On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

  And so it was that I got at least ten beautiful shots of Brittannee looking like what she seemed to be--a lovely, athletic girl with a pretty smile. And her mom got to pretend to be a model for a little while. They left holding hands, which made my throat ache.

  I would've loved a daughter.

  Maybe I'd adopt after all, in a year or so. The grief group members all told me not to make big decisions in the first year.

  And it had been only three months, one week and six days.

  Nathan's bench had been removed. I'd have to call Eloise and thank her.

  For the past four days, I'd been in the city, looking after Esther, Matthias and Sadie while Sean and Kiara went to a surgeons' conference in Napa, sponsored by a manufacturer of surgical equipment, where they spent fifteen minutes looking at technology and three days getting mud masks and massages.

  It had been fantastic, playing Scrabble with Matthias and Esther at night, binge-watching The Walking Dead with them, taking Sadie to Central Park during the day, pushing her in the baby jogger along the West Side Highway, letting people assume she was mine. I made Sean and Kiara promise to go away more.

  But today, I'd have to go back to Cambry-on-Hudson.

  "How you doing?" Max asked as we packed up.

  "Not bad, I guess." I looked at him, my old pal. "Sometimes it feels like I was never married. It's--" I cleared my throat. "It's tough."

  Max nodded. "Don't be so hard on yourself," he said, his whispery voice always sounding a little scary. "Don't overanalyze everything. Let yourself have a little fun."

  "You know me well."

  "I should."

  "Give the family my love."

  He nodded and walked off to his car.

  *

  I was thawing dinner, the last of the bereavement food, some sort of bisque, when Ainsley came home that night. "Hi!" she said. "I missed you! How were the kids?"

  "They're great," I said. "Esther's gonna put them through their paces, though. She's starting the terrible teens."

  "Good," Ainsley said. "Sean's always had it too easy." She beamed at me, clearly about to explode with news.

  "So how was your week?" I asked.

  "You'll never believe it!" she said. "I wanted to tell you immediately, but I knew it would be better in person, and I forgot you were going to Sean's. You ready?"

  I nodded.

  "I slept with Jonathan! And I have reason to believe we're in an actual relationship, because he made me sign papers."

  "Holy crap," I said, smiling. I didn't need to ask about it, because she buzzed around the kitchen like a happy bumblebee, scooping up Ollie, smooching his face, putting him on one hip while she grabbed the wine from the fridge.

  "I got stuck at his house on Friday night in the storm, and he made dinner, and we had some wine, and then he told me he liked me! I had no bleepin' idea! But I've actually been having these feelings about him here and there, because aside from being sort of an alien-robot, he's got this Mr. Darcy thing going on, a little bit, anyway. And it was so cute, how he told me! And then we kissed, and next thing I knew, we were doing our best to break his headboard."

  I laughed. She poured me a glass of wine and set the dog down, then took a seat at the counter. Ollie dragged his blanket over to my feet and curled up there.

  "So what do you think? Too soon after Eric?" she asked.

  "Oh, I don't know. What do you think?"

  "Come on. Give me some big-sister advice. I have a date with him in forty-five minutes. Out of town, of course. He's freaked out someone from work is going to find out."

  "He's divorced, right?"

  "Yes, and you wouldn't believe that story! His wife cheated on him with his brother."

  "Are you kidding? Yikes!" Oh, the fun of juicy gossip! It reminded me of happier times with Paige. "Well, all the more reason to be careful with him. I imagine he has trust issues."

  "See? Excellent big-sister advice." She finished her wine. "All right. I have to change and find some slutty shoes. And, uh, I might stay over at his place."

  My heart sank a little. I'd missed her, too. "Okay. Have fun."

  She must've picked up on something, because she said, "You want to do something tomorrow night? Just you and me, or maybe you and me and some friends?"

  Hell, yes. I was tired of my own company. "Sure. I'd love to. I'll invite a couple people from the grief group, okay? LuAnn is hilarious, and she could use a night away from her kids."

  "Super! We can have a party! Put this house to good use." She gave me a hug, then clattered upstairs.

  So. Just me and the dog tonight. That was fine. I could edit the pictures I'd taken today. Or read a book. Or clean the bathroom.

  Or start to clear out Nathan's clothes.

  It had to be done sometime.

  Ainsley left, and I ate my lonely soup at the counter, feeling a bit like a Dickensian orphan. "Please, sir, I want some more," I said aloud. Ollie barked and wagged, so what the heck? I scooped him onto my lap and let him lick out the bowl.

  There was still some soup in the pot, enough for another bowl, at least.

  I dumped it down the drain.

  No more bereavement food. I was sick of it.

  It's funny how time is measured after you've lost someone. Everything relates back to that second your life swerved. The calendar isn't measured by the names of the months or seasons anymore, but by those significant dates. The day we met. The first time we kissed. The first dinner with his family. The anniversary of his death. The date of his funeral.

  And every day takes you further from the time he was alive, slicing you with the razor-sharp realization that those days would never be celebrated again. Nathan's birthday would come and go, year after year, but he'd never grow older. All the anniversaries we'd never have. It would've been our first, our third, our twenty-fifth. All those dates that held no meaning for anyone on the outside but were slashed into the hearts of those of us who'd been left behind.

  In our group the other night, LuAnn talked about that first year, how she'd steeled herself for every first. "The three hundred and sixty-sixth day, though...things inside me, they just kinda relaxed, you know? Like I proved I could survive it, even when I never believed I could."

  Janette, whose husband had died of cancer on their anniversary, said it was the opposite for her. "Every month seems harder. All the things he's missing. And here I am, pathetically getting older, wandering through life without him."

  "For me," Leo said, "it was like a car was parked on my chest, crushing me, and even breathing hurt. Now it's been almost three years. The car's still there, but it's moved off and made some room."

  "For Jenny," I said.

  "Yes." He smiled. "For Jenny. And other people, too. My students. You guys."

  I still had such a long way to go, the newest in the group.

  I refilled my wineglass and wandered into the study (or den). Maybe I'd look at those last photos of Nathan, still sitting in the Nikon on the shelf.

  But what if I saw that he didn't really love me? What would I do then?

  And then...no matter what I saw in his face...I'd never have anything new of him again. As long as those photos were unseen, it felt like there was something left of Nathan still in the world.

  "Not tonight, Hector," I said. My fish swam amiably in his bowl. Still alive, still bucking the fishy odds of life expectancy.

  I clicked on my computer. I had to erase pimples from a dozen high school seniors' faces and put together a slide show for two sets of newlyweds. Ollie came in, dragging his ratty old blanket, made a nest on the floor and fell asleep, his soft little doggy snores keeping me company.

  I adjusted light and smoothed skin and cropped relatives. It was easy work. Ah, here was a gorgeous shot--the bride was African American, in profile as she said her vows, a tear glistening on her cheek, echoing the diamond earring she wore, the contrast in her skin tone and dress stunning. I'd submit that one to a photography magazine. "Nice work, don't you
think, Hector?" I asked. I'd really been on my game last weekend. Good for me.

  A knock slammed at the front door, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Boomboomboomboom! Ollie leaped up, grabbed his blanket and went racing to the door, his barks muffled by fleece. I followed.

  It was Daniel. And it was past nine.

  "Is everything okay?" I asked.

  "I'm an uncle again!" he said, giving me a big hug. "Congratulate me! I was in the delivery room, which, believe me, was not on my bucket list, seeing my sister spread from east to west. I need some acid to wash out my eyes." He let me go, grinning like an idiot. "Oh. Shouldn't have hugged you. I have all sorts of fluids on me. I came right from the hospital."

  His happiness was contagious. "Oh, hell, it's okay. Boy or girl?"

  "Girl, and please God, she won't be the little demon her sister is. Maisy Danielle--I totally earned that middle name, by the way, hauling my sister's leg back so she could push, telling her she was amazing while trying not to look at her parts. Nine pounds, two ounces, head like a frickin' moon. My sister won't be able to walk for weeks." He folded his brawny arms across his chest, still smiling. "Nice name, right?"

  "Very nice. Congratulations, Uncle Dan. Come on. I might even have champagne somewhere."

  "I'll take a beer. Actually, I'm kind of gross. A brother tends to sweat from every pore when his sister's water breaks. In my truck, no less. Any chance I could take a shower first?"

  He was clearly buzzed with adrenaline. "Sure, come on in. There are seven bathrooms in this house."

  "See this stain?" he said, pointing to his shirt. "It's blood. How gross is that? And I don't even want to think what this is." He continued to talk as I led him upstairs. "She was a champ, though, my sis. Hardly yelled at all. Then my mom got there, and she was all irritated that she missed the drama, but it was Jane's fourth, you know? The kid slid out like a greased otter. We barely made it to the hospital. I think she pushed five times."

  I led him down the hall to one of the unused bedrooms. Couldn't remember the last time I'd been in here, but it was clean, vacuum marks still on the rug, a splotchy painting on the wall.

  Strange, that there were rooms in my house I didn't go in.

  Daniel opened the door to the bathroom. "Wow. This is bigger than my apartment."

  Yeah, it was a little on the obscene side. Tasteful, sure, but enormous. Nathan had deemed white and glass bathrooms very "last decade," and so this one was made out of dark wood and soapstone. One side of the room had a counter with double sinks, elaborate lighting above, below and alongside the counter, as well as four live orchids. Someone was keeping them alive, Ainsley or the cleaning service. There was the toilet room (with bidet, which, being American, I found creepy). A giant tub with water jets, and, in the far corner, the shower, hidden by a wall of smoked gray glass.

  "Towels are everywhere," I said, indicating the row of a dozen symmetrically rolled white towels. "Take your time. Enjoy."

  "I will. Thanks. Hey, got a clean T-shirt I can borrow?" he said, pulling off the one he was wearing.

  Good God. Muscles everywhere, and skin, glorious skin.

  "Sure. I'll be right back. Keep your pants on, mister. No flashing me."

  He winked, and I found myself smiling as I went down the hall to my room. I had a giant Yankees T-shirt my father had brought me that I slept in sometimes. I wasn't about to give him something of Nathan's. That... No.

  I grabbed the shirt and came back to the bathroom. Daniel was now barefoot, fiddling with the controls in the shower. His work boots and socks were by the door, his mighty torso rippling like Thor's. I said a brief prayer of thanksgiving to FDNY, their training program and gyms. I was a widow--I wasn't dead. He had an eight-pack, and just above the waistband of his jeans were those wonderful V-lines. A happy trail.

  "How do you turn the light on?" he asked, and I jumped and cleared my throat. Hot in here.

  "Oh. Um...I'm not sure. Wave your hands. Some of the switches are motion sensors."

  The bathroom was big enough that the shower required its own lights. It was gloomy-dark in there. Daniel waved an arm, the motion causing his shoulder to bunch and flex hypnotically. Nothing happened (light-wise, though my ovaries were sighing happily). I tried a few light switches--under the sink, next to the sink, in the toilet room, the tub's underwater lights.

  I went over to the shower. It had three showerheads--north, south and above--one of those rainshower things, as well as a detachable sprayer. On the shelf, there was a line of products--lemongrass soap, shampoo, conditioner and moisturizer. A razor. A loofah. There was a control panel (don't judge me...this was all Nathan's idea) where you could adjust the temperature of the water and which showerheads to use.

  I waved a hand. Nothing. Jazz hands failed to get us light. I moved closer to the control panel, thinking there must be a switch there. Temperature, steam feature, tile heating. Nothing that said light.

  I waved again. This time, for some reason, the lights went on.

  So did the water, from every possible source. And it was freezing. I scrambled back with a yelp and collided with Daniel.

  He was laughing. "Yay for you," he said, holding on to my elbows. "You found it."

  The water from the rainshower had soaked me through. Daniel, too. It got warm almost immediately, running down my face, my back, soaking my jeans.

  Streamed in fascinating rivulets down Daniel, pooling in the indentation above his collarbone, down his beautiful, thick chest and arms, into the waistband of his jeans.

  "Well," I said, my voice husky, "have fun."

  "I will." But he didn't let go of my arms, just looked at me with that slight smile.

  Then he kissed me.

  For a second, I didn't move.

  Then I did. My mouth did, anyway, and all the loneliness and emptiness I'd been feeling seemed to leap out of me. Daniel's hands slid into my wet hair, and my arms went around his neck, feeling the power of his muscles, and he felt so good, so beautiful, that I almost cried.

  I missed being touched. I missed touching another person who wasn't my sister or niece. I missed someone wanting me.

  And hot damn, he knew what he was doing--he was Daniel the Hot Firefighter, after all, and I was finally seeing what all the fuss was about. He kissed me like he was planning to do just that for hours, slow, intense, wet kisses, his mouth moving and testing. His big hands wandered down my back, then he bent and picked me up and pressed me against the shower wall, his mouth never leaving mine.

  He felt so good. I mean, he was basically a god, physically speaking, and he felt so strong and big, his skin slippery and wet and warm, his muscles rolling, holding me up without apparent effort, his arms rock hard under my hands.

  And he was smiling against my mouth. For some reason, that did more than everything else.

  I missed this. I missed sex. I missed the feeling of a man, the scrape of his razor stubble, the amassed strength. After all these months of me fading away, someone knew I was here.

  "I don't have anything with me," he murmured against my ear, "but I think I can make you happy just the same." Then his mouth moved to my throat, and lower, and my hands fisted in his hair, tugging his mouth back to mine.

  "I have something. Just...just... I'll be back in a second." On legs that barely worked, I staggered out of the shower, down the hall to my bedroom, leaving a trail of water the whole way. I didn't even care.

  There were condoms in the night table drawer on Nathan's side of the bed, back from before we were trying to get pregnant. From before we were married.

  I wouldn't think about Nathan now. He was gone, he'd still had feelings for Madeleine and I was so, so tired of being sad. I'd been disappearing for months now.

  Daniel saw me, and not just because I was standing in front of him. He'd come here, to me, to tell me about his new niece. That day in the park, when I'd fallen asleep, he'd been sitting next to me when I woke up.

  Don't overthink this, I told myself. I hea
rd Max telling me to be nice to myself. Ainsley saying I deserved some fun.

  I ran back down the hall, the half-empty box in my hand. He was getting out of the shower.

  He really was beautiful. There was no other word for it. But his expression was somber. "I'm sorry about that," he said, not looking at me. "Obviously, we don't have to do anything, and I get the feeling I really, uh, overstepped there."

  "You didn't."

  He looked at me a long minute. "You took your time."

  "I wanted to make sure this was a good idea."

  "Is it?"

  "It is."

  His mouth pulled up in an abrupt smile. "Thank God. I thought you were trying to figure out how to get rid of me." Then he crossed the room and kissed me again, a hard, whole-body kiss, and, being that he was six foot three and a wall of perfection, just scooped me right up and kept going till we hit the bed. Bounced me down on it and said, "Let's get you out of those wet clothes, then," and proceeded to get me naked. Fast.

  It was fun. It was fun and horny and hot, and he was beautiful and smiley, chiseled and rippling, heavy and delicious on top of me, and for a while, I felt like my old self again.

  Happy.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Ainsley

  Jonathan's house seemed more beautiful each time I saw it--the old farmhouse high on a hill, no neighbors in sight, a view of fields and woods, and in the distance, the silvery wink of the Hudson.

  But it was now Friday morning, and he was kicking me out so we could both get to work, so I had to go. The birds were singing full-on, and the mist was rising off the river, and the world was beautiful and new.

  Last night, we'd had an honest-to-goodness date. A glass of wine while sitting out on the slate patio, under a big maple tree that shushed with the breeze, watching the sun lower in the clear summer sky. Then we drove across the river to a beautiful restaurant in a former mill building, our table overlooking a waterfall.

  At first, I did my usual isn't she wonderful? repertoire, gently flirting with both Jonathan and the waiter, making sure Jonathan remembered he did indeed like me. Sleeping with the boss was harder than it looked; this whole week, there'd been absolutely no affection or lovey-dovey stuff between us at work. So it was normal, in a sense, but every time he walked by, I felt my cheeks warm. I was so used to being in trouble at work, I couldn't tell if it was lust or guilt. And he seemed completely unaffected that he'd seen me naked. It was a little bruising on the old ego.