On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

"It always felt so happy here," I said, meaning it.

  "When he kicked me out, I never thought he meant it." Her mouth wobbled.

  This was the first time she'd really talked about her breakup, and I didn't know what to tell her. I was hardly a relationship expert, was I?

  "Take that pillow," I said, pointing to the couch. The pillow said love you in pink letters, such an Ainsley kind of thing. "And this little flower vase. It's very pretty."

  "I don't want them. But here. For you," she said, grabbing them. "He can't prove I didn't buy them. At least, I don't think he can. I handled all the finances when we were together. He probably has his mommy doing it now."

  We went upstairs, Ainsley grabbing a little statue of a dachshund off a table. "He hasn't even been to see Ollie," she said. "The bastard."

  "The sign of a sociopath," I said. "Can I have this?" I asked, pointing to an antique clock.

  "No, that was his grandmother's. Sorry. Here. Take this instead." She gave me a wooden giraffe.

  We went into the master bedroom. The covers were askew, a pillow on the floor. Ainsley paused, then went into the master bathroom, turned on the light and began scooping up moisturizer, mascara, lipsticks out of a drawer, and shoving them in her purse.

  "This is in addition to the stuff you have at my house?" I asked.

  "I know, I know, I'm an addict. But it costs a fortune. I'm not leaving it here."

  Eric's toothbrush and razor were on the counter, which had blotches of toothpaste and stubble staining the sink. "Men are disgusting," I said.

  "No kidding. We're better off without them. Oh, shit, sorry. I'm better off without mine. You, of course, are much worse."

  I snorted. "Thank you. I appreciate that."

  I put down my loot, took Eric's toothbrush, pulled up my shirt and leisurely rubbed the brush in my armpit. Ainsley shrieked, then laughed so hard she bent over.

  My reflection showed a happy, flushed person. Nice to see a smile on my face. For once, the thought didn't make me immediately revert to sadness. "Shall I spit on his pillow?" I offered, and Ainsley went off again into gales of silent laughter.

  Then we heard the door open downstairs. We froze.

  The door closed. There were footsteps.

  "Oh, God! He's back," Ainsley hissed. "Hide!"

  I grabbed my stuff and obeyed, trying not to snort with laughter. We tiptoed down the hall, and Ainsley opened the door to the guest bedroom, dragged me to the far side of the bed and pulled me down onto the floor with her. She was laughing, too, her eyes streaming with tears.

  Then we heard his voice...and a woman's voice answering.

  Our laughter died a quick death.

  "I love your place," the woman said. They seemed to be right under us, in what I thought was the living room, and the insulation must've sucked in this house, because we could hear them clear as day.

  "Thanks. It's a little soulless, but I'll deal with that when I get back. Probably, I'll sell the place and donate the money to my charity."

  His charity. Because there weren't enough charities for cancer research. The putz had to have one with his name on it, of course.

  Ainsley had grown very still next to me. I slid my arm around her. "He's a prick," I whispered. "You deserve better."

  "So how is a guy like you still single?" the woman asked, her voice playful.

  "Oh, I was with someone for a long time," he answered. "I don't think she could handle my illness. She said the right things, but she never honored my journey, you know what I mean?"

  Ainsley sucked in a breath, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

  "You're kidding!" the woman said. "That's horrible!"

  "Well, it happens. Not everyone is open to tackling the hardships of life. Enough about her. Come here, you."

  There was quiet then.

  "They're kissing," Ainsley whispered. "That's his come-on line. 'Come here, you.' Worked every time."

  "It's a really stupid line," I whispered back.

  "They're gonna do it. Here. In my house. In our bed."

  "No, they're not," I whispered.

  "Yes, they are. In two minutes, he's going to bring her upstairs, take a shower, because that's his idea of foreplay, and then he's going to have sex with her in our bed." She was shaking.

  "Give me your bag," I whispered. I clicked on my phone light and grabbed some mascara. Rubbed it under my eyes.

  "What are you doing?" she whispered.

  "Just be ready to get out of here when I distract them. We don't want you to be seen." For legal purposes, I didn't add. Hey. I was a grieving widow. Time to get a little mileage out of that.

  I took out her lipstick--super red--and put it on, making sure to smear it with a heavy hand. "How do I look?"

  "Insane."

  "Good."

  We sat there in the dark, holding hands. "Make sure you bring my loot," I said, and we started to laugh again, silent, wheezing, unable to look at each other. She grabbed a pillow off the guest bed, took off the pillowcase and loaded it up with my goodies. Added the cute bedside clock, too, which made us laugh even more.

  Sure enough, Eric and his friend came upstairs. We could hear little bursts of laughter and murmuring.

  "I'll just take a quick shower," he said. "Make yourself comfortable."

  "Why don't I join you?" she said in a sultry tone.

  "Excellent idea."

  I thought so, too. We heard the shower start. More laughter from the frisky couple. "Time for you to go, Ains," I whispered, standing up.

  "Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world."

  We tiptoed down the hall toward Eric's room. Ainsley stationed herself outside the doorway like a cop expecting gunfire.

  I went in.

  Screwing another woman in the bed he'd shared with my sister? Not on my watch.

  The bathroom door was closed. Since they'd left the lights on, I could see myself in the bureau mirror. Yep. I looked crazy. I messed up my hair for that added asylum look, took a deep breath and threw open the bathroom door.

  "Eric!" I bellowed.

  He screamed. She screamed. She also flailed, her elbow jerking back and catching Eric in the face. He screamed again, the wuss, one hand going to his nose, the other to cover his junk.

  I jammed my hands on my hips. "Where's my sister, Eric? What did you do to her?"

  "What are you talking about? How did you get in? God! I'm naked here!"

  Naked, and no longer homo erectus, either, I was pleased to note. Also, his nose was bleeding. "Where is she, Eric?"

  "Who is that?" the woman shrieked, trying to cower behind Eric, who was trying to cower behind her.

  "Where is she?" I demanded. "What have you done with her? Did you kill her?"

  "Of course not! I don't know where she is!"

  "Oh, my God," the woman whimpered. She scrambled out of the shower and started pulling on her clothes.

  "If Ainsley doesn't turn up," I said, "I'm calling the police on you. And I'll be watching you, Eric." I turned to the naked woman. "My husband is dead, and it's Eric's fault," I told her. "Or maybe that's the grief talking, but you should be very careful around this one." I gave her a mournful look, then looked back at Eric. "Shame on you, by the way."

  "Kate, are you... Is this a..." He straightened up. "You'd better leave, or I'm calling the police."

  "Or maybe I'll call the police, Eric, and tell them my sister is missing. Gotta run. Things to do. Have a great night!"

  I bolted. Ainsley was waiting at the top of the stairs, and we ran out, across the front lawn to her car, the bag of loot glowing in the darkness. Got in, and Ainsley floored it, laughing so hard she had to wipe her eyes. We fled silently thanks to the Prius's electric motor. A few streets away, Ainsley pulled over, both of us laughing so hard we were holding our stomachs.

  Then Ainsley's ringtone went off, a series of little chimes. She looked at the phone. "Why, it's Eric," she said, tapping it. "Hello?" Her voice was very calm. "Oh, hey, Eric. You sound stuffed
up." She hit Mute so he couldn't hear us laughing, then returned to the call. "Kate? She's out with a friend. Fund-raiser or something. Really? Huh. Are you sure it was my sister? No, I'm here with Ollie, reading. Listen, you sound ungrounded. Take some cleansing breaths and commune with the grizzly bears."

  I wheezed, tears streaming down my face. God, this felt good.

  There was a pause as he spoke. "Oh, so you're not in Alaska. Huh. Guess you haven't quite cut free from the corpse of your old life. Easy to blog about it, harder to do it, isn't it? Oh, and don't you dare write about my sister. First, you have no proof. Second, she's Nathan's widow and still grieving. And third, I'll make sure she sues you for libel if you do. Namaste, asshole."

  She hit End, and we both sat there for a few minutes, occasionally snorting, until the laughter ran out, and we were both quiet.

  A few raindrops hit the roof, then more, then a steady hiss, the beads running down the windshield, our view blurring. Thunder rumbled in the west, and a flash of lightning lit up the belly of the clouds.

  "I guess it's really over," Ainsley said, her voice quiet. "The Eric I knew is gone. I'm sitting here, jealous of you, because at least Nathan gets to stay Nathan in your memory, whereas I have to deal with the new and unimproved Eric."

  "I'm sorry, Ains."

  She nodded. Wiped her eyes.

  "You know, Nathan's given me a few surprises since he died," I added.

  She glanced at me. "Really?"

  "He stayed in touch with his ex-wife. I found emails."

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "Afraid not. It seems like they weren't really...done."

  "An affair?"

  "No. But I think he still...loved her."

  Said out loud in the intimacy of the car, the words seemed to lurk there in front of us.

  "You have to wonder if you ever know anyone at all," Ainsley said.

  "Ain't it the truth?"

  The rain kicked up, drumming on the car roof, and still we sat there, closer now than we'd ever been in our lives.

  "You know what?" I said. "There's a Pepperidge Farm coconut cake at home."

  "Say no more," Ainsley said, and home we went.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ainsley

  Though I showed up on time eight days in a row, I failed to dazzle Jonathan.

  Not that I was trying.

  Fine, I was totally trying. Why, though, I didn't know, because A) I was still furious with Eric, who finally did go to Alaska, according to Judy's Facebook post, and B) dazzling Captain Flatline was impossible.

  Not only did I get into work on time, I also refrained from shopping online. I realized my bar wasn't terribly high, but I'd been hoping it would make a difference to Jonathan. If it did, he hid it well.

  On another front, I unfriended and unfollowed Eric on all his social media platforms. When he texted me a question about his bad reaction to latex (he had no bad reaction to latex, for the record; he'd had a mosquito bite), I blocked his phone number.

  Eric had broken up with me. He'd brought another woman back to our house. He was in Alaska now.

  We were done.

  His mother and I hadn't talked in two weeks. Of course, the Fishers had to side with their son. I understood that. I'd never spend Hanukkah with them again, or go see Phantom with Judy, or watch a Sunday afternoon football game on the couch with Aaron, cheering vaguely when he did as Eric smiled and read.

  Those days seemed like a dream now.

  On Friday afternoon at 4:45, my email chimed.

  Please be ready to leave for the tool museum in ten minutes. Thank you.

  Jonathan Kent, Publisher

  Hudson Lifestyle

  Tool museum? Was that a metaphor? I checked my calendar. AITM. A quick Google search reminded me what the initials stood for. Antique Ice Tool Museum.

  Super exciting.

  I texted Kate to let her know I had a work thing. She was making dinner for some of the people from her grief group, which was nice. I'd been planning to lay low anyway and read. I asked her to feed Ollie, since I might be late; previous work excursions had shown that Jonathan was the type of person who read every plaque in every museum. And since the museum would be taking out a full-page ad to coincide with the story, we'd have to schmooze the director, which was something I could do in half an hour, and something that Jonathan could do only by memorizing every fact about the place.

  Antique ice tool museum. Who thought of these things?

  "We can take my car," Jonathan said as we went to the parking lot.

  "Sure." I got in; his car was ridiculously clean and neat. Two booster seats were in the back. "How are your daughters?" I asked.

  "They're fine."

  "And your dad?"

  "Also fine."

  That was it. Was this the guy who'd forced me to dance with him? "I am also fine, Jonathan."

  "Yes."

  I rolled my eyes and looked out the window. The rest of the ride passed in silence.

  The Antique Ice Tool Museum was about an hour north of Cambry-on-Hudson, and surprisingly charming--an old stone barn overlooking the river, filled with fearsome-looking saws and old photos and ads. As predicted, Jonathan studied every word of every bit of print in every place while I chatted up the director, a sixtyish man (my specialty) whose name was Chip.

  "Do people call you Ice Chip?" I asked, and he laughed, making Jonathan startle a little. "Chip off the old ice block?"

  "They will now," he said, proud of his new nickname.

  "Correct me if I'm wrong," I said, "but I'd think the Hudson wouldn't freeze this far downstream with the tidal patterns being what they are."

  "Most people think that!" Chip exclaimed, delighted with my mistake. "But back in the 1800s, you could skate right into New York Harbor!"

  "Really!" I said. His enthusiasm was infectious.

  "It's all about the salinity of the water," he continued, his eyes glazing over with love of his subject.

  By the time we left, the sky was growing dark with a summer thunderstorm, black clouds piling up across the river, the wind fluttering my dress. Chip and I hugged goodbye, as we were now close personal friends, and I promised to come back in the winter to see the ice-carving demonstration.

  "Thank you so much for your time," Jonathan said, shaking Chip's hand.

  "That's a great girl you've got there," Chip said. Same thing Eric's bosses used to say.

  "Yes," Jonathan said. "Have an enjoyable weekend."

  Captain Flatline struck again, I thought as he got into the car. I texted Kate to see how dinner was going as he backed out of the parking lot.

  Really well. Thx for checking! Be careful, okay? The weather map shows red.

  "Bad weather's coming," I said to my driver. "Big boomers."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Thunderstorms, Jonathan."

  He turned on the radio, and sure enough, the meteorologists were practically peeing themselves with joy. "Wind gusts up to fifty miles per hour, heavy rains, some local flooding. Stay inside, folks!"

  Jonathan sighed.

  "Do you have to pick up your girls?" I asked.

  "No, not till tomorrow." He drove with both hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. "You did well with the director," he said.

  "Thank you."

  "You're good with people."

  "I like people."

  His mouth curled up in a flash smile, then returned to its normal straight line.

  A gust of wind rocked the car, and rain abruptly slapped the windshield. Jonathan switched the wipers to high.

  The farther south we drove, the worse the weather. The lightning was getting intense, and twigs littered the road. Thunder rolled overhead, sometimes so loud that the car vibrated with it.

  Then there was a crash, a flash and a huge branch came down about twenty feet in front of us.

  "I'm going to bring you to my place," Jonathan said. "It's closer. You can wait out the storm there. Is that all right?"

&
nbsp; I glanced at my watch. It was 7:30 anyway. And it wasn't like I had plans. "Sure. Thank you."

  The power seemed to have gone out; the houses we passed were dark. We saw more downed branches, and sure enough, a Con Edison truck passed us, lights flashing.

  Jonathan turned onto a road that wound through the woods. The rain was so loud now, the wipers slapping frantically. Outside, the trees waved and bent, and clumps of leaves hit the car. I hoped nothing bigger would fall on us. It was getting a little nerve-racking.

  Jonathan turned again, onto an even narrower road, this one dirt, that brought us out into some farmland. No trees to fall on us here, but the road was like a river, water gushing along the side of it. The headlights showed only rain and mud. The clouds were so thick and black that it seemed like midnight.

  We turned again, and when the lightning flashed, I saw a big white farmhouse and red barn. Jonathan's headlights illuminated a stone wall. "Wait for me," he said, turning the key. He got out and, a second later, opened my door, holding his suit jacket over my head. "Let's make a run for it."

  There were leaves all over the slate walkway, and the sharp smell of rain and summer thick in the air. Jonathan unlocked the door, and in we went. It was pitch-black. He took my hand and led me farther inside, my footsteps short and uncertain. "Stay right here," he said. "I have a generator. I'll just be a second."

  Then he was gone, the thunder swallowing all other sound.

  I waited, my clothes sopping wet despite Jonathan's effort to cover me. It smelled nice in here, like wood and maybe a little bit of cinnamon. A cluster of lightning flashes showed me that I was in an entryway with a bench and a door leading into the house.

  A woman stood in front of me.

  I screamed, my hands going up in front of me.

  "Ainsley?" Jon's voice was sharp.

  "Who's here?" I shrieked. "Someone's here!"

  Then the lights came on, and I looked up and saw my reflection.

  I was standing in front of a mirror.

  "Never mind," I called. "I--It was me. Sorry." And speaking of me, my hair looked ridiculous. I fluffed it up, ran my fingers under my eyes and fluffed out my soaking wet dress, sending raindrops pattering to the floor.

  "Are you all right?" Jonathan stood before me, also soaked, though his hair looked quite...well, Darcy-esque; there was really no other word for it. Colin Firth and Jane Austen had ruined us chicks for other men, let's face it.

  "I saw my reflection. But I didn't know it was me. Sorry for the screaming."

  He looked me up and down. "Would you like some dry clothes?"