive 45 minutes out of a day I don’t have to spare, lie to my own mother, and risk getting arrested for honking in a parking lot for someone I don’t care about.” That’s the closest I have to an answer, and it isn’t the one he actually asked for, but it’s the truest thing I’ve got, and he seems to know it, because he doesn’t push further, just looks at me, a thought working behind his eyes that he keeps to himself, and the question about Grant sits there between us, unanswered, taking up more room than either of us wants it to.
My phone rings before either of us has to do anything about it.
Lenore, the screen says.
I almost don’t answer, but I answer.
“Hi, Mom.” “You’ve been at the grocery store for 90 minutes,” she says, “and you didn’t buy milk.”