The Vanishing Year by Kate Moretti

with a building want. This is what he does when I try to talk to him.
    He tugs my blouse free and his hands inch up my rib cage. His touch is electric, every feather-light graze sends my skin zinging. He knows this and his lips curl up in a satisfied smile. But I am happiest when I’m the tormenter. He grips my shoulders and his head falls to my lap. When he lifts up again, he stares into my eyes, his hands cupping my cheeks so tight it borders on painful.
    â€œI can’t lose you, too.” His voice rumbles, low and keening. He runs his thumb across my bottom lip. I bite it softly.
    â€œHenry you’re not going to lose me.” I clear my throat.
    â€œI know you want your freedom, to fly and do your own thing. I know I hold you back. I’m sorry. Just . . . have patience. Wait for me.”
    â€œHenry.” I touch under his chin with my index finger. “You were with Tara when she died, right? Holding me back won’t stop anything from happening to me. Do you realize that? We all have to live our lives.”
    â€œI never thought I’d love anyone again. I’m not a lovable man. I thought I had my one chance and it was over.”
    I slide off the counter onto his lap and face him. I kiss his cheeks, his closed eyes. “Nothing will happen to me.” I can feel him through the thin fabric of his suit pants, hard and insistent, and I put my hand there, lightly scratching with my nails. His eyes flutter back.
    I untangle myself and take his hand. “Let’s go upstairs.” We leave the dinner plates on the counter, the wine untouched. Almost like we were never there.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Later, our legs woven together, Henry’s hand caresses my belly. His face is in my neck. His breathing is sporadic, sometimes regular and steady like he is sleeping, but then he startles and pulls me into him, like he can’t get close enough. My stomach rumbles and I think of our salads, wilting on the island.
    â€œI want pizza,” I blurt out. He lifts his head sleepily.
    â€œPizza?”
    â€œYes. From a pizzeria.”
    We don’t do that.
    â€œHmmm, okay. Order pizza, then.” He wraps his leg around me, pinning me to the bed and pretends to doze. I struggle to push him off and giggle.
    I extract myself and slide into one of Henry’s workout T-shirts. He pushes himself up on his elbows and watches me, bending his head to glimpse the crescent of bottom peeking out from beneath the hem of his shirt. He gives me a low whistle and a quick pat on the bare skin. I wave him off.
    From the bathroom, I order delivery. My chest is bursting with a skittered giddiness. I realize I hadn’t finished telling him about my visit with Lydia. The afternoon feels so far away, like it happened to another person. I have a sudden stab of pity for her, with her scoffing superiority and preconceived notions about what makes a loving relationship, with no concept of the give-and-take. She would likely never feel full with love like this. She’d never allow herself to see the flaws of a man, to accept them, to bend herself in any way to accommodate them. She’d never realize it was a two-way street, the way the right man would bend to accommodate her, molding himself around her until they fit together, just right.
    When the pizza comes, I pull on shorts to answer the door and then scamper back to the bedroom with paper towels. Henry sits up in bed, wrapping the sheets around his waist, and stares at me in wonder.
    â€œI honestly think it’s been twenty years since I ate pizza in bed.” He pulls up a slice and takes a large bite, cheese dripping down his chin. I situate the box between us. I’m suddenly famished. We chew in silence. I realize I have no idea what time it is.
    â€œSo. About Lydia.” I study the box in front of me, wondering what his response will be. He is sufficiently plied with pizza and sex, his legs in a loose V