Tell Me Everything

by Amy Hatvany

  Now, I had to shake off the memory of that feeling as I threw a bag of smoked almonds, three cheese sticks, and two tangerines into Tucker’s snack bag, and then shoved that inside his backpack, which was waiting by the garage door.

  “Tucker Jackson Wright!” I hollered again, using his full name so he would know that I was serious. I stood at the base of the stairs that led from the kitchen to the second floor, and pounded my fist on the wall. “If you don’t get down here right this instant, I am leaving without you!” I needed to be in the office by eight-thirty to meet with a couple who had flown in last night from LA and wanted to find a six-bedroom, five-bath house with a view of Lake Washington, and I had the perfect property in Mercer Island to show them. I had listed the house, too, so I was in for a double commission if they decided to buy it, which I was pretty certain they would. People responded well to my more laid-back sales style. I was never pushy; I never uttered the phrase: “You have to buy this house!” I’d witnessed other agents say exactly that, or lie about having to beat other offers on the property, and their potential buyer’s expression would often fade from interest to one of annoyance. Nobody likes being told what they “have” to do, least of all when they’re about to dole out a huge portion of their savings for a down payment. Instead, I asked my clients leading questions like, “Can you picture your kids in this playroom?” or “What would you cook for the holidays in this gorgeous kitchen?” Eventually, they reached their own conclusion, and usually, if all the planets aligned with pre-approved financing and my ability to get them to imagine living in a particular house, I’d make the sale. I’d be furious if Tuck made me late and cost me this one.

  Less than a minute later, my son stumbled down the steps, his gym bag in tow. “Do I have time for breakfast?” he asked as he pushed past me without so much as a good morning. His black hair was spiked on top of his head with an inordinate amount of gel, and he wore baggy cargo shorts with a blue T-shirt.

  “No, you do not.” I tossed a granola bar at him, which he managed to catch, even while carrying his bag. “If you had been down here twenty minutes ago, you could have had the eggs and toast I fed your sister. Grab a banana, too.”

  “‘Oh, Ella’s so perfect,’” he said, in a voice that I was sure was meant to mimic mine. He put the granola bar into his bag, and then reached for a banana from the bowl on the counter. “‘Ella gets good grades and cleans her room and gets up early like an old person.’”

  “Stop,” I said, trying not to laugh. He actually nailed my voice pretty well. I picked up my laptop bag and my purse, and pushed him playfully out the side door into the garage. He was quiet on the ride to school, even though I tried to ask him how things were going with his friends and in his classes. As was per usual since he turned twelve, he gave me monosyllabic answers like “fine” or “good.” Never any details. He was so like his father that way—non-communicative, and hard to reach, at times. I kept hoping that it would just be a phase.

  “Bye!” I said as he got out of my car at the school. “Have a good day! I love you!” I didn’t care if his friends might be nearby and hear me; I was determined to make sure my children never doubted how I felt about them. He grunted, and gave me a half-wave before trudging toward the front doors. The campus was covered in a sprawling, red brick building that resembled a community college more than a middle school, nothing like the single box-like structure where I’d gone to junior high outside of Boise.

  As a realtor, I worked for myself, but also as part of a larger company, Kendall Properties, which was founded back in the 80’s by the woman who was technically my boss. Real estate had long been a man’s career, and Nancy Kendall set out to change that. Today, she was a powerful woman in her late fifties who prided herself on maintaining a roster of high-producing, well-respected agents in the Seattle market. She gave me a chance when I was a newbie agent, a single mother, trying to support my two kids—and the best and only way I knew how to repay her was to make enough sales to help keep Kendall Properties rated as one of the top agencies in the Northwest.

  I entered the mirror-front building that overlooked the busy I-405 freeway with fifteen minutes to spare before my meeting. Nancy was always here by seven o’clock, without fail, and was usually the last one to leave at night. “Don’t ask your staff to do anything you’re not willing to do yourself,” she once told me was her business model. “Set the example, and the expectation for them to live up to it.”

  I greeted Nancy’s assistant, Tony, and then rapped on her door before entering.

  “Come in!” she said, cheerfully, but I only popped my head inside.

  “Just wanted to say good morning,” I said with a smile. “Jake sends his love.” He hadn’t, but Nancy adored my husband, and always wanted to hear how he was doing.

  “Such a sweet man,” she said, looking up at me from her desk. She was a striking woman, not pretty, exactly, with her oddly shaped nose and wide forehead, but she had a powerful aura about her. Her posture was perfect and her suits and smooth, smartly-cut brown bob were always impeccable. I’d always thought she and my mother might get along, but when I’d suggested I might invite Nancy over to join us for a visit the last time my mom had come to our house for the weekend, she had looked at me like I was out of my mind.

  “What would I possibly have in common with a woman who sells real estate?” she asked, and the words pinched inside my chest. Did she not realize that I was a woman who sells real estate? Did she not hear how condescending she sounded? But I didn’t push the issue; I knew from experience that it wasn’t worth it to try to explain how I felt.

  “How are the kids?” Nancy asked me, now.

  “Driving me crazy, as usual, but good.” I smiled again. “You should come over for dinner soon.” Nancy was twice-divorced from men who both had a hard time dealing with her success and she’d never wanted any children of her own, but she was great with Tucker and Ella, talking to them like they were grown-ups in a way I could always tell they liked.

  “I’d love that,” she said. “Talk to Tony and let’s get a date on the books.”

  “Done,” I said, and then headed to my own office, which was down the hall and around the corner from Nancy’s. I didn’t have an assistant anymore—I found that I actually stayed on top of my work better if I didn’t have to spend the time waiting for someone else to remind me to do it. Or dealing with the aftermath if they failed to do what I had asked.

  “I don’t know how you manage not knowing when and if you’re next paycheck will come,” my mom said to me on the phone a few weeks ago, and not for the first time. I’d been telling her about a particularly complicated deal that could lead to substantial commission, hoping that she might see how difficult my job actually was, and, subsequently, how rewarding it could be. Instead, she chose to focus on its unpredictable nature.

  “That’s what fuels me to work so hard,” I said. “The not knowing. The fact that my next deal could be my last keeps me on my toes, making sure it won’t be.”

  She’d made a clucking sound, then, clearly not convinced of the merit of this particular financial dynamic. “I’ll take a steady, reliable paycheck, with benefits, any day of the week,” she said. As usual, I gave up trying to get her to see my point of view.

  Now, I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop. As I waited for it to boot up, I checked my phone, and saw a text from Jake. “He wrote back,” it said. “Check our new email.” My heartbeat sped up and my chest flushed as I read those words. I dropped my phone into my purse and typed my password to unlock my laptop, immediately logging into the anonymous email account Jake and I had set up in order to reach out to Will. There was only one email in the inbox, a reply to “The couple you met at the Cove.” We’d kept the note brief, saying that we’d like to take him up on his offer of getting to know each other better, figuring it would be wiser to save the specifics of what we were thinking for an in person discussion.

  “Hey guys!” Will wrote. “Sorry for t
aking such a long time to respond to your email. It went into my spam folder. I was cleaning it out tonight and saw that you’d reached out. I hope I’m not too late. Yes, absolutely, I would love to get to know you two better. Jessica is an amazingly sexy woman and I loved dancing with her. I like the vibe you two had, which is why I approached you in the first place. The fact that you decided to reach out tells me that you are the kind of couple I need to get to know. Let’s meet for a drink, wherever you’d be most comfortable, and we can go from there. Here’s to a new and exciting friendship.” And then he signed off simply, as “Best, Will.”

  I re-read his words three times before grabbing my phone and shooting off a text to Jake. “Should we meet him for a drink?”

  “I’m game if you are,” Jake replied. “Want me to set it up?”

  I stared at the screen for a minute, glancing back at Will’s email, and then to my husband’s message. My breath became shallow. The phone on my desk buzzed; the receptionist informed me that my clients from LA were waiting for me in the lobby.

  A powerful burst of excitement vibrated through me. I remembered the way it felt to step out on the dance floor with Will, to let him touch me the way only my husband normally would, and it made me want to be the one to email him—to experience that dare-devil thrill of starting something new.

  And so, before I could change my mind, I sent Jake another text: “Let me do it,” I said, and then I walked down the hall, thinking, Why not? What do I have to lose?

  Six

  Jake stood outside the doorway that led from our bedroom into our walk-in closet, leaning against the wall. His arms were folded across his chest as he watched me try on yet another outfit.

  “What about the red one?” he suggested. “The one you wore to Charlotte’s birthday party?”

  “It makes my ass look big,” I said as I pulled off the form-fitting blue shift dress that looked more parent-teacher-conference than woman-maybe-about-to-have-a-threesome. In my fantasies about this situation over the years, I’d always cut straight to the get-naked-with-two-men-part; I never thought about what I would be wearing before that.

  “Maybe he likes big butts,” Jake said, faking solemnity.

  “That’s enough, Sir Mix-a-lot.” I reached down to the floor, plucked a single high heel, and then chucked it half-heartedly, not really meaning to hit him. It was the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend, three days after we had heard back from Will, and we were meeting him for drinks at a downtown cocktail lounge in about an hour. The kids were with Peter and Kari through Sunday night, but we still thought it was a better idea to pick a spot far outside of Queens Ridge. We didn’t want to run into anyone we knew.

  “Honey,” Jake said, after pretending to duck. “He’s not going to care what you’re wearing.”

  “But I do,” I said, grabbing a low-cut, sleeveless black jersey dress from a hanger. I pulled it over my head, turned sideways, and then grabbed the swell of my stomach, grimacing at the mirror. “Do I have time for a tummy tuck before we go?”

  “Stop it. You’re gorgeous,” Jake said. “Wear it.”

  I twisted around to see how I looked from behind. “Are you sure?”

  “Baby,” Jake said, coming towards me. He turned me to face the mirror as he stood behind me, his hands on my hips. “This is the body Will danced with. The body he wanted to touch. He loved how you look. He called you sexy, remember?”

  I nodded, having a hard time looking at myself. The small insecurities about my body, the ones that I carried with me every day but usually managed to ignore, were suddenly magnified. I was terrified that if I ended up naked in front of Will, he’d take one look at my less-than-flat belly and slightly sagging, I-nursed-two-babies-breasts and start muttering excuses about how he had to leave.

  “Close your eyes,” Jake said.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  I complied, and Jake continued, his mouth next to my ear. “Think about how his hands felt on you. The look on my face when I was watching you with him. How I couldn’t control myself long enough to get you home.”

  As I listened to his words, my face warmed, and my body relaxed. No matter how many times over the last month we’d talked about what happened that night, remembering it never failed to turn me on.

  “Now, open your eyes,” Jake said.

  I did, and when I saw my reflection, the uncertainty I’d felt had faded away. I shifted and gave him a kiss. “Thanks. I’m just...nervous. It feels strange, getting ready to go on a date with my husband and another man.”

  “Your husband thinks it’s hot.” He winked, grabbed my hand, and made me follow him downstairs and into the garage. He wore dark jeans and a light blue button down with the sleeves rolled up. Casual, but nice, and the shirt color brought out his eyes.

  We didn’t talk much on the drive, and forty-five minutes later, we parked and walked inside the Blue Moon Lounge, where we saw Will already sitting at a table in the back. He rose to greet us as we approached. It was still fairly early, only eight-thirty, so there weren’t too many people in the immediate vicinity, and the music piped through the sound system was low enough for conversation.

  “Hey,” he said, reaching out to shake Jake’s hand, and then pulled me into a quick, firm hug. He smelled amazing, a mix of soap and sweet, light cologne, and looked handsome in jeans and a green shirt. His blond hair was still damp, and seeing him for the first time in the light, I noticed a mischievous sparkle in his brown eyes. “Thanks for reaching out.”

  “Our pleasure,” Jake said. He pulled out a chair for me, and then sat down next to me. Will sat across from us at the small, square table, and a server quickly appeared and took our drink orders.

  “So,” Jake said. “Tell us more about you.” I recognized his business-like, interviewing-a-candidate-voice, and it struck me that maybe my husband wasn’t as calm about the situation as he wanted me to believe.

  “Well,” Will began, “I moved here for work about three months ago from San Diego, and I’m finding it a little hard to meet people because my hours at the office are long.”

  “What do you do?” Jake asked. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I’m a financial officer for a large corporation. They opened a branch here, and I’m in charge of getting everything up and running. I’ll be moving back to San Diego by the end of the year.”

  “Nice,” Jake said, bobbing his head.

  “Anyway,” Will continued, “My place isn’t very far from here, or the Cove, so I’ve been making myself go out for a little while on the weekends. I don’t want to turn into one of those creepy single guys who doesn’t have a life.” We laughed, and so did he. “I’m forty, and have never been married—”

  “Why not?” I asked, cutting him off, instantly curious. In my experience, men of a certain age who have never walked down the aisle came in two varieties: they’re either total playboys, who tend to treat sex like a sport, or entrepreneurs, whose genuine loves in life are money and success rather than marriage and family. In Will’s case, I was hoping for the latter, because Jake and I had already decided that if Will came across as a player who slept around, we would walk away.

  “I never really felt the need,” he said. He shrugged. “I’ve had a few great long-term relationships, but marriage and kids aren’t what I’m looking for. I love my job.”

  “That makes sense,” I said, making eye contact with him for what felt like too long of a moment before I had to look away and take a sip of my drink. My heart was pounding, again remembering how his hands felt on me when we had danced. Thinking about Jake’s hand over my mouth in the parking garage not long after that.

  “I’m an executive recruiter and Jess is in real estate,” Jake said. “We’ve been married seven years.”

  “Seven years,” Will repeated, and then caught my gaze, again. “Feeling itchy, are you?” He raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “A little,” I said. And then I winked at him, surprised by my
own boldness. Jake reached over and rested his hand on top of my thigh. I was so focused on my connection with Will in that moment, I jumped a little at my husband’s touch.

  “We’ve never done anything like this,” Jake said, giving Will a look laced with meaning. “Have you?”

  “That depends on what you’re referring to,” Will said, still smiling. “If you mean dance with another man’s wife, then yes, I have.”

  “Have you done more than that?” I asked, making sure I sat up straight so my cleavage wouldn’t go unnoticed. “With another man’s wife?” Jake’s fingers tensed, and I held my breath, trying to slow my racing heartbeat.

  “Wow, so we’re going to get right down to it, huh?” Will said. He released an easy-going laugh and took a sip of his beer. “All right, then. I like it.” He paused, and looked back and forth between me and Jake. “Yes, I’ve done more than that. Not very often, though, because it can be difficult to find like-minded people, and I’m very particular. I’m not out there going to swinger parties or clubs or anything. I prefer more discreet situations. So occasionally, if I see a couple I like, with a woman as attractive as you, Jessica,”—here, he nodded toward me and smiled—“then I might ask the woman to dance and see what happens. You never know where it might lead. Most of the time, it doesn’t lead anywhere, so I’m happy you guys decided to get in touch.”

  He shifted in his seat, and I felt his foot brush against mine under the table. That small point of physical contact brought back the rush of stimulation I’d felt the night he danced with me. I couldn’t believe the intense attraction I felt. I didn’t even know him. What I felt was more visceral than that—a reaction that came from an entirely different place than what I felt for my husband.