No Way Back. Andrew Gross

good bed over there,” he said, his own breaths growing short and rapid.

      “I know. There is.” Then I kissed him again and almost smothered him in my hair, feeling the zipper on the back of my skirt being drawn down, the leather wiggling down my thighs, the click and tug of his belt becoming undone …

      A part of me was going, Yes, yes, take me over. The bed.

      Another part went, The hell with the bed … I’m ready … here. Now …

       Now.

      And then something stopped.

      Inside me. Like the emergency brake pulled on a train.

      It was as if that one shuddering sound, the click of his belt buckle being undone, shot through me like cold water reviving an unconscious man, rocketing me back to earth.

      Instantly awakening me to the reality of what I was doing.

      It suddenly shot through me just how incredibly wrong this was. Wrong what I was letting him do. Wrong to even be here, in this room.

      Wrong to betray a marriage I had worked so hard to make successful. To do this to someone who I knew I loved. And who loved me! How maybe I was only doing this to get back at him.

      Just wrong.

      And then this overwhelming feeling of dread wormed through me. Of how, when trust is broken, like that first crack in a dam about to give way, it only leads to more and more pressure against it until it can no longer hold. And then it bursts. Not just your marriage, but your whole life. Whatever was truthful in it. It all just starts to crumble and wash away. Everything. And how this was that first crack, what I was doing now. And how you couldn’t do it, Wendy … You just couldn’t unless you were willing to take that risk. That everything will go.

      Which I wasn’t willing to take.

      No matter how it may have felt downstairs. Or even a moment ago.

       No, I didn’t want it all to burst.

      Something came out of my mouth that a minute earlier would have been the farthest thing from my mind. From my desires.

      “Stop,” I said.

      Maybe a little under my breath at first; it could have been mistaken for a shudder or a sigh. I wasn’t even sure Curtis actually heard me. He was slowly weaving his tongue along my belly, getting lower, eliciting electric waves.

      But then I said it again. Louder. “Please … stop. I can’t.” My hands went to his shoulders and I eased him slightly away.

      This time he looked up.

      “Curtis, I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

      My skin was on fire and slick with sweat, and part of me was begging to just say, Fuck it, and let him carry me over to that bed. But the better part of me drew in the deepest, most determined breath I’d ever drawn.

       “I can’t.”

      “You’re kidding, right?” Curtis gave me an uncomprehending smile, slowly rising.

      “No. I’m not. I know how this must seem. But I just can’t. I’m sorry. It’s just not right.” I blew out a breath. “Curtis, you’re a totally irresistible guy, and I know there’s a part of me that is going to one hundred percent regret this in an hour on the train …” I shook my head. “But I can’t do this with you. I thought it was okay. Even a minute ago it seemed so. But it’s not.” I let my hand fall to his face, and I looked into his confused, almost incredulous eyes. I didn’t know how he was going to react. Clearly, I’d played as much a part as he had in getting us up here.

      The fire in my eyes was suddenly replaced by tears. “I’m so sorry. I just can’t.”

      He blinked.

      I wasn’t sure exactly what was going through him. Confusion. Frustration. Disbelief.

      Absolutely disbelief.

      And there was a moment when I admit it crossed my mind, Shit, Wendy, you’re up here with a guy you don’t know. No telling what he might do now.

      But all he did was take a step back and nod, slowly, resignation seeming to drown the ardor. He glanced down, his jeans undone, my skirt down around my thighs, my black panties drawn. My hand now covering my breasts; breasts that only a moment ago I was willingly offering up to him.

      “I’m totally embarrassed,” I said, putting my other hand in front of my face.

      My face that was now flushed with shame.

      He nodded. Thankfully, not the nod of someone who was about to do something crazy, which I guess, in another situation, could have been the case. More like the nod of someone caught by the total absurdity of what had just happened. Clothes strewn all over the floor. Pants down. Sweat covering both of us. Breathing heavily.

      “No chance this is simply your particular spin on foreplay?” He smiled hopefully. A last-ditch plea.

      “I wish it was.” I shrugged, pushing the hair out of my face. “It would probably make the whole situation a lot easier. Sorry.”

      His nod seemed almost dazed. “Figured it was worth a check.”

      He took the waist of my skirt and shimmied it back up, letting out a deep sigh, as if to say, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.

      “Thank you,” I said. “You’re really a saint for not making me feel like a total shit.”

      “I’m not sure the word saint exactly applies right now.”

      “You’re right.” I just stood there covering myself, bursting with embarrassment. I shrugged. “I think I need to straighten up.”

      He nodded resignedly. “Bathroom’s over there.”

      About as awkwardly as I’d felt since maybe back in college, I scurried around, covering myself up with my bra, and picked up my sweater off the floor, my bag that had spilled over on the floor, my boots. “I can assure you, I haven’t been in this position in about twenty years.”

      Curtis just looked on and picked up his own shirt. “You can trust me, neither have I!”

      With my bra and my sweater covering me, my handbag dangling from my arm, I turned at the bathroom door, grinning. “I suppose this isn’t a particularly good time to ask you again to take a look at my novel?”

      “No,” Curtis said, unable to hold back his laugh. “Definitely not.”

      “Thought as much.” I forced a rueful smile. “I’ll be out in a while.”

      I closed the door behind me and took a deep, releasing breath as I looked in the mirror. My face was profusely blushing with shame. How had I let it get this far? I knew I could never tell anyone. Surely not Dave. Never. Not even Pam. No, this one was mine to deal with and try to rationalize. In a way I felt lucky. Lucky I had come to my senses when I did. Lucky Curtis was actually a decent guy. It could have been a whole lot worse.

      Lucky I hadn’t done something that I’d look at with shame for the rest of my life.

      I ran the cold water, wet a washcloth and pressed it to my flushed face. I put my arms back through my bra and started to brush out my hair, until I began to resemble a manageably put-together version of the person who had come up here a few minutes before—though still far too ashamed to even look at myself fully. I threw on my sweater and straightened myself out. Even dabbed on a little makeup and lip gloss. Then I took a breath. Okay, Wendy, now, you have to face him one more time and make your way home. And then go on with your life and pretend like this never even happened. And when Pam asks you about that cute guy at the bar you were texting about, it’s “What guy?” I merely finished my drink and caught the 7:39 and was home by Law & Order … right?

      I