by Jason Starr
The boys were doing freestyle. Shit, that meant there was another forty-five minutes of practice. That wasn’t enough time to drive somewhere; she had to get outside to get some air, but she didn’t want to make a display of leaving right after Owen had returned just in case someone was paying attention. She looked over in Grace’s direction and, sure enough, Grace was looking, maybe staring, right at her. This time Deb didn’t smile, though; instead maintaining a blank expression and pretending to look beyond Grace, at the wall displaying school championship banners, before shifting her gaze back toward the swimming pool.
While Deb knew that Grace probably just happened to be looking in her direction and that it probably didn’t mean anything, it was hard not to be paranoid. Maybe Grace had seen Deb returning from the classroom upstairs and Owen returning from the same direction and maybe suspected something was going on. Grace was a gossiper. Deb remembered how a few months ago Grace had told her a story—in confidence—about how the Adlers, a couple they both knew, were in marriage counseling because David Adler had been hitting his wife Marissa. If Grace couldn’t keep that to herself, how would she be able to not blab about an affair with a teenager?
Deb was jarred by a blast of Owen’s Axe. Was she imagining it or was the scent getting stronger? It seemed like she had her nose in the bottle, and that the bottle was fastened to her face, like a horse’s feedbag. He had his head tilted down slightly—looking down at something, probably his cell phone. She hated herself for letting this situation linger on, for not being assertive, for getting sucked in all over again. Now she would have to wait until the next time they were alone, but what if she couldn’t go through with it then either? What if the only escape would be everyone finding out, for disaster to ensue?
Her purse vibrated. She opened it and saw she’d gotten a text from Owen: That was so fuckin’ hot!
The Axe was overwhelming now; she couldn’t breathe. Worse, she was getting turned on. She couldn’t take this anymore, she was going to lose it, have a breakdown. As she stuffed her phone back into her purse she saw the little bottle of Stoli. She’d forgotten it was there—she’d thought she’d had the last one the other day when she’d been running around, doing errands and had gotten antsy in the car in the parking lot outside Walgreens.
Deciding that enough time had passed since Owen had returned for her to leave again, she walked, trying not to seem like she was rushing, toward the exit. She noticed that Grace was involved in conversation with another mom and didn’t seem to see her, and she realized that the whole idea that Grace was suspicious had probably been ridiculous.
In the bathroom, she went into a stall, tore off the seal and gulped down the vodka in one swig, as if she’d been wandering around a desert and it was the first liquid she’d come across in days. It relaxed her a little, but it wasn’t enough. She was afraid if she went back in there and had to see the back of Owen’s head again and breathe in more of his cologne she’d have a panic attack or, worse, lose control and want to be with him again. She was already fighting off an urge to text him back and keep the fantasy going.
Instead, she went outside. Ah, air. This was what she needed: freshness, clarity. It happened to be turning into a particularly beautiful day—a very blue sky, a light breeze, and it had to be around seventy degrees. She walked around the grounds of the school, along the soccer field and by the building through a woodsy area. It felt good to be outside, to be moving, and maybe the vodka was hitting because she definitely felt more relaxed. But then as she approached the back of the school, her tension suddenly returned. It seemed as if the odor of Owen’s cologne was everywhere again, dominating the scents of pine trees and freshly cut grass.
“There you are.”
When she turned she saw him standing several feet away, smiling obliviously. She was surprised to see him there; then she was upset.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.
“I had a feeling you were out here,” he said. “You didn’t text me back, and I knew something was up because you always text me back, then I looked behind me and, I was right, you were gone. But I knew I’d find you out here. Isn’t that so freaky?”
Deb looked around and then said, “I’m serious, you have to go back inside—right now.”
“Are you mad at me about something?” he asked.
“Yes.” Deb realized she was talking at a normal level, which was too loud, so she continued, stage-whispering, “We can’t be out here together, Owen.”
“We’re not doing anything, we’re just talking,” he said. “It would’ve been a lot worse if somebody came into that classroom.”
“Keep your voice down,” Deb whispered harshly. “I’m gonna go back inside, but you wait, just wait about ten minutes before you come back in, okay?”
“Why didn’t you text me back?”
“We can’t talk about this now.” Deb was walking away.
Behind her, Owen said, “Talk to you later… student.”
Deb, fuming, returned inside. This was bad—very bad. Sending raunchy texts at inappropriate times, like he’d done this morning, was one thing, but this was going too far. Owen was usually discreet, careful; in the past, he never would have followed her out of the building. He probably sensed that something was wrong, that she was having doubts, and he wanted to fix the situation, which made Deb even angrier for not ending it when they were alone in the classroom, when she’d had the chance. As she fought off a flash of herself on her back on the teacher’s desk, her legs in the air, Owen clutching her ankles, she thought that the last thing she needed now was for him to become too clingy.
“Another phone call?” Grace asked.
Deb looked up at Grace in the bleachers, noticing her forced smile.
“Yeah,” Deb said. “I’m getting some work done on the house and the contractor’s driving me crazy.”
The kids were already doing the breaststroke, so the practice seemed to be ending early. Owen returned but didn’t ignore her the way he normally did. No, he looked right at her, as if trying to get her to look at him, to notice him. What the hell? Deb maintained her gaze toward the pool, but saw in her peripheral vision that Owen kept looking back at her. Then when the kids were getting out of the pool, she got up—noticing that Owen wasn’t watching her—and left the pool area and went down to intercept Justin on his way to the locker room.
“Change fast, we have to go,” Deb said.
“What?” Justin was distracted, talking to a friend.
“We’re in a hurry,” Deb said. “I’m serious, no dawdling.”
She waited outside the locker room and as soon as Justin came out, she took him by the hand, and led him out to the car.
“Why are we in such a hurry?” Justin asked.
“We have to pick up Riley,” Deb said, noticing that Owen and his brother were just leaving the building. She got in the car quickly, let Justin in, and then backed out of the spot. As she was driving away she checked in the rearview, sensing that Owen was watching, and sure enough he was standing there, hands on his hips, glaring in her direction.
Deb knew he was probably confused, or angry, because she’d never behaved this way before, but maybe this was a good thing. It could cushion the blow, make it less of a shock, when she ended the fling. She’d arrange to meet him someplace public—a Starbucks, a Chipotle—where nothing could happen, and she’d tell him it was over and that would be it, the end.
Driving along the winding two-lane road, Deb suddenly felt empowered. Justin, in the back seat, was playing with his Nintendo DSi, and she went through songs on her iPod, skipping “Love The Way You Lie.”
“Why do I have to go?” Justin asked.
Deb stopped at “Believe” by Cher, much better, then said, “What? Where?”
“Andrew’s sleepover,” Justin said. “Why are you making me go?”
“You’re going, and I’m done discussing it with you,” she said, and turned up the volume.
It was about a fifteen
-minute drive to the dance studio at a strip mall, where Riley was waiting outside talking to a couple of friends. When Riley looked over and saw the car she seemed annoyed. She said goodbye quickly to her friends then got into the back, next to Justin.
“Am I late?” Deb asked loudly, over the music.
“Just drive,” Riley said.
Deb took out her phone, glanced at a text from Owen—I don’t understand what’s going on with you. What did I do wrong?—and then put the phone back in her purse and pulled away.
“Mom,” Riley said.
Shit, had Riley seen the second phone? She was usually careful, never using it when the kids were around.
“I told you not to do that,” Riley said.
“Do what?” Deb asked, panicked.
“Pick me up right in front of the school,” Riley said. “I told you to like park in the back of the lot and text me and I’d come over and meet you.”
“Sorry, I forgot your instructions were so specific,” Deb said.
She was relieved about the phone, but now was worried about the text. She told herself, It’s okay, he’s just upset, but that was a good thing, it would be easier for him to let go.
“I’m serious.” Riley seemed agitated.
“What, you don’t want your friends to know you have a mother?” Deb said. “You want them to think you were a miracle baby, that you just appeared in the world out of thin air?”
“You just don’t get it,” Riley said
“I don’t like your attitude right now,” Deb said.
“Whatever,” Riley said.
“No, not whatever. Don’t whatever me.”
“Why do I have to go?” Justin asked.
“Will you stop it about that already?” Deb snapped. “I told you we’re not discussing it.”
“Where don’t you want to go?” Riley asked Justin.
Deb felt the seat vibrate next to her. Shit, what was he texting her about now?
“Both of you just stop it,” Deb said, glaring in the rearview.
The Stoli was doing nothing for her now; she needed another drink badly but would have to wait about fifteen minutes until they got home. She had to get on Expedia and start seriously looking into Italian vacations, because she needed to get away from everything. Ending it with Owen wouldn’t be enough; she needed physical distance so she wouldn’t feel tempted.
At a red light she looked at her phone in her purse and the text from Owen: your the one causing the scenes not me why didn’t you text me back???
“Jesus Christ,” Deb said.
“What?” Riley asked.
“Nothing, nothing,” Deb muttered.
Deb wanted to hit back with a scolding text, ordering him to stop texting her, but she resisted, knowing that responding would only lead to more texting and that it was better not to engage.
The light turned green and Deb hit the gas.
Then Riley asked, “Did you see Owen Harrison today?”
“Who?” Deb was trying not to panic.
“Owen Harrison,” Riley said. “Was he there today at swim practice?”
Deb’s hands were sweaty; her pulse was pounding. Maybe it was a mistake not texting back. She was the adult, after all. Shouldn’t she take charge?
“Owen Harrison?” she said, pretending she couldn’t quite place the name.
“I saw him,” Justin said. “He picked up his brother, Kyle.”
“Was he with anybody?” Riley asked.
“I don’t know,” Justin said.
The car got quiet again. Deb was confused, paranoid. She knew she should let it go, that it probably didn’t mean anything, but she wanted to make sure.
“Why were you asking about Owen?” Deb asked.
“No reason,” Riley said.
She was hiding something; Deb was sure of it. But what?
Noticing that her hands were actually shaking the steering wheel, Deb asked, “Have you even seen Owen recently?”
“Never mind,” Riley said. “It’s not important.”
Then a thought hit—oh God, no, Deb didn’t even want to think about this, but she had to because it was possible; it even made sense. Riley’s sixteen, and sixteen year olds have active hormones and crushes, and Owen was an older, good-looking boy, so why wouldn’t she have a crush on him? But a crush wasn’t a big deal—teenage crushes were innocent. She probably had crushes on lots of boys.
But what if it was worse than a crush? What if she was actually involved with Owen? Owen had told Deb that he wasn’t interested in dating girls his age, and she’d believed him, but maybe it had been silly to believe a teenage boy. He could have been dating other girls all along and Deb wouldn’t have known. And if he suspected that Deb wanted to end the affair and he was angry about it, why not try to get revenge by seducing her daughter? Riley had been spending more time with her friends lately—going to parties, movies, hanging out at the mall. She could have easily started seeing Owen without Deb knowing about it. Deb didn’t think Riley had become sexually active yet, but Riley was good at keeping secrets. Like mother, like daughter.
“Slow down, Mom,” Riley said urgently.
This was all Deb needed—something else to worry about. She needed another drink, or something to make this all go away.
“Mom,” Riley said.
Approaching a bend, Deb realized she was driving way too fast. Then she hit the brake a little hard, and the car skidded. She was able to get control back quickly, though, and made it the rest of the way home without incident.
ON THE approach to the seventh hole, Mark knew he had to be aggressive and get to the back of the green or else he’d wind up in the sand trap, and he was already having a rough round, way over his recent average. He tried to swing strong through the ball, get some backspin on it, but he undercut too much and watched it three-bounce right into the trap.
“Didn’t eat your Wheaties today, huh?” Stu Zimmerman said.
Stu was a tax attorney, married, in his forties, whom Mark had been playing golf with for years. They also rode into the city together during the workweek sometimes on the 7:08 train from Katonah, when Mark was able to make that train. Stu had two kids, including a son Justin’s age, and the kids played on the same Little League team.
“What am I gonna do?” Mark said. “I guess today just isn’t my day.”
After Stu shot his approach, which landed right on the green, maybe ten feet from the cup, he got into a cart with Doug Carlson. Doug was married with kids and owned an office supply business in the city and, like Mark and Stu, was in his forties. Mark put his eight iron back in the bag, wishing he’d used a seven, then got into the cart that Richie Rosen was driving. Richie was a single investment banker, about thirty years old.
“You’ll pick ’em up on the back nine,” Richie said, as they bounced along the fairway.
“I’m not counting on it,” Mark said. “I don’t know, I just didn’t bring my A game today. I guess I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”
“Out clubbing last night?” Richie asked, smiling.
“Not exactly,” Mark said. “I was at a dinner party last night in Bedford Hills, then I went running this morning and my legs’re feeling it. Not that I’m making any excuses.”
“’Course not.” Richie, with his very white teeth, was still smiling.
The truth was, though, that the running was definitely having an effect on Mark’s game. His legs felt tired and heavy and it was hard to get any strength into his swing, but it had been worth it to spend more time with Karen. It was also hard to focus on his game because he was distracted, looking forward to hopefully bumping into her in the clubhouse later, maybe having coffee or a drink.
At the tee-off to the eighth hole, they were waiting for the group ahead of them to finish up on the next green when Stu said to Mark, “So, how’s everything with your girlfriend?”
Mark knew that Stu meant Karen. The guys often teased him about them spending so much time together.
&
nbsp; “Ha ha,” Mark said.
“Seriously,” Doug said. “Are you tapping that or what?”
“We’re just good friends,” Mark said.
“Yeah, friends,” Doug said, pushing his cheek out with his tongue and moving his fist back and forth in front of his mouth, simulating a blowjob.
Stu also looked incredulous. Richie was smiling again, checking his phone.
“It’s true,” Mark said.
“He wouldn’t tell us if something was going on with them,” Stu said, “because he’d be afraid we’d blab about it.”
“That’s a good point,” Doug said. “But, seriously, she’s looking smoking lately. Did you see what she was wearing the other day in the clubhouse? She had the boots, the short skirt—”
“And her tits looked fucking incredible,” Stu said.
“Her tits always look fucking incredible,” Doug said. “I mean she has that cougar, workout chick body going on, not an ounce of fat anywhere, and then these huge fucking knockers.”
“They’re not that big,” Stu said. “They’re probably like B-cups.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Doug said. “They’re easily C’s. And they’re firm too. She has two kids and her tits look like that? Jesus.”
“Maybe they’re fake,” Stu said.
“They’re not fake,” Richie said, putting away his phone.
“Whoa, listen to the tits expert here,” Doug said. “Mr. Single Guy.”
“When they’re fake they don’t bounce at all,” Richie said seriously. “I saw her playing tennis the other day and hers were bouncing up and down every time she hit the ball.”
“I don’t know,” Stu said. “I think when something looks too good to be true it usually is.”
