Chapter 9: The Suggestion
The scent of burnt espresso beans and damp wool coats hung thick in the crowded campus coffee shop. Rain streaked the tall windows, blurring the grey afternoon outside into watery smears. Jules leaned back in the worn leather armchair, one ankle resting casually on his knee, watching Sarah stir her latte. Her brow was furrowed, the kind of intense concentration she usually reserved for deciphering Ben’s cryptic anxieties.
"He hasn't mentioned Dr. Arlis once?" Sarah asked, her spoon clinking softly against the ceramic mug. "Not even after… everything?"
Jules offered a sympathetic half-smile, the kind perfected over years of navigating delicate egos. "Ben compartmentalizes, Sarah. You know that better than anyone." He reached for a sugar packet, his fingers brushing hers as he slid it across the sticky table. A deliberate, fleeting contact. He saw the tiny jolt in her shoulders, the way her gaze flickered down to his hand before darting away. "He probably sees her as… just another colleague. He may not even realize she has a great set of tits."
Sarah wrapped her hands tighter around her mug, seeking warmth. "So you noticed that too." Her voice was low, strained. "He comes home quieter sometimes. Distant. Like he’s carrying this… weight he won’t share." She glanced around nervously, as if worried Ben might materialize between the stacks of philosophy textbooks and overflowing backpacks. "Dr. Arlis… is she… good?"
Jules stirred his own black coffee slowly, the spoon scraping rhythmically. His fingers brushed hers again, purposefully lingering this time against her knuckles. He felt the slight tremor run through her hand. He kept his voice low, intimate, pitched just for her ears above the indie folk music and student chatter. "Good? I wouldn’t know, I’ve never actually had the pleasure. We’ve flirted a few times but I tend not to fool around where I work, usually." He chuckled softly, a warm, conspiratorial sound. "Monogamy’s a modern concept, Sarah. Look at history – kings, queens, gods… they understood desire wasn’t meant to be confined. Why deny yourself that same freedom?"
The air in the crowded cafe suddenly felt stiflingly close, thick with steam and unspoken possibilities. Sarah’s pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat drowning out the ambient noise. She pulled her hand back sharply, tucking it into her lap. Her cheeks flushed. "That’s… that’s not what I meant," she stammered, staring intently at the swirling foam in her latte. "I just… I worry he’s hiding things."
"Thinking isn’t a crime," Jules murmured, his gaze holding hers, steady, inviting. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, closing the space between them. The scent of his expensive cologne, something dark and woody, cut through the coffee smell. "Feeling isn’t treason. Ben’s wrapped himself in knots trying to be the perfect husband, terrified of his own shadow. Doesn’t mean you have to live in the dark too." He paused, letting the implication hang. "What do you want, Sarah? Beyond Ben’s anxieties? Beyond… Dr. Arlis?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. Sarah’s breath hitched. What did she want? Stability? Passion? Freedom from the constant walking-on-eggshells feeling Ben radiated? The image of the Lake Serene cabin booking confirmation flashed in her mind – Ben’s nervous excitement barely masking his terror. Jules’s words about kings and gods echoed, seductive and dangerous. His proximity was a physical force, a magnetic pull contrasting sharply with Ben’s hesitant distance.
She remembered Chloe’s stunned, blissful confession about jumping David’s bones the other day. The raw, uncomplicated pleasure in those words. A stark contrast to Ben’s careful, almost clinical touch. Her gaze dropped to Jules’s lips, then snapped back up, horrified at herself.
"I… I don’t know," she whispered, the admission tearing out of her. Vulnerability shimmered in her eyes, raw and exposed. "It’s all so… tangled."
Jules didn’t push. He leaned back again, the picture of relaxed understanding. He took a slow sip of his coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup. "Tangled things can be untangled," he said softly. "Or sometimes… cut." He let the silence stretch, thick with the unsaid. The rain drummed harder against the windows. "The cabin weekend," he continued, his tone shifting to practical, almost businesslike. "It’s a chance. For both of you. Seclusion strips away the noise. Lets you hear yourselves." He paused, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Ben’s nervous. Good. Means he cares. Means he’s trying. But don’t let his fear dictate your experience, Sarah. Own it. Claim the space."
He saw the flicker of resolve, fragile but present, behind her confusion. The seed was planted. Deep. Watered by resentment, loneliness, and the potent allure of forbidden possibility. He glanced at his watch, a deliberate movement. "Damn. Seminar." He stood, shrugging on his tailored overcoat. He placed a hand briefly, possessively, on her shoulder. A jolt ran through her again. "We’ll have to pick this up again next week. Or maybe we can do drinks instead some night. Think about it, Sarah," he murmured, his voice dropping back to that intimate register. "What you need. What you deserve. Freedom isn't selfish. It's survival."
The warmth of Jules’s hand lingered on her shoulder long after he’d vanished into the damp afternoon, swallowed by the stream of students and the relentless drumming rain. Sarah stared at the untouched latte, the foam collapsed into a sad, beige puddle. Freedom isn't selfish. It's survival. The words echoed, clashing violently with the image of Ben’s earnest, anxious face when he’d shown her the cabin booking. Own it. Claim the space. The steam rising from her cup felt suddenly suffocating. She pushed it away.
The cafe chatter blurred into white noise. Kings. Queens. Gods. Jules made it sound so simple, so inevitable. Chloe’s voice, breathless and satisfied, replayed in her head: "Unbelievable."
Her phone buzzed against the scarred wooden table. Ben.
> Ben: Hey hon. Class running late. Grabbing a quick bite afterwards with Arlis & Prof. Thompson re: that grant proposal. Don’t wait up for dinner! Cabin prep is GO! 🙂 Packing list almost done! Nervous!
The exclamation points vibrated with forced cheer. Dr. Arlis. Again. Sarah’s fingers tightened around her phone. Jules’s low murmur cut through her rising irritation: What do you want, Sarah? Beyond Ben’s anxieties? Beyond… Dr. Arlis?
A figure slid into the chair Jules had vacated. Sarah jumped. It was just a harried undergrad dumping a backpack, but the intrusion shattered her fragile composure. She needed air. Grabbing her coat, she stood, the legs of her chair scraping loudly on the floor. As she pushed through the heavy glass door into the wet grey afternoon, the cold rain hit her face like a slap. Jules’s final touch seemed to burn on her skin. Survival. Did surviving her marriage feel like this? Damp, cold, and utterly alone? She turned her collar up and walked fast, the rain soaking through her sleeves, Jules’s dangerous question echoing louder than the downpour: What DO you want?
The rain plastered Sarah’s hair to her forehead as she hurried towards the relative shelter of the university library quad. Her mind churned, a toxic mix of Jules’s seductive logic and Ben’s oblivious text. Nervous! About the cabin? Or about dinner with Dr. Arlis? She ducked under the stone archway leading to the library steps, shaking water from her coat.
She found an empty wooden bench tucked away in a dimly lit corner of the periodicals section, the air thick with the smell of old paper and dust. Pulling out her phone, she reread Ben’s message. The cheerfulness felt like barbed wire. Jules’s words about Ben "compartmentalizing" took on a sinister edge. Was Dr. Arlis neatly filed away in a box Ben thought Sarah couldn’t see? Her thumb hovered over the call button. Confront him? Demand answers she wasn’t sure she wanted? A wave of exhaustion crashed over her. The constant vigilance, the interpreting of silences, the dampening of her own spark to accommodate his pervasive anxiety – it was exhausting.
"Running late. Grabbing a quick bite." The casualness of it stung. She thought of the Lake Serene cabin confirmation email – Ben’s meticulous planning, the nervous energy vibrating off him for days. Was it excitement for them, or was he trying to fend off sparks with someone else? The image of Chloe, radiant and unburdened after her night with David, flashed before her again. Raw. Uncomplicated. Jules’s voice slithered into her thoughts: "Why deny yourself that same freedom?" Freedom to feel. Freedom to… what? Her stomach clenched. To explore the dangerous flicker of interest she’d felt when that new barista smiled at her last week? Or the jolt she felt every time Jules’s hand seemed to linger a little too long. Interest she’d instantly crushed, smothered by loyalty and the heavy blanket of Ben’s neediness. Was Jules right? Was she trapped in the dark by Ben’s fear?
A notification pinged. Not Ben. Jules.
> Jules: Made it to seminar. Barely. You okay? Looked like the weight of the world hit you back at table. Just checking in. No pressure. Truly. Safe space, remember. Always.
His timing was unnerving. As if he knew exactly when the doubt would crest. Safe space. The phrase felt like a life raft thrown into churning water. Her fingers flew over the defensiveness fully formed.
> Sarah: Fine. Just thinking. About freedom. And cages.
She hit send instantly.
The ellipsis appeared immediately, vanished, then appeared again.
> Jules: Cages are often doors we’re afraid to open. Sometimes we forget we hold the key. Or are afraid of what’s outside.
Sarah stared at the words. Held the key? To what? To unleash Ben’s anxiety? Or unleash herself? The dangerous line Jules had drawn earlier resurfaced, sharp and gleaming. He hadn’t asked it directly yet. She took a shaky breath, the dusty air catching in her throat. She typed slowly.
> Sarah: It wasn’t the weight of the world. Just Ben. Texting. Grabbing a “quick bite” with Dr. Arlis. Again. He’s nervous about cabin. But maybe he’s really nervous about her?
She hit send send, her pulse pounding her throat.
Jules’s reply was almost instant.
> Jules: Ah.
There it is.
The real question under the question.
Hear me out for a sec: Are you really just worried about Ben and Arlis? Or is it that a tiny part deep down that wonders if… if they did do something… it might mean you wouldn’t feel quite so guilty about your own thoughts? The relief might be almost… the justification you need?
His words sliced through the fog of her resentment. Sarah gasped audibly in the sterile silence of the periodicals section. A librarian glanced up sharply her way. Sarah shrank back into the bench. Jules had voiced the unthinkable thing. The thing she hadn’t articulated even to herself in the secret corners of her mind. Guilt pounded hard against her breastbone. Guilty? Comfortable? Did she secretly wish Ben would falter, just to balance the scales for the fantasies she’d ruthlessly suppressed? The image of the barista, the easy smile, returned with sudden startling clarity. And worse, the thought of another meeting with Jules, somewhere besides the bistro. Not just drinks. His apartment maybe. If Ben was… occupied wouldn't it be permissible? Her breath came in short pants. It It was monstrous thought. Jules’s next text pulsed on the screen.
> Jules: No judgement, Sarah.
Safe space. Just honesty. Tearing down walls starts with admitting the walls are there. This is where you start tearing them down. Or build higher. Your call. But know what you’re really scared of. Ben slipping? Or yourself?
Sarah sat paralyzed, her fingers cold and numb. Her phone, the accusing light illuminating her trembling hands. He was right. She wasn’t worried about Dr Arlis. Ben wasn’t a cheater, never in a million years. But she’d be lying to herself if spending so much time with Jules had been completely innocent, and she certainly wasn’t stopping it. She was terrified what revelation might unlock inside herself. Jules had held up a mirror, and what she saw staring back frightened her. The rain lashed against the library window panes, blurring the world outside into watery indistinct shapelessness. Just like her conscience. She didn’t reply. Couldn't. She only stared at the screen, the cold from rain outside seeping deep into her bones. What was she truly scared of? The answer, echoing silence in her own mind.
The rain blurred the library windows into watery smears, matching the chaos churning inside Sarah. Jules’s text glowed on her screen: Ben slipping? Or yourself? The silence in her mind wasn't peaceful; it was the roaring quiet before a dam breaks. Cold seeped through her coat. Ben was with Dr. Arlis. Again. "Nervous!" about the cabin? Or about hiding something? The thought was a live wire.
Her fingers, stiff and cold, typed a reply before courage failed.
> Sarah: Maybe both. Terrifies me.
She hit send. Vulnerability washed over her, terrifying and weirdly liberating. Like stepping onto thin ice. She watched the ellipsis bubble appear, vanish, reappear. His response came swiftly.
> Jules: Bravery feels terrifying at first. That’s how you know it’s real. Don’t freeze now. Keep moving. My seminar wraps in 45. Want to talk more? Properly? Somewhere less… dusty? Could use a real drink myself. And an ear that isn’t terrified of its own shadow.
A real drink. Not campus coffee. The implication hung in the digital air. Her breath caught. She looked around the hushed periodicals section – the towering shelves of bound journals felt like prison walls. Talking. That’s all. Just untangling the mess. Jules understood the mess. He saw Ben’s anxieties, Dr. Arlis’s presence, the suffocating weight of unspoken desires. He saw her.
Ben’s text flashed in her memory: Grabbing a quick bite afterwards with Arlis & Thompson... Don’t wait up for dinner. He’d be out late. Occupied. Unaware. The cabin weekend loomed – Ben’s nervous energy, the pressure to reignite something she wasn’t sure still had a spark. What was one dinner? Talking wasn't betrayal. It was strategy. Understanding. Survival, like Jules said.
The justification solidified, cold and hard in her chest. It’s just dinner. What’s the harm? The words felt flimsy even as she clung to them. She needed to do something, not just sit in the library drowning in doubt. Her thumbs moved decisively.
> Sarah: 45 mins. Where? Ben’s out late with Arlis and Thompson anyway. Told me not to wait for dinner. The Fig & Olive? Quiet booths.
The Fig & Olive. Dim lighting, good wine, discretion. A place for conversations that demanded shadows. She held her breath.
His reply was instantaneous.
> Jules: Perfect. See you there. Corner booth. We’ll dive deep. Wear something… sexy. You know, for thinking. ;)
Sexy for thinking. The phrase sent another jolt through her. Innocent enough. Wasn’t it? She stood abruptly, the wooden bench scraping loud in the quiet. Her latte was stone cold, the foam a sad gray slick. Freedom felt less like soaring and more like stepping off a cliff, heart hammering against her ribs. She pulled on her damp coat, the weight of it suddenly oppressive.
Outside, the rain had lessened to a persistent drizzle, misting the campus lights into hazy halos. She walked quickly, head down, Jules’s final text burning in her mind. We’ll dive deep. The image of the corner booth materialized – intimate, secluded. Ben’s oblivious face floated before her, replaced by Dr. Arlis’s confident smile, then Jules’s knowing eyes. Her steps quickened, propelled by a volatile mix of fear, resentment, and a terrifying, illicit thrill. The library's muffled silence was replaced by the slick sound of her shoes on wet pavement, each step carrying her further from the cage and towards the precipice Jules had so carefully revealed.