Page 102 of The F-Word

“Matthew?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to go home now.”

“We are home, honey. We pulled into the driveway five minutes ago.”

She looks at me. “Home,” she says. “To the city.”

“You mean, you want to go back to Manhattan?”

She nods. “Yes.”

It’s almost midnight. The rain is coming down so hard I wouldn’t be surprised to see an ark sail past.

I think of the big bed waiting in our suite. The fire in the fireplace. I think of undressing my woman, taking her to that big bed and warming her with my body…

“Please,” she whispers.

I nod. Somehow, I know she doesn’t want to go inside the inn at all. I lean over, kiss the tip of her nose.

“I’ll be right back,” I say.

I use the inn’s key to unlock the front door. The lobby is empty. I run up the stairs to our room, open the door, step inside and look around.

I don’t want to be here either, not without Bailey.

I find a pen and pad beside the telephone and scribble a note asking if someone would be so kind as to pack our things and ship them to my address. It’s an emergency, I add. There’s a soft woolen afghan draped over the back of the love seat that stands before the fire and I write that management should add the cost of the little blanket to my bill, along with charges for packing and shipping.

I sign my name, leave the keys and a fifty on top of the note—it’s a good weekend for spare fifties, I think with a sudden tightness in my throat. Then I pick up the afghan and hurry down to the car.

Bailey is sitting as I left her, hands folded, eyes fixed on the rain-flooded windshield.

“Hey,” I say softly as I open her door. I drape the afghan over her. “We’ll be home in no time. Why don’t you close your eyes and get some sleep?”

We are home in just a little more than no time.

I don’t know if she sleeps or not, only that she keeps her face turned away and she doesn’t speak. When I pull up in front of her apartment building, I shut off the car and turn towards her.

She is pushing the blanket aside.

“I’m coming up with you,” I say.

; She looks at me and puts her hand on my arm. “I’m fine.”

“Bailey. Everything about this weekend was wonderful. Being with you. Making love with you. Being happy together. None of that was a lie. Will you remember that?”

She leans in and cups my face with her hands.

“You were never the liar, Matthew,” she says quietly. “It was always me.”

Then she kisses me. It’s a soft kiss, the mere whisper of her lips against mine, and the sad sweetness of it almost undoes me.

“No,” I say. “Wait…”

Her door opens. Shuts. She runs to her building…