Page 73 of This Could Be Us
I straighten up. “Come in where?”
“In your house. I’m parked outside. I remembered you saying your ex usually has the boys on the weekend. I just want to talk for a few minutes.”
If this woman comes into my house, I may not let her leave. Is that kidnapping? Abduction? I’d have the best intentions. I almost tell her it’s a bad idea. What if I kiss her? I don’t know how much longer I can be around her believing she’s attracted to me, too, and not kiss her. How ironic. I haven’t been interested in anyone since my divorce, and the first woman I’m interested in is initially unavailable because she’s married and now single and unavailable because she’s dating herself.
“Uh… Judah?” she asks, her voice turning tentative. “If you’re busy or—”
“No, come on in.”
I take a quick swig of beer and go to open the door. She’s standing on my porch, her hair in one long braid, silky curls fighting their way loose from the confinement. Her nose is pink from the cold and her lightly floral scent reaches me before she even crosses the threshold.
“Can I come in?” she asks, looking over her shoulder like someone might report her to the neighborhood watch.
“Sure.” I step back and gesture her inside with my bottle. “Be my guest.”
She walks in and grimaces. “Sorry. I’m a mess. Been cleaning all day.”
“You clean houses too?”
“What?” Understanding dawns on her face, and she shakes her head. “No. I have before. Believe me, and was glad to have the work, but no. One of Lupe’s classmates, her mother has cancer, so we’ve all been chipping in. Meals and helping out. If I smell like lemon and vinegar, you’ll know why.”
“You smell like you always do to me,” I tell her. “What’s that scent you wear?”
“Oh.” She smiles. “Jasmine oil. It’s my favorite.”
Her Cornell T-shirt peeks out from beneath a half-zipped pink puffy vest, and gray sweatpants hug the curves of her hips and ass. Even dressed down and with a small streak of dirt on her cheek, Soledad is a feast. I’m always starved around this woman. Always want to consume her through every sense. It’s disconcerting because I’ve never felt this way. Even early on, my relationship with Tremaine was never like this. She often jokes we were better friends than lovers. When I see her with Kent, I know what she means.
I loved Tremaine the way I knew how, and I absolutely believe we were supposed to be together for that time of our lives. That marriage gave us our boys. We navigated them through some of the toughest years of their lives. Of ours. We needed less from each other, and wanted everything for them. But at a point, Tremaine started wanting something for herself that I wasn’t the one to give.
I think it was this.
This yearning. This burning hunger. This all-consuming feeling that you could eat every bit of someone and never be satisfied. That you would lick their crumbs. That’s how I feel around Soledad, and it is out of control. I hate being out of control, but I keep finding ways to be around her so I canfeelthis way.
She takes in the foyer with its original hardwoods and the thickness of the crown molding. We renovated this place but kept all the things we loved about the period when the house was born.
“Oh, this is gorgeous.” She turns in a circle, staring up at the design etched into the ceiling. “I love all the things you’ve preserved.”
“Would you like a tour? I’m not a decorator like you by any means, but Tremaine did a pretty good job before she moved out.”
“Tremaine? Your ex-wife?”
“Yeah, the boys are with her.”
“And you do what when they’re gone and you’re not working?” She peers into the living room at the huge plasma mounted over the fireplace. “Watch football?”
“If Georgia’s playing Florida, yeah.” I gesture to the living room. “You wanna sit? I have wings, beer.”
“No, I’m going home. I’ll make dinner.”
“I’m sure something fancier than beer and wings. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“All veggies.” She smiles and toys with the end of the braid over her shoulder. “Black-eyed peas, creamed corn, and stewed tomatoes.”
“Not exactly a Puerto Rican classic.”
“My mother was Puerto RicanandAfrican American, so I grew up with the best of both kitchens, so to speak.”
“Where’d you learn to cook all the fancy things?”