Magic Hour Susan Isaacs (best books to read for self development txt) 📖

left shoulder were horribly sore, as though I had been punched again and again. The left side of my head began to throb. I tried to recall the relaxation technique they’d taught us at South Oaks, but I forgot whether you inhaled through your nose and exhaled through your mouth, or vice versa.

A stab of pain shot down my arm. My heart raced. I put my hand against my chest; my skin was clammy. The nausea wouldn’t go away. A coronary? No, exhaustion.

No, a stroke. I kneaded my upper arm. The pain was re-ceding, but the triceps felt almost numb. God, could this actually be a stroke? I thought: By the time I get up the courage to cry out for Bonnie, it’ll be too late. All I’ll be able to do is dribble and make mewing-kitten noises.

Just then, instead of falling into a coma, I fell sound asleep.

It was such a deep, dreamless sleep that when I woke up and it was still dark, I thought: Holy shit, I slept the clock around.

But then I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at the green gleam of the clock: three forty-six.

I performed my customary back-to-sleep ritual. I turned my pillow over and puffed it up into a mountain, fluffed out the sheet, turned the clock facedown MAGIC HOUR / 337

to hide its garish, Emerald City glow. No good. I was wide awake.

I knew what had woken me. I wanted Bonnie.

Moonlight slipped past the curled edges of the shades, and the white walls of the pineapple room gleamed. I heard a rhythmic thumping, but it was only Moose’s big tail slapping against the wood floor, applauding the prospect of unexpected fellowship. Bonnie stirred for a second, but the happy tail thump was obviously a familiar, comforting night sound.

She curled back up, fast asleep.

I could have walked away right then. It would have been easy. Nothing to tempt me: no languorous arm draped across the narrow single bed, no naked leg or bare hip to tantalize.

The only part of her not covered by the plaid blanket was her head.

But on the chair were the sweats I’d lent her, neatly folded, and dropped on the floor near the bed, less neatly, her own T-shirt. And the thin band of sheer white that was her underpants. That did it.

I sat on the edge of the bed, kissed her hair, whispered her name. She raised her head, opened her eyes. No fluttery eyelashes and pseudo-dopey where-am-I? looks. Bonnie knew.

“What do you want?”

“To visit.” I flashed what I hoped was a devil-may-care smile. Charm wasn’t doing it, though. There was no smile back. I drew aside the blanket. She was naked. “See? You knew I was coming. You got all dressed up for me.” I lay down on the bed beside her. In the moonlight, the slender strips of white where a two-piece bathing suit had prevented a tan shone with a pearly luster, like the inside of a seashell.

“A host has an obligation to entertain his guest.” I kissed her cheek, her mouth, the demarcation line between her dark chest and white breasts. I

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was soft and gentle, demonstrating: I’m not just out for nooky. See? I’ve got finesse. Style. Technique.

Bonnie didn’t arch her neck, or murmur a sophisticated That feels marvelous. No, she smoothed my hair off my forehead, away from my temples. It was such a loving gesture, and so soothing, that it caught me off guard. I stopped the casual kissing. I reached for her hand, but she kept it to herself.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Does this visit mean something?” Direct words, forthright gaze. Give me the truth, they said. Total bullshit: I knew I could tell her whatever I wanted to tell her. She was so goddamn gullible. “Or are you here…is it just for tonight?”

She made it so much harder on herself. Why couldn’t she simply pretend it didn’t matter to her? She all but walked through life wearing a sandwich board that said BIG MOUTH

BUT COMPLETELY VULNERABLE in huge red letters. What can you say to someone like that?

“Just for tonight, Bonnie.” We lay side by side, barely apart.

If either of us had taken a deep breath, skin would have grazed skin.

“Another one-night stand? That’s all you want for us?”

I closed my eyes because I felt tears. “Yeah.”

“Can’t offer me anything better?”

“No.”

“Does it make any difference that I love you?”

“No, it doesn’t.” Before I could tell her how sorry I was, she pressed her fingers against my lips.

“Let me cut you off at the pass,” she said. “Don’t say ‘I’m sorry.’ Not that you would. Apologizing for not being able to love me…Well, that would be cheap, and you’re not cheap.”

“Neither are you.”

“I know.”

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She shifted that fraction of an inch so we were touching.

I ran my hands over the whole length of her body. She was silky, sleep-warmed. I couldn’t believe the softness of her.

“Wait. Listen to me,” she said. “Here are my one-nightstand rules. You can’t say ‘You’re beautiful.’ You can’t say

‘You’re a truly fine person.’” She paused. “And you can’t say

‘I love you.’ Other than that, anything goes.”

She put her arms around me and guided me on top of her.

Slowly, as if we had weeks, years, all the time in the world, she let her fingers drift down my back, over my ass, and then between my legs. I was so overwhelmed by finally being able to touch her again, kiss her, that I felt I was going to lose it.

I did. Suddenly tears were drenching my face.

“Stephen, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Just over-something. Overtired. Overstimulated.”

Bonnie wiped my cheeks with the sheet. It didn’t help that she was so tender. I patted her hand, then pushed it away.

“I’m okay. And listen, nobody calls me Stephen.”

“You don’t have to have sex with me if you don’t want to, Stephen.”

“Does it feel like I don’t want to?”

“No, it feels downright enthusiastic. But it and you may be two distinct entities.”

“Well, it