“How do I make it?” I ask. “How do I choose?”
Amy sighs heavily. “You have what is known as a double-bath-bomb problem.”
I knit my brow. “And what is that?”
“It’s a million shades of gray that can only be sifted through with a good long soak in a tub. So, you soak, and you contemplate.”
That I can do.
21
Logan
With laser focus, I eye the pitch.
I call on the same focus I’ve tried to employ all day yesterday and today. The focus I’ve needed to resist Bryn since we met at the coffee shop two nights ago.
To stay away from her office. To refrain from texting her. To give her the space she asked for.
As the ball crosses the plate, my metal bat connects with a thwack.
The sound of possibility.
For a split second, my eyes follow the ball’s trajectory over the field, but there’s no time to linger. It’s Friday night, and I have a game to win. I hustle down the first baseline, watching the flight of the ball.
“Go, Daddy, go!”
Amelia’s cheer from the bleachers is loud and proud, energizing me to run even faster.
My foot lands on the first base bag right as the ball soars past the fence in Central Park. I thrust my arms skyward. “Yes!”
A shout comes from ahead of me on the field. “I knew you were good for something!” My sister’s rounding second base, heading toward third.
Oliver’s ahead of her, shouting back at me, “I never gave up on you. Not once in all these years.”
I roll my eyes. “You two are so sweet,” I call out, laughing as I follow them, adrenaline surging, chased by the thrill of victory—that home run seals the game for my team.
After I trot around the bases, I cross home plate, smacking the palms of my sister and Oliver. “Woohoo! We did it!”
“You did it, Daddy! You’re the best!” Amelia shouts from her vantage point on Fitz’s shoulders as he joins the rest of the team.
Fitz lifts his arms, wraps them around her waist, and lifts her off his shoulders. “That tickles! Don’t drop me, Fitzy,” she says to him as he sets her down gently.
He tickles her waist. “Never. I’d never tickle you while you were on my shoulders. Only the ground, and then you’ll beg for mercy from the tickle monster.”
With a boisterous laugh, she wiggles away. “Stop, tickle monster, stop!” She rushes to me, hugging me. “Your home run was my favorite part of the game.” She taps her lip. “Except Calvin and Hobbes was a little better.”
“What?” I act indignant.
“Fitz was reading to me the whole time he wasn’t playing, and we read Calvin and Hobbes,” she says.
I ruffle her hair. “You can never go wrong with one of America’s best comics,” I say, grateful that my friends take turns keeping Amelia occupied.
“Amelia,” Fitz chides. “Tell your dad the truth. You read a lot of it to me too.”
My kid smiles at me, big and bright. “It’s true, Daddy. I read to Fitzy. And he was super impressed because I am an awesome reader, thanks to you.” She pats my forearm and tells Fitz, “He reads to me every night.”
“I taught him how to read,” he deadpans.
I roll my eyes, but then meet my friend’s blue-eyed gaze, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for hanging with her during the game.”
He tousles her hair. “One of my favorite things to do.” He looks at the crew—Summer, Oliver, and me. “You guys up for some chow before the show? I’m hungry just from watching Logan expend all that energy on a grand slam.”
Summer gestures uptown. “I’ve got to stop by the fitness center. I want to see how the kickboxing class went tonight, but I can join you guys in a bit.”
Oliver slips an arm around her waist. “I bet it went perfectly. What could go wrong with kickboxing for seniors?”
“Gee. I don’t know,” Summer says. “That’s why I need to go. But we’ll meet up with you guys at the Lucky Spot, right? Check out the new band.”
“See you there,” I say, grateful to hang with my crew tonight, since I don’t actually know when I’ll hear from Bryn again on the do you want to disclose and date question. But I’ll give her time.
Oliver and Summer grab their softball gear and head off.
“I want to go out with you and your friends tonight,” Amelia says, frowning as she bats puppy-dog, take-me-with-you eyes. They work in most circumstances. Except tonight, since my time with her is unwinding.
I drop a kiss to her cheek. “I know you do, sweetie. But mommy is here to pick you up, and I’m sure she has something fun planned with you this weekend.”
I sling the softball gear onto my shoulder, and we leave with Fitz to meet Stacey at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park.
Her voice hits my ears as we near the exit. “And would you believe, David, then she said there was no way she was going to bring nut-free treats for the class. And I said, ‘Yes way, you have to.’”
I roll my eyes. Stacey has never let go of the need to be the classroom nut police. Admirable goal, to be sure. But it never warranted so much . . . conversation.
And I’m damn grateful I no longer have to listen to it.
“Mommy!”
Amelia takes off running, flinging herself at her mom. Seeing my girl like this, loving both her parents, keeps me focused on getting along with my ex. I’d do anything for Amelia—anything to make her life in two homes as easy as possible.
Still, I mutter under my breath to my friend, “Why does she always have to bring him?”
Fitz claps my shoulder. “You got this, bro.”
And he’s right. I do have this. It’s been two years, and it doesn’t hurt like it used to, seeing her with the guy she left me for.
The guy she cheated with.
He’s some jerkwad at an investment firm I did business with. An office manager type who worked fewer hours than me.
That was her criteria, it seemed.
She met David at a business dinner for my firm. And what did she do then? Took up with him while I was at the office. When I found out, she begged me to take her back.
Said she was sorry.
Said it was a mistake.
That it would never happen again.
When I said no fucking way were we staying together, she changed her tune.
“I was lonely. All you do is work. You were working all the time,” she said, like it was my fault she’d strayed.
Also, she was wrong.
I was home every night by seven. Home nearly every weekend. I rarely missed storytime or bedtime or bath time. I made breakfast with Amelia every morning and took her to preschool most days.
But when our marriage cracked, Stacey flung my work in my face. “I want someone who can give me more attention. You spend all your time on business. David’s not like that. He’s focused on me. He’s off at five every night.”
I hardly think two hours a night made much difference.
The bigger issue was Stacey and I had been drifting apart for years. College sweethearts, we got married two years after graduation. Amelia was born a few years later, and we were young twentysomething parents trying to make it in Manhattan.
We tried for a while, and Stacey encouraged me to focus on my business, since it had a tremendous upside in the money department.
But money wasn’t enough.
Honestly, if I had worked less, I don’t think that would have been enough either. Stacey and I stopped loving each other well before she had an affair.
Doesn’t make it right that she cheated.
But I’ll also never cast her as the bad guy in front of my kid.
Stacey, for all her flaws, is an excellent mother.
She scoops Amelia into her arms. “Hey, sweetie pie, I missed you bunches. And I’m so excited to take you to the llama sanctuary tomorrow.”
Yup, she’s a good mom.
“I can’t wait either,” Ame
lia says, then she looks up and waves to the man who lives with Stacey. “Hi, David.”
“Hey, Amelia. Good to see you.”
Stacey sets down Amelia, then strides over to Fitz and me. “Hi, Logan.”
“Hi, Stacey.”
She waves at Fitz. “Hey, Fitz. How are you? Good game the other night. Nice win against Boston.”
“Thank you very much,” he says, cool and cordial with her.
Stacey flashes her as-obvious-as-tomato-sauce-on-a-white-shirt smile. “Any chance you can get us tickets to the Philly game this weekend? Or any game next week?”
He sighs, like letting her down is the height of devastation for him. “Gee. I wish I could. But I don’t have extras.”
I try to rein in a grin. Fitz always has extras.
“Are you sure?” she asks again, opting for a flirty grin this time. Like she thinks that’ll work on any of my friends.
He stares at the darkening sky, as if considering, then nods crisply. “I’m one hundred percent positive.”
She sets a hand on his arm. “If anything changes . . .”
Gently, but firmly, he removes her hand. “It won’t change, Stacey. But thanks for asking. Appreciate your interest in the team.”
She turns to me. “Did you win at softball?”
“I did. Hit a homer.”
“That’s great. Also, we need to talk about school in the fall. There are some forms we need to sign.”
We speak briefly, then I say goodbye to Amelia, and Fitz and I take off, heading down Central Park West.
Fitz laughs once we’re out of earshot. “Man. She takes the cake. You have no idea how hard that was for me not to say, You have some fucking nerve, woman.”
“I’m proud of you for being as civil as you could.”
“I’m proud of you for treating her the way you do. But it is my sacred duty as your friend to despise your ex. And I will—bro code.”
We knock fists. “Bro code.”
“Seriously, you have done an excellent job at being a divorcé.”
“Thanks. It’s all I’ve ever aspired to be.”
His expression turns more serious than I usually see from him as he clasps my shoulder. “I mean it. I am proud of you. Last year, when Oliver and Summer were pretending to be engaged, you still seemed angry with Stacey and what went down. Understandable.”
I nod, echoing, “Understandable.”
He squeezes my shoulder briefly. “But you let go of your anger, and it’s good to see. You’re way more chill. That’s excellent. And that’s why I’m sad for you that the lady-friend sitch is up in the air. I was thinking she’d be everything you needed to loosen up and be happy again.”
“Because sex makes one happy?”
He blinks, like I’ve said something insane. “Well, obviously. It makes me almost as happy as winning a game.”
“Almost as happy as winning? Does that mean winning is better than sex? So, if you had to give up sex or hockey for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
He shoots me a searing look. “Are you the meanest person ever? Stop. Just stop. Never say such horrible things.”
“Well, what would it be? Hockey or sex?”
“I refuse to live in your world where I must choose between the two greatest things ever invented.”
I crack up. “Because you live in your world where you have both.”
He smirks devilishly. “All the time, motherfucker. All the time.”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m not jealous. Not at all.”
“You should join my team. The sex is much more plentiful on my side,” he says with a waggle of his brows.
“No doubt. But I think I’ll stick to the ladies. I just dig the whole female form.”
He nods sagely. “I get it. You like what you like.”
“Love is love,” I say.
“Preach, brother.” He punches my arm. “Besides, you’ve mastered being a camel. Why change things?”
“Oh, but you’re wrong, Mr. King of Hookups. I am not a camel. I visited a wonderful oasis a couple of weeks ago.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
I flip him the bird. “Thanks for reminding me, asshole.”
“Like you need a reminder,” he says with a laugh. Then the humor fades. “But tell me—how the hell has it been the last two weeks at work? Is it like being served a delicious drink you can’t have?”
I mime stabbing myself in the heart with a knife. “Like that. That’s how it is.” Then I exhale and give him the details. “I want to see if Bryn and I can figure this out. If she’d be game for dating. Bryn is the first person I’ve really connected with in ages, and that made the whole night with her better.”
“As in, better-than-winning-the-softball-game better?”
There is no question about it. “It was better than winning.” I leave it at that. Anything more is too personal. Too disrespectful of Bryn.
Besides, I don’t need to dive into the nitty-gritty with my friends.
Sex with Stacey was ordinary. It was missionary and lights off. It was every other weekend. When I tried to spice it up, bring in new positions, toys, dirty talk, maybe even—gasp—leave the lights on, Stacey would say, “Amelia might hear . . . Amelia is next door . . . Amelia might wake up.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that sex was the reason Amelia existed. That maybe it’d have been a good thing for our marriage if we kept having it. I didn’t point it out, because we’d grown apart not only in the bedroom, but in life.
I’d love to know what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who wants the same kind of connection in and out of the bedroom.
I have no clue how it feels when sex and honesty reside in one person.
When we reach the Lucky Spot, we stow our gear in the back room—perks of knowing the owner—then head to the bar and grab some drinks as the band sets up.
Fitz catches the eye of someone he knows, and tells me he’ll be right back. As I drink my beer, I take out my phone, scrolling through the last set of messages from Bryn.
I shouldn’t text her. I need to give her time and space. But when the bar owner announces the name of the opening act for the band, I have no choice.
22
Bryn
There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who like baths, and those who recoil at the very idea of soaking in a tub. Truly, there is no in-between.
About a year ago, we surveyed readers on the topic. Some considered baths akin to “sitting in a bucket of my own lukewarm stink,” while others said, “Bring on the bath bombs, wine, and soft mood music, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As the owner of a white claw-foot tub and the disciple of a whole lot of treat yourself sayings, I’m firmly in the soak and see you tomorrow camp. Tonight, my hair is piled high in a messy bun, my neck is resting against a glittery bathtub pillow—a gift from Teagan, who also prays at the altar of self-care—and my purple-polished toes are wiggling above the papaya-scented bubbles, beating out a rhythm to the Jonas Brothers.
Also, there is wine.
Because . . . wine.
This is the perfect thinking zone. If I can’t spend Friday night on all fours, getting pounded by a man who makes my toes curl and my heart melt, then dammit, I’m going to indulge in a long, hot bath while I contemplate what it would take to be with a man who makes me feel all over, in every part of my body.
I sing along to my boy bands from the water, luxuriating in my bathroom, taking sips of my pinot grigio from a mug.
Like I bothered with a wineglass. Mugs were made for baths. This is my second glass, so I should get a safety merit badge too, for practicing safe tub drinking.
As the music shifts to the Heartbreakers, I pop up, unable to control my excitement as I shimmy my boobs above the water. “I love this band,” I shout to the empty walls, then sing along to the trio of brothers who recently got back together.
My striped roommate saunters in, pops up on his h
ind legs, and sets his paws on the edge of the bath.
“Hey, handsome,” I say to Bruce.
He dips his paw lower, trying to swat a bubble.
I rein in a giggle, because he is transforming into an adorable creature.
Carefully, because one must try not to disturb an internet cat moment, I set down the mug, then I reach for the towel I left on the toilet seat, dry my hands, and grab my phone from the seat. Quietly, I click to the camera, adjusting myself without making a sound. I focus on the curious feline checking out my toes, then snap the money shot.
The cat sinks back to all fours and swishes out of the bathroom, indignant, as a new text lands on my screen.
A text that makes me grin.
It’s big and huge, and I can feel the smile taking over my whole face. The text reminds me exactly why Logan makes my heart do a little shimmy too—because he gets me. He gets what makes me laugh.
And in this case, it’s a photo of a band at a club and a sign.
* * *
Two Allusions with Illusions, Too
* * *
Laughing, I settle back into the tub and reply, since I don’t want to do anything but talk to him right now.
* * *
Bryn: And they have the audacity to insert a comma too. Who likes having to use punctuation in band names?
* * *
Logan: The answer is no one. Why don’t they just name themselves Two Homophones? That would be a good band name.
* * *
Bryn: You just started a new career path. Naming bands. Wait. Naming bands better. It’s like that old ad: “We don’t make cars; we make them better.”
* * *
Logan: It’s always good to keep your career options open. Band name consultant, here I come.
* * *
Bryn: But how is their music?
The What If Guy Page 14
