A Different Kind of Forever - By Dee Ernst Page 0,70

coaxing, bringing him to the edge then pulling back, until he was gasping, breathless, and she straddled him and rode him, her hair falling around his face. His hands were on her breasts, then down around her waist, pulling her, arching deep inside her, and she wanted to brand him somehow, to make sure he would remember this day, above all the other days; because this was the day she did not try to stop him from leaving her. She climaxed, and he came an instant later, and she fell forward, panting, tears coming, and he held her until the sobbing had stopped and she lay quiet and still in his arms.

And then he was gone, and the girls came back, and the rhythm of her life began again, almost, but not quite, as it had been before she had met him.

CHAPTER TEN

EMILY WAS IN her senior year. She had worked during the summer as a waitress and she had saved some money. For her car, she announced. After all, she was getting her license in March, and she didn’t think she’d be happy sharing the Subaru, she wanted to use the money she made for her own car.

Diane sighed. “What about insurance? How are you going to pay for that?”

Emily shrugged. “Just add me to your policy,” she said.

Diane raised her eyebrows. “What makes you think I can afford to add you? Do you have any idea how much that’s going to cost?” Emily sighed and went upstairs without answering. Diane felt a headache coming on.

Megan decided not to go to France after all. She had met a boy while at the shore, Stan, a year older, a junior at a neighboring high school. She was in love, and didn’t want to leave him next spring. Diane was relieved that it was no longer an issue, and did not mention to her daughter the possibility that Stan would be only a memory by next year.

Diane had one less class to teach that fall. Marianne had taken away her freshman comp class, to free time for the graduate class that she would begin in January. Rehearsals for her play were every day. Her part of the process was technically over, but she still was there two or three evenings a week, just to watch.

It was during one of those evenings, early in September, that Quinn Harris slipped into the back row of the auditorium and sat through a rehearsal. Diane did not notice him. The cast was getting through a complicated, funny scene in Act 1, and, when Sam called it a night, Quinn rose from his seat, clapping his hands.

Diane was surprised and happy to see him. He greeted her warmly, giving her a hug and a dry kiss on her cheek. He congratulated the cast, who were slightly star-struck in his presence. He and Sam began an immediate discussion of the scene. Diane listened, fascinated. Quinn had an intimate knowledge of all things theatrical. His passion for his work was one of the things she had loved about him

She watched him closely. He had not changed. He was a tall, slightly stoop-shouldered man, well-made and graceful. He was around fifty, with thinning hair and surprising green eyes. He had a nervous energy and seemed constantly in motion, his hands moving through the air as he spoke, his foot moving back and forth. He was shy, quiet with strangers, but dynamic and charming when talking about his craft, or among friends.

She was grateful for the small flurry of butterflies in her stomach. She was afraid she would react badly on seeing him again, afraid that all the old feelings would come back in a painful rush. She had worried about it, a small, constant nag that had been following her since classes had started. Now there was just a shimmer of nervousness, no icy palms, no rush of blood to her temples. She took a long slow breath. She really was over him.

He turned to Diane. “I would love to talk to you about this, both of you. Can you get away for a drink? Sam?” Sam was agreeable. Diane accepted gratefully. She was feeling anxious about the way the play was going, and knew that Quinn would give a sound, honest opinion.

They went down to the campus pub, drank coffee, and talked about her play until the place closed. He had gotten a copy of the play from Sam a week before, and had read it carefully. He