The One Who Got Away: A Novel by Bethany Bloom

the inside of his thigh. And when he leaned in, when he
tried to rise or to move his hands, she pushed him gently back. And then she
stripped for him, slowly and sensually, her eyes locked on his. She removed her
top, her bra, and she swung her hair so it dangled just above her nipples and
still she held his gaze. And then she sat astride him once again. And he had
tried, then, to move his hands to caress her, but she pinned his hands above
his head, tousling her hair just above his face, and in the glint of the
starlight, she saw the luster in his eyes that signaled his desire for her. And
she could see that he was feeling, once again. She was in control of it, of
him, of the way he felt in this world. And she would continue to make him feel. With her, he would feel. She would prove it. With her, his life would be
different. He would be accepted, safe, free.
    She made him lie still, but his
hips writhed, and she pushed against him. She took him inside her and she began
to make love to him, softly, gently and only then did she allow him to hold
her, to place his rough, warm hands on her waist, as he pushed deeper inside her.
    And when they came together, when
they both cried out, it was a moment of such intimacy, such wholeness, such
oneness that it eclipsed anything she had ever felt before. It was the first
time she had taken control of a man. She had let him know, without words, that
she could care for him. That she could draw him inside her, and he would be
always accepted, always forgiven. Always enough.
    It was the last she had seen of
him.
    After she had made love to him,
there had been no more words. They lay together for a half hour or so and then
Henry drifted off to sleep and she woke him with a soft kiss goodnight, and she
whispered that she would walk herself home. She needed the darkness and the
time alone.
    He hadn’t called the next morning
as he always did. And so she stopped by Carter’s house, a bit before noon. And Carter
had said that Henry had left that morning, and, no, he didn’t know when Henry
would be back, but would she like to go out to lunch with him? To talk about
it? She did not.  
    Should she have said something
more to Henry? Done something more? Demonstrated more?
    And now, she sat opposite him on
the porch of her family’s cabin, and ten years had passed, and she watched
Henry speak with Paul and she watched the care Henry was taking to avoid
looking at her. And he was a married man now. And she knew that Henry had left
her that night, and he had found someone who had done something more. Said
something more. He had found someone who had been able to comfort him and care
for him in a way that she had not. 
    Just as Yarrow said, Olivine
hadn’t done enough. She hadn’t been enough. And now it was too late.
    *****
    “Well,” Paul said, finally. “I
suppose it’s time for us to be on our way.” And Henry nodded goodbye and
reached up and grabbed the back of his neck with his palm, exposing his bicep. It’s
what he had always done when he felt unsure, unsteady. It astonished Olivine
that his mannerisms were still so familiar. That so little about him had
changed.
    Paul took Olivine’s hand as they
descended the porch steps, and he steadied her as they tiptoed their way across
the ice. And now they stood on the pebbly snow between their two cars.
    “I’ll see you at home,” she said.
    “You go first,” Paul replied.
“I’ll follow you out.” He looked up at the porch, where Henry was standing,
pressing his palms now against the wood and looking out into the driveway.
    “Sure.” She slid into the Jeep
and turned toward home. And he stayed near to her, his headlights beaming into
her rear view mirror. She parked in her designated place in the garage and
waited for Paul to do the same. She had just opened her car door when Paul
asked, “So, how do you know this guy?”
    “Just like he said. He came out
one summer to build custom homes, a long time ago, and I met him