Brian was not mentioned again that evening, but Sarah was so aware of the unspoken name that she sometimes felt he was physically in the room with them, Pete and Beverly ignoring him out of loyalty to her. It gave her an odd feeling, but she did not mention Brian again, either, observing the unspoken rules—and then wondered who the rules were for, who was being protected. They talked about Sarah’s new house, and the oddity of Valerie, and an experiment Pete had been observing in the psychology department. They talked about books, and watched a well-meaning but extremely dull local arts program on television, and played a game of Scrabble. By the time she went to bed, Sarah felt ready to burst with self-restraint and self-denial. In bed at last, alone and free, her thoughts flew greedily to Brian.
He had been so good to her, and always there; she had basked in his love, or blinked and moved away, annoyed by its intensity, but it had seemed a constant, like the sun. It had never really occurred to Sarah that someday Brian would leave her, that the bright, nourishing beams of his affection would be directed at someone else.
Before the final surprise of Melanie, Brian had specialized in good surprises. He would send her flowers, or mysterious telegrams signed “Alexei” or “Nikolai”; he set up a midnight treasure-hunt across a nearby golf course which ended in a cache of champagne and fried chicken for a moonlit picnic; he hired a local band to serenade her on her birthday.
And he had been just as thoughtful, just as clever, just as determined to please her in bed. Once, Sarah remembered, she had discovered a vibrator under her pillow, and looked around to find Brian watching her with his wickedest grin. Another time it had been a can of whipped cream and a jar of chocolate syrup; another, massage oils. He had been an inventive and seemingly tireless lover, quick to learn what she liked, and so eager to provide it that she believed him when he said that his pleasure came from giving her pleasure.
So much love, so much attention—Sarah dreamed of a man beside the bed who brought a pillow down on her face while she slept, and woke, thrashing and panting for air, hot, breathless and disoriented, thinking frantically of escape when Brian put his arms around her and tried to comfort her.
Escape! Fully awake, the thought seemed traitorous and absurd. Sarah’s dreams made her feel guilty, and she winced away from Brian’s smile and tried to find ways around his generosity. He tried to give her more, and she asked for less.
Finally, it seemed, he had taken her at her word, and given her less, so that now she had nothing. She was free now, freer than she had ever wanted to be. Tears came to her eyes, but she fought them off. She didn’t want another miserable, wakeful night spent going over that dreadful litany of mistakes, quarrels, misunderstandings and lost hopes. They’d had more good times together than bad, she and Brian, but the memories that clung now were the ones with burrs, the prickly, uncomfortable ones. Sarah wanted to remember the good times, the long, safe, sexy nights, the lazy mornings; she wanted a sweet memory with which to lull herself to sleep, hand between her thighs.
She commanded a memory: Brian’s lips on hers, the two of them together in bed. But that was too vague. She had to pick out a moment in time, some time when he had been hers.
She remembered coming in from class one afternoon, trudging up the stairs, her head down. She hadn’t seen Brian waiting for her, hadn’t even known he was there until he pounced, grabbing her tightly from behind.
Sarah had squealed, and then giggled as he pawed her and breathed heavily in her ear, but the books in her arms were uncomfortable, slipping. “Brian, could I put my books down?”
“Ha! ’oo ees thees Brian? ’E cannot ’elp you now!”
One book fell. Wincing with annoyance, Sarah let the rest of them go. Why did she worry about such trivial details? Why couldn’t she just forget everything else and play, as Brian did?
But he had done a good job of distracting her. His hands caressing her breasts through the silky material of her blouse, his breath hot in her ear, became the only important things. He tumbled her to the ground, and tugged her jeans partway down, and touched her until her panties were wet and she was wriggling with impatience, but he held her down, held her hands down, not letting her touch him or undress herself, laughing at her, murmuring, “Ah, no, you naughty girl, we’ll keep our clothes on and stay out of trouble.” And he’d gone on teasing her, sucking her breasts through her blouse, until—
She knew what happened next; it was what always happened next. But she was helpless to visualize it. Instead she saw Brian’s face change, saw him melancholy, no longer loving or lustful. And she heard him say, “Melanie needs me. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
Brian wasn’t hers anymore, not even in her fantasies.
Chapter Three
