Perfect Match Read online

  It strikes me then; he is going.

  "But the snow ..."

  He shrugs. "Four-wheel drive. I'll be fine."

  I twirl my glass, so that the fake champagne swirls inside. "Please," I say, that's all. It was bad enough, before. Now that Patrick's been here, his voice filling the living room, his body spanning the space beside mine, it will seem that much emptier when he leaves.

  "It's already tomorrow." Patrick points to the clock: 12:14 A.M. "Merry Christmas." He pushes one of the plastic bags into my lap.

  "But I haven't gotten you anything." I do not say what I am thinking: that in all the years since Patrick has returned to Biddeford, he has not given me a Christmas gift. He brings presents for Nathaniel, but there is an unspoken agreement between us--anything more would be tightrope-walking on a line of propriety.

  "Just open it."

  Inside the first Wal-Mart bag is a pup tent. Inside the second, a flashlight and a brand new game of Clue. A smile darts across Patrick's face. "Now's your chance to beat me, not that you can."

  Delighted, I grin right back. "I'm going to whip you." We pull the tent out of its protective pouch and erect it in front of the Christmas tree. There is barely room enough for two, and yet we both crawl inside. "Tents have gotten smaller, I think."

  "No, we've gotten bigger." Patrick sets up the game board between our crossed legs. "I'm even going to let you go first."

  "You're a prince among men," I say, and we start to play. Each roll of the die reverses a year, until it is easy to imagine that the snow outside is a field of Queen Anne's lace; that this tournament is life-or-death; that the world is no larger than Patrick and me and a backyard campsite. Our knees bump hard and our laughter fills the tiny vinyl pyramid. The winking strand on the Christmas tree, out there, might be lightning bugs. The flames behind us, a bonfire. Patrick takes me back, and that is the best present I could ever receive.

  He wins, by the way. It is Miss Scarlett, in the library, with the wrench.

  "I demand a rematch," I announce.

  Patrick has to catch his breath; he's laughing that hard. "How many years did you go to college?"

  "Shut up, Patrick, and start over."

  "No way. I'm quitting while I'm ahead. By--what is it?--three hundred games?"

  I grab for his game piece, but he holds it out of my reach. "You're such a pain in the ass," I say.

  "And you're a sore loser." He jerks his hand higher, and in an effort to reach it, I knock the board sideways and overturn the tent as well. We go down in a tumble of vinyl and Clue cards and land on our sides, cramped and tangled. "Next time I buy you a tent," Patrick says, smiling, "I'm springing for the next size up."

  My hand falls onto his cheek, and he goes absolutely still. His pale eyes fix on mine, a dare. "Patrick," I whisper. "Merry Christmas." And I kiss him.

  Almost as quickly he jerks away from me. I can't even look at him, now. I cannot believe that I have done this. But then his hand curves around my jaw, and he kisses me back as if he is pouring his soul into me. We bump teeth and noses, we scratch and we scrape, and through this we do not break apart. The ASL sign for friends: two index fingers, locked at the first knuckles.

  Somehow we fall out of the tent. The fire is hot on the right side of my face, and Patrick's fingers are wrapped in my hair. This is bad, I know this is bad, but there is a place in me for him. It feels like he was first, before anyone else. And I think, not for the first time, that what is immoral is not always wrong.

  Drawing back on my elbows, I stare down at him. "Why did you get divorced?"

  "Why do you think?" he answers softly.

  I unbutton my blouse and then, blushing, pull it together again. Patrick covers my hands with his own and slides the sheer sleeves down. Then he pulls off his shirt, and I touch my fingers lightly to his chest, traveling a landscape that is not Caleb.

  "Don't let him in," Patrick begs, because he has always been able to think my thoughts. I kiss across his nipples, down the arrow of black hair that disappears beneath his trousers. My hands work at the belt, until I am holding him in my hands. Shifting lower, I take him into my mouth.

  In an instant he has yanked me up by the hair, crushed me to his chest. His heart is beating so fast, a summons. "Sorry," he breathes into my shoulder. "Too much. All of you, it's too much."

  After a moment, he tastes his way down me. I try not to think of my soft belly, my stretch marks, my flaws. These are the things you do not have to worry about, in a marriage. "I'm not ... you know."

  "You're not what?" His words are a puff of breath between my legs.

  "Patrick." I yank at his hair. But his finger slides inside, and I am falling. He rises over me, holds me close, fits. We move as if we have been doing this forever. Then Patrick rears back, pulls out, and comes between us.

  It binds us, skin to skin, a viscous guilt.

  "I couldn't--"

  "I know." I touch my fingers to his lips.

  "Nina." His eyes drift shut. "I love you."

  "I know that too." That is all I can allow myself to say, now. I touch the slope of his shoulders, the line of his spine. I try to commit this to memory.

  "Nina." Patrick hides a grin in the hollow of my neck. "I'm still better at Clue."

  He falls asleep in my embrace, and I watch him. That's when I tell him what I cannot manage to tell anyone else. I make a fist, the letter S, and move it in a circle over his heart. It is the truest way I know to say I'm sorry.

  Patrick wakes up when the sun is a live wire at the line of the horizon. He touches his hand to Nina's shoulder, and then to his own chest, just to make sure this is real. He lies back, stares into the glowing coals of the fireplace, and tries to wish away morning.

  But it will come, and with it, all the explanations. And in spite of the fact that he knows Nina better than she knows herself, he is not sure which excuse she will choose. She has made a living out of judging people's misdeeds. Yet no matter what argument she uses, it will all sound the same to him: This should not have happened; this was a mistake.

  There is only one thing Patrick wants to hear on her lips, and that is his own name.

  Anything else--well, it would just chip away at this, and Patrick wants to hold the night intact. So he gently slides his arm out from beneath the sweet weight of Nina's head. He kisses her temple, he breathes deeply of her. He lets go of her, before she has a chance to let go of him.

  The tent, standing upright, is the first thing I see. The second is the absence of Patrick. Sometime during that incredible, deep sleep, he left me.

  It is probably better this way.

  By the time I've cleaned up our feast from the previous night and showered, I have nearly convinced myself that this is true. But I cannot imagine seeing Patrick again without picturing him leaning over me, his black hair brushing my face. And I don't think that the peace inside me, spread like honey in my blood, can be chalked up to Christmas.

  Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.

  But have I? Does Fate ever play by the rules? There is a gulf as wide as an ocean between should and want, and I am drowning in it.

  The doorbell rings, and I jump up from the couch, hurriedly wiping my eyes. Patrick, maybe back with coffee, or bagels. If he makes the choice to return, I'm absolved of blame. Even if it was what I was wishing for all along.

  But when I open the door, Caleb is standing on the porch, with Nathaniel in front of him. My son's smile is brighter than the dazzle of snow on the driveway, and for one panicked moment I peer over Caleb's shoulder to see whether the tracks made by Patrick's police cruiser have been covered over by the storm. Can you smell transgression, like a perfume deep in the skin? "Mommy!" Nathaniel shouts.

  I lift him high, revel in the straight weight of him. My heart beats like a hummingbird in my throat. "Caleb."

  He will not look at me. "I'm not staying."

  This is a mercy visit, then. In minutes, Nathaniel will be gone. I hug him closer.