But just like drinking, it only makes me forget for a little while.
* * *
The flight back to Savannah is hell. My mind is spinning, and no amount of deep breathing helps. I’ve never been so thankful to get off an airplane in my life. I need to pace, to do something besides be strapped to a chair.
I go through the Savannah airport and feel trapped in slow motion, everyone hustling around me. My eyes land on one person standing still, looking at me with her strong blue eyes. Poppy must’ve called her. Layla tilts her head, opening up her arms.
“I can’t talk about it,” I say.
“Talk about what?” she says, but I know she knows. “I’m kidnapping you for a ladies night out.”
Layla tells me the plan, and it’s a doozy. The kidnapping will involve pole dancing, which was on my list. It’s apparently a great workout, and a great way to get in touch with your inner diva. I don’t buy the inner diva bullshit, but I know it’s their way of helping me forget everything else, and Layla promises Mexican food afterwards, so what’s to lose? I can work all the carbs out of my system and then fill it up again.
Layla’s got a gym bag and everything I’ll need for the class. I like to be prepared, so I spend the drive over combing the internet for instructional videos—anything to keep my mind off my other situation. I find numerous YouTube videos highlighting some legendary wipeouts, most all of them in sexy stripper heels.
I opt to go barefoot, but not even that saves me. I was attempting to do what I was told was a basic spin move. I was supposed to hold onto the pole with my inside arm, walking around it, then hook my inside leg around the pole, and do a little spin. Instead, I fell flat on my ass, my foot twisted around the pole.
One trip to the after-hours emergency clinic, coming right up.
“You’ll need a few x-rays,” the nurse says then asks, “Could you be pregnant?” I wasn’t expecting that question, although I probably should’ve.
I feel Layla’s eyes on me. “It’s possible,” I say softly.
The nurse hands me a little specimen cup and points me towards the bathroom. Am I the only one that hates the instructions on how to get a “clean” urine sample? I’ve been wiping myself for forty years—do I really need directions? It’s completely embarrassing to hand her the cup, still warm, and to think my entire future is contained in a batch of pee. Hobbling back to the bed, I lay back down to wait. I don’t feel pregnant. I craved Pringles when I was pregnant with both the boys, and I couldn’t get enough roast beef with Ava. Right now, the only thing I want is my pillow—and some dignity.
Layla suddenly busts out laughing. It’s unlike her to laugh inappropriately. She turns her phone to me, where I see that Poppy is promising to dye half her hair blue and the other half pink in a show of solidarity if I’m pregnant. Poppy used some filter to show us what it would look like. She looks like a cross between the Joker and Harley Quinn. Psychotic is putting it mildly. Then she used the same filter on pictures of Layla and me.
The nurse appears and says, “Let’s get you to x-ray.”
I sit straight up. “Does that mean I’m not pregnant?”
She flips a paper over. “Your test was negative.”
Damn, she could’ve led with that. The relief that floods my body sends chills over my skin. There’s not one cell in my body that is sad. I thank God many times over, promising not to mess up again. I can work on my sex bucket list, but I have to be smart about it. I can’t screw anything that moves, and I need some reliable birth control. Instead of shopping for vaginal steaming, I should’ve made an appointment to get an IUD. That’s going on the top of my list now.
* * *
I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been in the clinic. No other business can keep you waiting as long as doctors can. “You’re lucky you didn’t break anything,” Layla says.
Hard lesson to learn—not every woman can work a pole. I dislocated my big toe. Honestly, who dislocates a toe? It hurt like a mother when the doctor popped it back into place. At least my doctor was cute, but unfortunately, she was also a woman. I guess it doesn’t matter because sex with a doctor isn’t on my bucket list, anyway.
I look down at my swollen foot, at the lovely shades of purple and black. “Are you alright?” I hear Ryan’s voice and look up, seeing him in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Gage called me.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Layla says. “I’m so sorry, Emerson. I called him to let him know I’d be late because of the baby’s feedings. I didn’t know he’d call Ryan.”
Layla and Ryan don’t really know each other. My divorce was well underway by the time Layla and Gage got together. They’ve met a few times at functions for the kids.
“What happened?” Ryan asks me. “Gage said you got hurt working out.”
“She’s fine,” Layla says. “I’ll take care of her.”
I have to smile. My girl has my back. She’ll pick my ass up after a pole dancing injury, no questions asked. Don’t think I can say the same for my ex-husband. I’m sure he’ll have some judgment.
“What should I tell the kids?” he asks.
“Tell them I tripped on my computer cord and dislocated my toe,” I say. “They’ll believe that. I tripped on that damn thing last week.”
“Okay,” he says. “But what’s the truth?”
“I fell in my pole dancing class.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t laugh or sneer or anything else, so credit to him for that. “Could we talk for a minute alone?” he asks me. “Maybe I could drive you home. Ava and Jacob are watching Conner. I can stay.”
“Go home, Ryan,” I say, unsure why he’s even here in the first place. It wasn’t until this very moment, seeing him again, that I realize how truly hurt I am that he’s ignored me after we had sex. I’d been telling myself it was just goodbye sex, but it wasn’t—it clearly was more, at least to me. It never could be just sex with Ryan. And it hurt that I was just sex to him. Still, it’s my fault for letting it happen in the first place. “I’m not your problem anymore.”
“So damn dramatic,” he mumbles.
Layla steps in front of him. “Emerson is the least dramatic person I know.”
“It’s alright,” I say. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. It barely even hurts anymore.”
Ryan’s eyes lock on mine. He caught that word. “Emerson, I never meant to hurt you. Not the other day and certainly not tonight.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Ryan,” I say, scooting up on the bed. “You were merely on the list.”
“What list?”
“Don’t,” Layla says, grabbing my hand.
“My sex bucket list,” I say, glaring at him. “Having sex with an ex was number 26.”
He looks at me with a twinge of sadness, and without a word, barges out of the room. A flood of guilt hits me. I don’t feel better for chiding him. I feel worse. It even makes my toe feel worse.
“There isn’t a number 26,” Layla says softly.
My lips in a tight line, I shake my head and close my eyes. I feel shitty, but I will not cry over that man. I will not. At least not right now. I’ve shed so many tears over him, but for some reason, I’m still not out. How is that possible? I always thought you only had so many tears you could shed per person, but Ryan’s well just keeps getting filled up again.
CHAPTER SIX
ORGASM MEDITATION
So that’s it. I hurt Ryan, he hurt me, I hurt him. I’ve got to get off this carousel. It’s making me sick. Not even remembering flirting with Mateo can lift my mood. Plus, I’m extra emotional because I finally got my period. This time of the month always makes me feel vulnerable and insecure. But make no mistake, I’m very thankful my little romp with Ryan won’t have any reminders.
Still, I don’t feel myself. So like a little girl, I run to the one place, the one person who always makes things better. “Mom?” I call out, heading inside her stately mansion an
d tossing my purse on her couch.
My mom doesn’t need to know about my list, of course, but sometimes a daughter just needs a hug from her mother, no matter how old she is. “Emerson, honey is that you?” a muffled call comes from upstairs.
Walking up, I let my fingers gently roam the banister. I didn’t grow up in this house, but it was the last place my dad lived. He and Mom bought it after the airline struck it big. He loved this place, and everything from the wood tones to the roses in the backyard make me think of him.
I call out for my mother again, finding her in her bedroom, pulling boxes and boxes out of her old cedar chest that has sat at the end of her bed for as long as I can remember. She’s in her late sixties, but she doesn’t seem to know it. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“Found it,” she says, a huge smile on her face.
God, I hope I age like she has. She’s still got a figure on her, and the wrinkles on her face just seem to make her eyes stand out more. Her hair is all gray, but not in a dry, crinkly way. No, her hair shines. She’s beautiful to me, even if I’m just seeing her through a devoted daughter’s eyes.
She hugs me tightly, and I bury my head in her hair. My mom has the best smell. I’ve tried for years to figure out what it is, but I’ve yet to put my finger on it. As a young girl, I used to smell her goodbye. I wanted to breathe her in and hold her close. If she walked up the stairs before me or by my room, I always knew she was there.
“Look,” she says, taking my hand. “I found Gage’s baptismal gown. I thought they’d like to have it for Greer.”
I try hard not to laugh. Gage in a dress, even as a baby, is great ammunition. “I’m not sure Gage will love it, but Layla will.”
The baptism is only a couple weeks away, and afterwards, my mom is having a party at her house. I usually help plan these types of things, but I’ve definitely dropped the ball on this one.
“How’s your toe?” my mom asks. “Did you do something about that computer cord?”
“Yes, and I’m fine.”
I don’t like that my mom got fed a lie, but I didn’t want her knowing I was on a stripper pole. As for my toe, it’s not really fine. It’s a lovely mix of blues, yellows, and purples. I’m glad it didn’t happen during winter, because I can’t get a real shoe on to save my life. I’m hoping the swelling goes down enough before I have to go into the office; otherwise, I’ll be showing up in flip-flops.
Despite my assurance, my mom knows I’m not myself. She takes my hand, sitting me on the bed, then wraps one arm around me, urging my head to her small shoulder. I don’t talk about my feelings much, but she knows just what I need. She hums a little and squeezes my hand. I’m five years old again, and for those five minutes, it feels incredible.
No one tells you, one of the hardest things about divorce is that no one holds you anymore. I mean, your kids rush in and out, and then occasionally—if you’re real lucky—they might throw you a quick hug, probably a sideways one. So it’s nice to have someone hold me close when I’m feeling blah.
I wonder if my mom feels like that. Dad died about a year before my divorce. “Momma,” I whisper.
That’s the only word I need to say. “Oh baby girl, you’re doing good.” My head starts to shake, and she holds my cheeks in her hands. “Really good. I couldn’t be prouder.” Mom’s words are like magic, and my heart flutters inside.
“Are you ever lonely?” I ask. She gives me a curious look. “With Dad gone, I mean. You and he were so affectionate.”
“You and Gage used to hate that,” she says, smiling.
“Now I realize how nice it was. You must miss it.”
Her head tilts, a sparkle in her eye. “Why do you think I got massages every week for the first couple years after he passed away?” she says. “I craved someone’s touch.”
“I never realized that. I just thought you were treating yourself.”
“I saw on the television the other day about people whose jobs are professional cuddlers,” she says. “I never hired one of those, but it speaks to our need to be loved and touched.”
“Why don’t you go anymore?” I ask. She releases a deep breath. And I know the look in her eyes. It’s the one I have every time I think about bringing a new man into my kids’ lives. Straight up terror. “Are you dating?”
“I don’t know if I’d call it dating.”
I fly to my feet. “Mom, don’t tell me you have a fuck buddy?”
“Emerson, don’t you talk to me that way!”
She hasn’t lost her mom voice, that’s for sure, and I haven’t lost my little girl vision of my parents. My daddy slapping my momma’s butt every chance he got. There isn’t room for another man in that story. I sit back down, sheepishly. “I’m sorry, but what about Daddy?”
She pats my knee. “Your father is the only man I’ve ever loved. He’s the only man I’ve ever shared my bed with. You know that.”
“But you’re seeing other men?”
“There’s one man. We met at a church thing. He’s around my age and a widow. We go to some events together. He’s my partner for the senior dancing club. We’re friends.”
“Friends who cuddle?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“It’s about companionship, nothing more.”
I look down at her hand on my knee, her wedding ring still on her finger. “And you feel less lonely?” She nods. “Should I meet him?”
“If you want,” she says, laughing. “I’m not hiding him from you. I am, however, hiding him from your brother.” We both start giggling. “I’m not looking for love. Your father gave me enough to last ten lifetimes.”
Nodding, I think I grasp what she’s telling me. The man is a friend. He’s not going to be my stepdad. He’s not coming into our family. Time to change the topic. “So tell me, what do you have in mind for the baptism?” I ask.
We spend the next hour going over the menu, cake, flowers. The church service will only be family, but my mom is hosting a larger reception at her house after. With their hands full with their daughter, Layla and Gage are grateful that Mom is handling all the planning.
“Layla’s only request is that there be no chocolate. It gives the baby terrible gas, and she says she can’t be tempted,” Mom laughs out.
My phone rings in my purse. I know it’s Ava from the sound. She programmed a special ring tone just for her, and I can’t figure out how to change it. For the past few months, I’ve been stuck listening to the latest boy band singing so high, it’s obvious their balls haven’t dropped yet.
The next few minutes are complete teenage girl drama. Translated, that means she and Ryan are fighting because she was invited by one of her friends to the country club. She wants to wear a bikini, and Ryan is not having it. So she needs me to bring her a tankini. Why this has become my problem, I have no idea.
But I do what most moms would. I drop what I’m doing and run to her aid.
* * *
Between the end of my pole dancing career, the pregnancy scare, and running interference between Ava and her dad, I’m making virtually no progress on my sex bucket list, unless you count going to the gynecologist for birth control. I’m a doer, a planner. I set my sights on things and tackle them. It’s what I do. It’s in my DNA. It bums me out I’m not making progress. Sure, I’ve had some opportunities, but nothing’s felt right.
I find myself alone and restless working from home. With the kids gone, I decide to head into the Atlanta office before Ryan brings them home tomorrow. I’ve got meetings and paperwork for days, and it’s easier just to knock it all out in the office. Besides, I haven’t been in at all since I hurt my foot. Between that and my period, I didn’t really feel like traveling. This is a perk of it being my family’s company. But my period is over, and I’m starting to go crazy. Time to get my butt into the office.
No shoe was covering my swollen foot, so I’m in flip-flops. They’re cute, Kate Spade, and stolen out of my daughter’s closet. They’re also completely inappropriate for
work, but I have no choice. When I arrive, the main receptionist informs me that the elevators are down so I will have to take the stairs.
Eight stories.
Blowing out a deep breath, I silently tell myself I’ve got this. And I’m thankful I’m late arriving. No one will see me struggle up the stairs. I’ll just take my time, one step at a time, just looking ahead. After a few floors, I adjust my purse and the satchel I carry my work stuff in. I love the satchel. I actually lust over it sometimes. It’s this really cool distressed red leather, so much prettier than a briefcase, which looks so corporate.
A rough voice calls out my name, booming through the stairwell. Glancing up a few steps, a new lust settles in. The man’s tan skin contrasts with the white walls, his broad shoulders seemingly blocking the whole staircase.
“Where you off to, Mateo?”
“I’m meeting a guy about some equipment downstairs,” he says then notices my gimp. “What happened to your foot?” He steps to me and offers his arm. I don’t need it, but I take it anyway. The muscles in his forearm flex under my fingertips. I tell him it’s fine, that it happened while working out. “Does it hurt?”
“No, it’s really fine.” His head does the cute tilt, the corner of his mouth curving up. “Actually, it does hurt.”
“I don’t like to think of you in pain,” he says quietly.
I squeeze his arm and find his eyes, flirting, “A little pain can sometimes be a good thing.”
“You being in pain could never be a good thing,” he says quietly, his eyes finding mine.
His hands grasp my waist, pulling me close to his broad, muscular chest and shoulders. “I thought you had a meeting,” I say.
He leans down, his mouth inches from mine. “It can wait,” he breathes out, “until I have you taken care of.” Then he takes my satchel and purse from my arm and scoops me up in his arms, carrying me up the last few flights of stairs. This is light years beyond anything on my list.
The Sex Bucket List Page 5
