Chapter 7

Rolling over lazily, Marissa hunted around for Alan. He wasn't there. She sat up. The scarves were still tied to the bedposts. Alan's shirt, which she had been wearing the night before, was on the floor, having been thrown across the room some time in the middle of the night.

The bedsheets were rumpled. The comforter was on the floor. The sun was up but she still felt like it should have just been daybreak. Her body hadn't caught up from the jetlag.

Marissa was sore, especially her shoulders, but it was a good sore.

She stretched out and called Alan's name. No response.

Trying not to move her arms too much, she stumbled out of bed and went into the bathroom. Her hair was a glorious mess. She was even sporting a couple of fresh hickeys on her neck and collarbones.

The memory of the previous night's sex made her smile and blush at the same time.

I guess I won't be working for the rest of the week, she thought with a chuckle. Or at least until these marks go away.

Marissa brushed her teeth and then went back into the bedroom. She picked up Alan's shirt off the floor and put it on to ward away the morning chill.

Her bare feet on the hardwood floor, she padded out to the kitchen. Alan was no where to be found.

The pesky voice returned from her subconscious. Her heart rate doubled. She started to feel panicky.

She checked the garage and Alan's car was gone.

He can't have just left me, she thought. This is his house. It's not like he's going to stiff me completely.

Marissa went back to the bedroom and began to dress.

I told you so, the one voice said. He got up and left. You made yourself vulnerable to him and now he's just going to treat you like the whore you are.

No, he's not! the other voice said, the voice she had spent the last five years ignoring. He'll be back. There's a good explanation.

Then why didn't he leave a note? Why isn't he cooking you breakfast? Why didn't he wake up with you? He used you and fucked you.

It was all she could do not to burst into tears. Marissa put Alan's shirt in the hamper in his bathroom and found a pair of shorts and a blouse in her suitcase. She looked around to make sure she wasn't forgetting anything and then wheeled her things out to the kitchen.

Hunting through the fridge and his pantry, Marissa made herself a small breakfast and sat at the table to await Alan's return.

All the while, all her insecurities re-surfaced. Old habits die hard.

She couldn't believe that Alan would just leave her like that. Didn't he want her? He said he did. Was he lying? Or was he just now coming to his senses? After all, they had a romantic week away, and now that they were back in their regular worlds, maybe things weren't so Pollyannaish after all.

Most of her breakfast remained uneaten when Marissa heard the garage door open and Alan's car pulled in. She looked over at the stove. It was close to ten o'clock. Contractually, their relationship would end once he paid her.

What am I going to do?

The door opened quietly and Alan entered the kitchen. He saw Marissa's suitcase by the door and then his eyes fixed on her, sitting at the table where they had their first conversation.

He had two envelopes in his hands.

The expression on her face must not have been very good because he immediately started looking worried himself.

"Hi," he said meekly. "I'm sorry for leaving so early ... I, uh, didn't think they would take so long at the bank."

"That's okay," Marissa replied, more curtly than she should have.

Alan sat down at the table. He placed the thick envelopes on the table. Both of them knew what those envelopes represented.

Neither wanted to be the first one to talk.

Finally, Alan cleared his throat. "I ... um ... had a great time this week, Marissa."

"I did, too," she said with a sigh. She needed a sign from him. Something to tell her that she hadn't been played.

"I—" he started. There was a long pause. "I don't suppose we could see each other again? Go out to dinner or for drinks?"

"I don't date clients," Marissa replied reflexively, and almost immediately she wished she had kept her mouth shut.

Alan fell silent. He looked away and out the window.

She searched his face for hints. There was pain there, not the same as he felt for his wife. But something new. It probably matched her own.

Her emotions struggled for control. Her once-contained feelings told her to say one thing. The business-like whore told her to say something different.

Alan appeared to be at a similar loss for words.

What are you thinking? she wanted to ask him, but couldn't.

As the two parts of her warred over what she should say, they quickly came to a consensus. Shit or get off the pot. Make a decision, Marissa. Head or heart. You can't follow us both.

"Did we have something last week, Alan?" she said finally. Her voice was so low, she wasn't sure she said it out loud. "Something real?"

"Yes," he whispered. His response was so immediate, she knew it could only be the truth.

What am I going to do?

Order or disorder. Money or love.

What am I going to do?

Marissa stood up, her chair sliding back across the floor. Alan looked up at her in alarm.

"I don't want your money, Alan," she said. Her decision was made. Her stomach churned.

Head or heart. Those were her choices. She could walk away from Alan. He was, after all, a paying client. She had buried her feelings before, she could do so again.

But at what cost? Happiness? A family? Love?

And for what? A few dollars and another decade in a profession she loathed? Was it worth it?

Not any more.

Alan had a disbelieving look on his face. His jaw dropped.