Stuck
"The elevator stops between floors. He's trapped with his wife's best friend, and two hours in the dark is enough time to say everything they've been hiding."
The elevator shudders.
Then it stops.
I look up from my phone, frowning. We're somewhere between the eighth and ninth floor—the display is flickering, can't decide which number to show. The lights flicker too, then settle into a dim emergency glow.
"Well," says Meredith. "That's not ideal."
She's leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, watching the doors like they might open through sheer force of will. She's wearing yoga pants and a loose sweater that keeps slipping off one shoulder, and I'm trying very hard not to notice.
Meredith Chen. My wife's best friend since college. The woman who's been at every birthday party, every holiday dinner, every random Tuesday night when Sarah needed someone to split a bottle of wine with.
The woman I've been pretending not to want for six years.
"I'll call the super," I say, pulling out my phone.
No signal.
"Shit."
"Emergency button?" She nods toward the panel.
I press it. A crackling sound, then a tired voice: "Yeah, we know. Whole system's down. Repair crew's on the way. Gonna be a couple hours."
"A couple hours?"
"Building's old, man. Sit tight."
The intercom clicks off.
Meredith laughs—a short, sharp sound. "Fantastic. Sarah's going to think I stood her up."
"She's not home anyway. Conference in Boston until Thursday."
"Right. I forgot." She slides down the wall until she's sitting on the floor. "Guess I came by for nothing."
I sit on the opposite side of the elevator. It's small—maybe six feet by six feet. Our legs could touch if we stretched.
We don't stretch.
The first thirty minutes are fine.
We talk about nothing. Work—she's a physical therapist, just opened her own practice. My job—something in finance that even I find boring. The weather. Traffic. Anything to fill the silence.
But silences come anyway. And in the silences, I notice things.
The way she's pulled her dark hair into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face. The curve of her neck where the sweater's slipped again. The soft swell of her hips in those yoga pants, thick thighs pressed together, her body settling into the floor in a way that makes my pulse skip.
She's not skinny. Never has been. She's built solid—maybe five-four, a hundred and seventy pounds of curves that her athleisure does nothing to hide. Wide hips, full breasts, a soft stomach she's probably self-conscious about but shouldn't be.
I've noticed all of this before. I've been noticing for six years.
"You're staring," she says.
I blink. "Sorry. Zoning out."
"Uh-huh."
She knows. She's always known. And I've always pretended otherwise.
Hour one.
The emergency light casts everything in amber. The air is getting warm—no ventilation with the power out. Meredith peels off her sweater, leaving just a tank top underneath.
I look away.
"Oh, come on." Her voice is amused, maybe annoyed. "We're going to be here for hours. You can look at me, James."
"I'm trying to be respectful."
"Respectful." She says the word like she's tasting it. "That's one word for it."
"What's another?"
"Careful." She shifts, and now one of her knees is almost touching mine. "You're always so careful around me. Have been since we met."
"You're Sarah's friend."
"I'm a lot of things."
The silence stretches. I can hear her breathing. Hear my own heartbeat.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Sure."
"Are you happy?"
The question lands like a punch. I open my mouth—to lie, to deflect, to give her the same answer I give everyone—and nothing comes out.
"That's what I thought," she says softly.
"It's not that simple."
We've been sitting in the dark for an hour and fifteen minutes, and suddenly I'm talking. Really talking. About Sarah. About the marriage that looked perfect from the outside and felt hollow from the inside. About the way we sleep in the same bed but never touch. About Emma—our daughter, seven years old, the only reason either of us is still pretending.
"We haven't had sex in eighteen months," I hear myself say. "Haven't kissed—really kissed—in longer. We're roommates who share a checking account."
"Why stay?"
"Emma."
"Is that enough?"
"It has to be."
Meredith is quiet for a long moment. Then: "Sarah told me. About the problems."
I look up. "She did?"
"She tells me everything. Or—she used to." Meredith pulls her knees to her chest. "She stopped a couple years ago. Around the same time she started..."
"Started what?"
"Nothing."
"Meredith."
She meets my eyes. In the amber light, her face is all shadows and angles.
"I think she's seeing someone. From her office. I don't know for sure, but..." She trails off. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."
I should feel shocked. Betrayed. Something.
I feel nothing.
"I think I already knew," I say. "The late nights. The weekend conferences that never quite add up." I lean my head back against the wall. "I think I knew and I didn't want to look too closely."
"Because of Emma?"
"Because if I looked, I'd have to do something about it. And I'm not—" My voice cracks. "I'm not ready to blow up my daughter's life."
Meredith unfolds herself. Crawls across the small space between us. Sits beside me, shoulder to shoulder, her thigh warm against mine.
"You're a good dad," she says.
"I'm a coward."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
I laugh. It hurts.
Hour and a half.
Her head is on my shoulder. I don't remember how that happened. We've been talking—really talking—and at some point the distance between us disappeared.
"Can I tell you something?" Her voice is small. Nervous.
"You can tell me anything."
"I've thought about you. For years." She doesn't move, doesn't lift her head. "I know I shouldn't. You're married. You're Sarah's. But I've thought about what it would be like. To be with you. To have someone look at me the way you—"
She stops.
"The way I what?"
"The way you try not to. At dinner parties, when you think no one's watching. At the pool last summer, when I wore that bikini and you couldn't find words for thirty seconds." She laughs, shaky. "I shouldn't have worn that bikini."
"I'm glad you did."
Silence.
"James—"
"I think about you too." The words come out in a rush, a dam breaking. "I have since we met. I've spent six years trying not to, telling myself I'm a good man, I'm a good husband, I don't do this. And I don't. I haven't. But I've wanted to."
She lifts her head. Her face is inches from mine.
"What have you wanted?"
"Everything."
She kisses me first.
Or I kiss her. It's impossible to tell—we meet in the middle, her mouth soft and warm, her hand on my jaw. The kiss is tentative at first, questioning, and then it's not. Then it's years of want pouring through, her tongue sliding against mine, her body pressing into my side.
I pull her onto my lap.
She straddles me without hesitation, her thick thighs bracketing my hips, her weight settling onto me in a way that makes me groan. Her hands are in my hair. Mine are on her hips—God, her hips—gripping the soft flesh, feeling it give under my fingers.
"Tell me to stop," she gasps against my mouth.
"Don't stop."
"This is crazy—we're in an elevator—"
"I don't care."
She pulls back, looks at me. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are wild.
"I've never done anything like this," she says.
"Neither have I."
"If the doors open—"
"They won't. Not for another thirty minutes at least."
She hesitates. I watch her weigh six years of friendship, loyalty, morality—all of it balanced against this moment, this want, this chance.
She makes her choice.
She pulls off her tank top.
Her breasts are heavy and full, spilling out of a plain black bra. I reach around, unhook it, let it fall. She shivers as the air hits her skin.
"You're beautiful," I tell her.
"I'm—"
"Beautiful."
I cup her breasts, feel the weight of them in my palms. Her nipples are hard, dark pink, and when I lean in to take one in my mouth, she cries out.
"James—"
I suck gently, then harder. She arches into me, her hips grinding down, and I can feel how hot she is even through the layers between us. I switch to the other breast, worship it the same way, while her fingers dig into my shoulders.
"Need you," she pants. "Need to feel you—"
She climbs off me, shimmies out of her yoga pants. No underwear. She's bare and glistening in the amber light, her thighs thick and soft, a neatly trimmed strip of dark hair above her pussy.
I'm frozen. Staring.
"Your turn," she says.
I strip faster than I've ever stripped in my life.
She's on me before I can think—straddling my lap again, her naked body pressed against mine. The feeling of her skin, her softness, her weight—it's overwhelming. I've been starving for years and didn't know it until now.
"Condom," she says. "Please tell me you have a condom."
"Wallet. Back pocket."
She twists, grabs my pants, finds my wallet. Her hands are shaking as she tears open the packet. She rolls it onto me with a focus that would be comical if I weren't so desperate.
Then she positions herself above me. Our eyes meet.
"Last chance to stop," she whispers.
I pull her down.
She sinks onto me in one slow, devastating stroke.
Tight. So tight, and wet, and hot—I grip her hips hard enough to bruise. She's panting, adjusting, her walls fluttering around me.
"Fuck," she breathes. "Fuck, you feel—"
"Yeah."
She starts to move.
It's slow at first—rolling her hips, finding a rhythm. The elevator is silent except for our breathing, the slick sounds of our bodies, the soft slap of her thighs against mine. I watch her above me, her breasts swaying, her belly soft and beautiful, her face twisted in pleasure.
"Harder," she begs. "Please—harder—"
I plant my feet and thrust up into her. She claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her cry. I do it again. Again. Fucking up into her while she rides me, her body bouncing, her pussy gripping me like she never wants to let go.
"I've wanted this," she gasps. "So long—so fucking long—"
"Me too—God—me too—"
She leans forward, braces her hands on my shoulders. Changes the angle. I hit something deep inside her and her whole body shudders.
"There—right there—don't stop—"
I don't stop. I pound into that spot while she falls apart above me—her moans muffled by her hand, her walls clenching, her thighs shaking. When she comes, she bites her palm to keep from screaming. I feel her pulse around me, feel her wetness flood over me, and I can't hold back.
I bury myself deep and let go.
We stay tangled together, panting.
Her forehead is pressed against mine. I'm still inside her. Neither of us moves.
"What do we do now?" she whispers.
"I don't know."
"This changes everything."
"I know."
She pulls back, looks at me. Her eyes are wet.
"I can't be your affair," she says. "I can't be the secret you feel guilty about. I won't."
"I wouldn't ask you to be."
"Then what?"
I think about Sarah. About the marriage that's been dead for years, the affair I pretended not to see, the daughter I've been protecting from a truth that's coming whether I'm ready or not.
"I'm going to leave her," I say.
The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Terrifying. Freeing.
"You mean that?"
"I should have done it years ago. I just—I needed a reason. Something that made it real."
"I don't want to be your reason."
"You're not. You're just—" I cup her face, kiss her softly. "You're what finally made me honest."
The elevator shudders.
We pull apart—scrambling for clothes, yanking on pants and shirts, trying to look like two people who weren't just fucking in a broken elevator.
The doors slide open.
The repair guy blinks at us. "You folks okay?"
"Fine," I say. "Just glad to get out."
We step into the hallway. Meredith smooths her hair. I straighten my shirt. We look at each other.
"Call me," she says. "When you're ready. When it's done."
"I will."
She walks toward the stairs. Stops. Turns back.
"James?"
"Yeah?"
"It was worth the wait."
She disappears down the stairwell.
Two Months Later
The divorce papers are signed.
Sarah took it better than I expected—maybe because she was ready too, maybe because of whoever she's been seeing on the side. We're doing shared custody. Emma is adjusting. It's messy and painful and necessary.
I call Meredith from my new apartment.
"It's done," I say.
She's quiet for a long moment. Then: "Come over."
I don't hesitate.
She answers the door in a sundress, barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders. She looks nervous. Happy. Real.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
"So. This is actually happening."
"This is actually happening."
She steps back, lets me in. Her apartment is warm, smells like coffee and something baking.
"I should tell you," she says, "I'm not good at this. Dating. Relationships. I tend to—"
I kiss her.
She melts into me, her arms around my neck, her body soft against mine. No hiding. No guilt. No elevator walls closing in.
Just us.
"We'll figure it out," I tell her.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
She smiles—wide, genuine, beautiful. Then she takes my hand and leads me toward the bedroom.
"We've got a lot of time to make up for," she says.
"Then we should probably get started."
She laughs.
The bedroom door closes behind us.
And for the first time in years, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.