Once Upon A Wild Fling

by Lauren Blakely

  She’s heading into her new life as a single mom with her baby. Her tour of her apartment makes it clear—this place is for her and the baby, and that’s all.

  After I drop Ben at swimming, I walk Roxy back to her place, awkwardness like thick smog between us. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

  “Ben seems pretty excited about the baby,” Roxy remarks.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Like father like son. He’s excited about the baby who’s not a fixed part of his life. He’s crazy for the woman who’s not a part of our family.

  And that’s what the warning bells were signaling.

  That’s what they were trying to tell me.

  Ben is already falling in love with Roxy, and he’s going to be disappointed when this plus-one routine falls apart, and it will because sex games can’t last. If Roxy and I keep up our late-night escapades, we’re setting ourselves up for inevitable hurt. And Ben will be the collateral damage. God knows, I’ll barely be able to handle it when Roxy breaks my heart. If she breaks Ben’s heart, too, that will definitely be the end of mine.

  I wince, bracing myself for what I know must be done. We round the corner near her building.

  “Roxy?” Her name comes out as if I’m chewing on gravel. I don’t want to say this, I don’t want to give her up, but I can’t risk falling deeper in love with her.

  “Yes?” she asks, her voice shaky.

  “I think we should probably pull . . .” I stop and try to swallow. Finishing that sentence—pull back—is one of the hardest things to do.

  She holds up a hand, doing the heavy lifting for me. “Pull back. It’s becoming too complicated. Too messy. I love that little guy, and he already thinks we’re together.”

  Why can’t I tell her how I feel, like Campbell told me to? But memories of Diana leaving cruelly flicker before my eyes, coupled with the double whammy of Roxy’s own words.

  I’m off the market.

  Roxy is a woman who’s bold enough to tackle life on her own terms, to venture down a tough road solo. She’s also a woman who’s found a way around relationships because she’s only ever been disappointed by them.

  I’m a man who hasn’t had a relationship in years because my kid is at the center of my world, and now I suddenly want one. I want the big one.

  And it’s not on the table.

  “We should be friends,” I say, trying again to voice words that taste vile.

  “Plus-ones only, no benefits,” she supplies, giving me a smile I can’t read.

  I nod, hating the thought of just friends. “We can do that, right?”

  “Of course.” The words seem to choke her, but then she glances at the time, clearing her throat. “I should go. William is meeting me to review final paperwork for my new place. If I can get it over to Genevieve tonight, I can move in soon.”

  She’s moving in. She’s moving on.

  I tug her in for an embrace, breathing in her scent, wishing I could find a way to convince her. But ditching my solo career and rejoining the Heartbreakers was easier than telling Roxy I love her madly.

  My brothers wanted me back.

  Roxy, however, is content to go it alone.

  I have to let her go.

  I leave and hail a cab, looking away from the window when I see William strolling up to Roxy to clasp her in a hug.

  29

  Roxy

  “What was that all about?” William points in the direction of the cab, shooting downtown.

  “He has to pick up Ben from swimming,” I say, taking a deep breath I hope will squash all these awful feelings that are about to become a geyser of tears.

  Feelings are the worst.

  But they’re just hormones.

  This is like craving pickles and ice cream.

  Even though I didn’t crave that.

  But clearly the baby has taken over all my thoughts, feelings, and emotions because someone is determined to turn on the water faucet in my eyes.

  “And you’re about to cry over a swimming lesson?” William asks as a bus trundles by, spewing fumes that make me want to wretch.

  I wince, and William sets a hand on my back. “Let’s go inside.”

  I nod and bite my lip, holding in the tears.

  Once inside the lobby, he heads straight for the elevator, and that’s when the pregnancy wins.

  I leak tears.

  They spill down my cheeks.

  They’re going to drown me and carry me out of this building and onto the street and down the gutters and all the way out to the Hudson River where I will wallow like a beached whale of sadness in the stinky water.

  Once we step into the elevator, all the tears attack me like truth serum, and I spit up the words. “I’m a terrible sister. I fell for your client, and I am so crazy about Miles, and I’m so sorry I got involved with him, and I hope it doesn’t affect your business, and if you want to fire me as your only sibling, I completely understand.”

  William, bless his heart, doesn’t laugh. He simply wraps his arms around me. “There, there. It’s okay. I’m not totally clueless. I do have a wife and two kids, and I’ve learned a thing or two. I had a feeling there was something brewing between you guys.”

  I sob into his chest, and possibly there might be snot on his lovely dress shirt. I’m a total pig. I’m a snotty pig-whale. I’m a slug. “Then it’s your fault for introducing me to someone so irresistible,” I blurt out.

  The elevator slows at my floor, and he laughs. “Yes, it’s all my fault.”

  We head into my place, and I turn to him, worry taking over. “You’re not upset with me? I didn’t want to put your business at risk, but I did, and I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m not upset with you at all, and my business is just fine. But I might be upset with him. Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” I say, my voice breaking again.

  “Then why are you crying?”

  “Because we can’t be together,” I sob.

  “Why?”

  “Because he wants to just be friends.”

  William’s jaw ticks, and he hums a note of disapproval. “And now I’m more than upset with him. Because he did hurt you.”

  I shake my head as we sit on the couch. “It’s not his fault.”

  “Whose fault is it?”

  I shrug and hold out my hands. “I don’t know. The whole thing is just a mess. His son was saying things about moving into my apartment, and I was asking Miles if he wanted more than . . . you know.”

  William rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. You were banging.”

  I sigh. “Yes, well, we banged once. Okay, more than once. But it was all in one night, and it was more like—”

  “The number doesn’t matter. You were banging. Got it. And you asked him if he wanted to bang again?”

  “Sort of. I asked if he wanted more than sex, or more sex, but it might have come out awkward.”

  “Might have? Like now?”

  “Look, I’m bad at love, okay?” I point to my belly. “Hello? Here’s the evidence. Just ask Mom.”

  He takes my hand. “Mom doesn’t think you’re bad at love. She wants the best for you.”

  “And she thinks that’s what you have.”

  “Is that what you want? Marriage, kids, the whole nine yards?”

  I suck in a sob and swipe my cheeks. I think about his question. But I don’t have to think about it at all. The answer is abundantly clear. “I want it with Miles. But he doesn’t want it with me.”

  William strokes my hair. “Are you sure? I mean, look. Men are kind of clueless idiots a lot of the time, but are you sure he doesn’t want more with you?”

  Am I?

  I felt sure at the time.

  Everything seemed clear this morning.

  But was it? Or was Miles confused by my unclear question, making his response confusing too? “Well, I asked him if he wanted to get together again, and he asked what I wanted.”

  “And what
did you say?”

  I flash back to this morning. “Something about . . . more.”

  William arches a brow. “More? Like, more donuts, more pizza, more TV, more banging, more love, or more family?”

  I flap my hands around.

  “Just more . . .” I lower my face.

  Oh, God. Did I actually spell it out? Or did it come out like I was asking for more of his divine body—which, to be fair, I wouldn’t turn down? “I think I might have possibly, accidentally, asked for just more banging.”

  William laughs. “So he thinks you want more sex? Good job asking for love, Roxy.”

  “But isn’t that what he wants?”

  William scoffs. “I’m not going to pretend to know what he wants. He’s a big boy, and he can tell you himself, and you’re a big girl, and you can tell him yourself. All I’m saying is it sounds like you might not have been as clear with him as you wanted, and he might have thought you meant something else.”

  Multiples.

  Oh hell. I said multiples. I meant multiple nights, and multiple chances to be together. But who the hell asks a man to be hers by offering multiples?

  This girl.

  “Maybe there might have been some miscommunication involved?” William asks.

  I wring my hands and sigh, then flop my head onto his shoulder. “Do you understand why I went to a sperm bank?”

  He laughs. “I completely do.”

  “And this is why I can’t have nice things.”

  His smile is gentle as he pets my hair again. “But if you have feelings for him, maybe you should tell him.”

  A blur of fur rushes by, and I blink. Is that Gloria chasing Alan? I look up, catching sight of his flag-size tail scurrying around the corner first, followed by her bus-size rear end.

  It sure is.

  And it feels like it should be a sign. Role reversal and all. But really, they’re cats.

  I don’t want to read anything into their behavior, and I’m not so sure I can read anything into Miles’s either.

  But maybe, by the same token, I can’t expect him to read anything into mine.

  30

  Miles

  It’s official.

  This time I am grouchy and sour.

  I’m a lemon at Miller’s place on Sunday afternoon, three hours post-pummeling, as we run through a rehearsal for our appearance at the Town Hall next week. It’s a good gig, and we sold out in ten minutes.

  I should be excited.

  I mean, I am excited.

  Fuck. I’m not excited at all.

  I’m devastated.

  But I’m doing my best to cruise through our tunes. These are my brothers, as well as my bandmates, and I can’t let them down because my heart has been slivered and fed to a sewer rat.

  Miller stops playing the piano and raises his voice. “Dude. You just need to go for it the same way you went for it with us.”

  I furrow my brow. “The song? I didn’t think I was playing it badly.”

  “No. The woman,” Miller says, exasperated. “Obviously, you’re in a funk about Roxy.” He taps out a few notes on his piano. “When a guy is in a funk, it’s about a girl, because it’s always about a girl.”

  “Is it?” I ask as I keep pace on the guitar with Miller’s impromptu riff.

  “It’s always about a girl,” Campbell seconds, joining in on his guitar too.

  More notes fly from Miller’s Steinway, and his voice kicks into singing gear. “But have you told her? Because when it’s about a girl, you need to tell her.” His eyebrows wiggle, and he stops to talk. “Damn. That’s a good line, and this is going to be a good song. We need to write a song right now called ‘About a Girl.’”

  “Yes,” Campbell shouts triumphantly, then slides into singing, riffing on the fly. “It’s always about a girl.”

  Miller goes next, crooning, “And you just need to tell her.”

  I hold up a hand. “Wait. What does me needing to tell her something have to do with how I went for it with you two schmoes?”

  Miller keeps tickling the ivories. “Need I remind you that at the ripe old age of sixteen, you told us you wanted into the Heartbreakers and you weren’t taking no for an answer?”

  I smile, in spite of my shit mood, remembering that day when I informed my older brothers I was joining their band, come hell or high water.

  Campbell points the neck of his guitar at me as he continues jamming. “How about that time six or seven months ago when you showed up on New Year’s Eve and told us if we were getting back together you wanted in? No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

  My smile widens, thinking about that night and picturing, too, how Roxy greeted me, wrapped her arms around me, and welcomed me home.

  “When you want something, you need to lay your heart on the line,” Miller says, his fingers flying across the keys. “Don’t save your best for us. Give it to her too.”

  “How do I know she wants it?”

  Campbell cackles and imitates me. “How do I know she wants it?” he says, whiny and high-pitched. “You don’t know. But you do it anyway. It’s called taking a chance.”

  Truer words.

  Because it is usually about a girl. And I do need to take a chance.

  After we jam on some possibilities for the tune, Ally returns from an outing with Chloe and Ben, and I thank her for taking care of the kids.

  As Ben and I head to the door, Miller shouts to me, telling me to call Roxy and get my butt moving.

  I give him a 10-4 nod then take off to feed my I’m-starving little guy. Hunger calls, and the stomachs of six-year-olds will not be denied. When we slide into a booth at the diner, my phone buzzes, and I sit up straight, hope zipping through me that it’s the woman who inspired the song.

  But it’s not. It’s her brother.

  31

  Roxy

  My mother walks confidently to a rack of black dresses, flicks through the first four, settles on the fifth, and hands it to a customer. “This is going to be fantastic for your twenty-ninth-times-two birthday party.”

  The silver-haired woman laughs and clutches the dress to her chest. “I’ll try it on. Thanks, Andrea.”

  The woman heads to the dressing room, and my mother’s gaze turns to the door, registering that I just walked into her boutique.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, darling,” she says, striding efficiently to me in her black leather flats. She sets a hand on my belly, murmuring, “Hello, little grandbaby.” Then to me, “What’s wrong, darling?”

  “How did you know something’s wrong?”

  She taps the side of her head. “Mother’s intuition. Plus, the tone of your voice and the fact that you’re in my shop on a Sunday afternoon at four. I’m a regular detective.” She runs her hand down my arm in a comforting gesture. “Talk to me. Did the date go badly?”

  I take a deep, fueling breath and go for it. “I need advice. You always seem to know what to do or say in social situations, and I’m not always as adept.”

  “Nonsense. You’re completely adept.”

  I shake my head. “Mom, I’m not. I tried to ask Miles if he wanted to date me, and instead I asked him to sleep with me again.”

  Her blue eyes turn into saucers.

  Wait.

  No.

  Dinner plates.

  She shushes me. “You said that?”

  “Pretty much.”

  She clucks her tongue. “Oh dear.”

  “But the thing is, I’m in love with him, and I talked to William today, and I realize it might be crazy and it might be risky, but I’m going to tell Miles I love him, and I don’t want to mess it up. I’m no good at dating, so how do I do it? Do I take him cookies or flowers or tickets to see a baseball game?”

  “Why would you do any of those things?”

  “Shouldn’t I make a big gesture? Hire a skywriter, commission a marching band, that kind of thing?”

  She laughs softly. “Darling, the big gesture is the words. If
you want Miles to know you love him, all you have to do is tell him. Use your words. Say to him what you said to me. You don’t need to show up with a gift or pop out of a cake, God forbid.” She slides my hair off my shoulder. “If he loves you too—and if he has any sense, he does—then your words will mean the world.”

  A knot tightens in my throat, and tears prick the back of my eyes, but they’re not tears of sadness. They’re ones of hope. Hope that a great risk might yield a great reward.

  “Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” She holds up a finger. “Also, wear this gorgeous coral dress I just added to the shelves.”

  In seconds, she locates a pretty sundress that, of course, looks perfect.

  When I leave, she’s sold the black dress to the silver fox and given the coral one to me. “And don’t forget—if this man is worthy, he’ll know your love is the big gesture.”

  32

  Miles

  After I put down the menu, I read William’s note one more time.

  William: Hey, I saw Roxy earlier. I don’t presume to know what went down, but it sounds like neither one of you said what needed to be said. Even though you pay me for financial advice, not personal advice, I’m going to give you some—you should consider talking to her. And, maybe, talking to her soon. Also, if you hurt my sister, I will break your hands, and broken hands are not going to help your career, and it won’t help my career since you’re one helluva important client to me. That means I’m telling you this NOT as your financial advisor, but as your friend.

  Soon.

  Talk to her soon.

  How soon is soon?

  I hope soon can wait thirty minutes, because the waitress has arrived, and Ben is ordering a chicken sandwich.

  “And could I please have an order of French fries with that too? With ketchup? Thank you very much,” Ben finishes.

  The petite blonde smiles at him. “Of course. And you are the most polite little boy I’ve ever met.”