by Serena Bell
“The not-sex,” Capria corrects.
“The not-sex is amazing. Even better. He’s a great dad. Your boys get along,” Hattie says.
“Stop. Stop,” I say. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself.”
“Am I?” Hattie asks. “Amazing not-sex. Actual parenting skills. Family compatibility. Fantasy fulfillment. I don’t understand what there possibly could be to freak out about.”
Capria raises her eyebrows. “Don’t you?”
“Dead wife,” I say. “Perfect dead wife who can do no wrong because she’s dead.”
“Better than divorced wife who can make your life a living hell,” Hattie says.
She’s speaking from personal experience. Within a year after her divorce, she met a guy she really liked, but the wife was such a crazy-town loon ball, she ended up breaking up with him. There was no way on earth she could co-parent his kids in that situation, she said, and as much as she wanted love to conquer all, she was too cynical to think it could.
“I don’t think we’re really talking about the dead wife, though,” Hattie says. “I think we’re talking about Helen.”
I face away from her to dig in my dresser drawers for pantyhose and a slip, making it take longer than it really needs to.
“Elle? Don’t you think we’re talking about Helen? And actually, we’re really not even talking about Helen. We’re talking about Trevor. We’re talking about how he lied in his marriage vows and cheated on you and made you feel like that was the way the world worked. But that’s not Sawyer, right? Sawyer’s not Trevor.”
No, Sawyer wasn’t Trevor, but that didn’t seem to stop the tremor in the pit of my stomach whenever I thought about the possibility of a future with Sawyer. I kept flashing back on these moments in my life with Trevor, those times when he’d brought Helen up out of the blue, then insisted there was no significance to it. That one painful Thanksgiving when I’d overheard his mother refer to Helen as “the one who got away.”
The coal mine of pain that had opened under my feet when I’d brought his computer to life and glimpsed the size of the betrayal—and the scope of my naiveté and foolish faith.
Hattie crosses to me, takes a chiffon-and-lace nightie out of my hand and holds it up for Capria to admire, then folds it carefully into the suitcase. “This, my friend, is what you need to keep your mind on. Not your asshole ex. The fact that there is a man packing his suitcase a mere several hundred feet from here who, when he sees you in this nightgown, is going to come in his pajama pants.”
I roll my eyes at Hattie’s crudeness.
“Eyes on the prize, Elle.”
I cross my arms and glare at her.
“How can you, of all people, tell me it’s going to be okay? When you know how bad it hurts and how much it sucks?”
“Because you can’t live that way.”
It’s Capria who’s said this, surprising both of us. Usually she lets Hattie do the talking, but she’s got her arms crossed, too, and there’s a stubborn expression on her face.
“Sure, shit happens, and sure you might get hurt, but what are you going to do? You met a guy who can rock your world by text, on the phone, in a truck—”
“With a fox, in a box,” Hattie interjects.
Both of us roll our eyes this time.
“Hell, he could probably make you come with a voicemail,” Capria says.
I think about that for a minute too long, and Hattie says, “He could make a fortune if that’s true.”
We all consider that.
“Do you think if we suggested it to him we could get a cut of the profits?” Hattie asks.
Capria ignores her. “And you like him. He’s a good guy, he’s a good man, he’s a good dad—”
“As far as I know,” I clarify.
“As far as you know. And you only know what you know. And we’re all wandering around in the dark, right? So Hattie’s right. Whatever happens, you need to have the time of your life this weekend. You need to pull out all the stops and bust out all the clichés. Party like it’s 1999, live like you’re going to live forever and die tomorrow, whatever.”
“And pack condoms,” Hattie says. “And lube. And maybe a dildo.”
“A dildo,” I repeat, my mouth falling open.
“DP. Just saying.”
“I don’t own a dildo,” I whisper.
“Oh, Jesus, child,” Hattie says. “You aren’t really divorced till you own a dildo.”
Chapter 35
Elle
Sawyer and I drive down to Portland together. In the car, I tell him I sent a proposal for the divorce book to five agents. I dashed out the proposal in an all-night writing spree Thursday night, fueled by Oreos, milk, and—I’ll admit it—Kahlua.
He gives me a high-five and tells me I’m fucking awesome. I’m pretty dubious about the whole operation, but if both he and Hattie think it’s worth a shot, who am I to argue?
It is a strange experience to check into a hotel with a man other than Trevor, the first time I’ve ever done it. But satisfying, too. Life goes on, and in better ways than I could have imagined when I said goodbye to my old existence.
We swipe open the hotel room door. Sawyer steps in ahead of me. His eyes go from the beds to me and back again. There is dark intent in his eyes. I shiver all over, but there are makeup and hair and other such things to do, if I’m going to be at my best at my ex-husband’s wedding.
“I feel ya, mister,” I tell him, holding up a talk to the hand palm as he takes a step toward me. “But it’s three thirty and we have to be at the church before five.”
“Later,” he says roughly, his hand skating over the zipper of his jeans, not quite touching the bulge there.
I almost lose my resolve, but I remind myself that we have all night tonight. And that it will be all the better for the waiting.
“Okay if I commandeer the bathroom?”
“All yours.”
When I come out, I am transformed. My hair is piled up with curly tendrils framing my face, I’ve done my makeup pale and smoky, and I feel like a princess. Or a sorceress. Especially when I see the look on Sawyer’s face.
“That dress,” he says. His dark eyes sweep over me from head to toe, gratifyingly hot, and I’m glad Hattie wouldn’t let me send him a selfie ahead of time. It was indeed worth it to see his in-person reaction. When his eyes reach the bottom of their exploration, they snap back to my face, almost alarmed. “Those shoes. Do you know what those shoes make me want to do? They make me want to take them off with my teeth.”
“Don’t make the pink lace panties wet,” I caution, then halt him with a wagging, warning index finger when he steps closer, as if to lay hands on the pink perfection. “No touch. Later.”
His eyes narrow, but he obeys.
Speaking of taking things off with my teeth, Sawyer is wearing a tux, and oh, my God, he makes it look good. The tux shirt is perfectly fitted across his broad, curved pecs, the jacket looks like it was cut to order for his wide shoulders, and the pants hug his slim waist and hips.
I might drool a little.
We are going to tear each other apart tonight.
Or as Sawyer puts it, a moment later, “This is the best fucking foreplay ever.”
He offers his arm gallantly, and we leave the room side by side. We ride the elevator down—managing not to do anything to rumple either of us as it descends sixteen floors—cross the lobby, and climb into Sawyer’s truck.
He turns to me before he starts the engine.
“How are you feeling about this? Because if you don’t want to go, we can just bail out.”
“That’s mighty tempting,” I admit. “Part of me can’t believe I’m about to watch my ex-husband, who cheated on me, get married to his new wife, who he cheated on me with.” A flutter of nerves chases through my stoma
ch.
“And the other part?” Sawyer asks.
I smile at him. “The other part of me says, hell no! No way I’m bailing out on going to a party with a guy as hot as you.”
When Sawyer smiles, when he really smiles, it’s like the sun coming out. “Plus, there’s how hot you look in that dress. And those shoes,” he says, with heartfelt appreciation.
“And the whole after-party business…”
He starts the engine and jams the gas to draw out an unnecessarily loud roar, making both of us laugh.
Ten minutes later, we’re at the church, and it’s showtime. The minister takes his place, the music begins, and the wedding party procession begins. Trevor comes first, on his parents’ arms.
I feel a sharp stab of betrayal. Not just at the sight of Trevor in tails, but because his parents once walked him to the front of a church to meet me, and even then, they already believed Helen was the right woman for him.
They should have warned me.
They should have said, He’s still in love with her. It’s only a matter of time…
Two by two, the bridesmaids and groomsmen come down the aisle. Trevor’s brother, Trevor’s best friend—both of whom were in our wedding, too. A man I loved like a brother, a man I considered one of my close friends. I know they’re not the kind of men who “take sides,” but let’s face it, I lost them in the divorce. They were Trevor’s to begin with, and now they’re Trevor’s and Helen’s.
Someone should have warned me.
Someone should have said, He’s marrying you because you’re pregnant, but he secretly wants to get back with her…
The processional ends and the wedding march begins, and suddenly, there is Helen, on her father’s arm.
Helen’s beautiful, and I don’t mean it in a bitter way. She’s beautiful. She wears a long, white column dress, with a high-necked tank, that most women wouldn’t be able to pull off. You have to be really tall and skinny for a dress like that, and Helen does it. What’s more, the dress is completely unadorned—no beading, no ruffles, no lace. Just Helen’s perfect body and the dress. Her hair is in an updo, and her makeup is flawless. She glows as she comes down the aisle toward Trevor, and he looks back at her with adoration on his face…
He never looked at me like that. Not once. Not even at our wedding. I mean, he smiled at me; of course he did. His eyes were warm. But this is different.
It makes me hurt all over, and for an instant I want to run out of the church, get as far away from here as possible.
I should have seen the signs. I should have, should have, should have, should have—
I should have known the truth, and maybe there was a part of me that did. A part that knew that Trevor couldn’t love me because his heart had already been given to someone else, that tried to warn me, You will always be second best, and he will break your heart, in the end.
But just then, just when I think I can’t stand it, Sawyer reaches out and squeezes my hand. And this complete calm washes over me. Yes, Helen is beautiful. Yes, Trevor loves her in a way he never loved me. Yes, my feelings are bruised and wounded and battered and frayed, but—
That’s all just ego, isn’t it?
I don’t need Trevor to love me.
I’m doing just fine. Madden and I are killing it on our own, and good things are happening—in my career, in my friendships, and with the guy sitting beside me, who is ten times the man Trevor ever was.
I have a life I couldn’t have had if Trevor had been less of an idiot.
I take a deep breath.
“You okay?” Sawyer murmurs.
“Yeah, actually,” I whisper. “You?” I turn to glance at him. And the expression on his face is—
He looks pained.
I feel like a selfish bitch for not having once thought about the fact that this would be difficult for him, too.
I squeeze his hand back, hard. And try to send, through my fingers, some message that will help.
While I try not to think about what his unhappiness means for me.
Chapter 36
Sawyer
I gotta give it to Trevor and Helen—it’s one hell of a party. And there’s no way Elle and I aren’t going to take full advantage.
The food is amazing. We gorge ourselves on passed hors d’oeuvres and the charcuterie and cheese table. We help ourselves liberally to the open wine bar, swapping tastes so we get to try as many different bottles as possible. Helen’s dad, I learn, is a winemaker—he doesn’t grow grapes, but he bottles them.
We’re seated at a table with a bunch of Trevor’s friends, most of whom Elle is friendly with. I’m proud of her; she holds her head high and makes small talk with them, acting—or maybe, for all I know, feeling—like she has nothing to be ashamed of. And she doesn’t. She isn’t the dick in this scenario.
The beef is filet mignon, tender and juicy, with a side of just about the best garlic mashed potatoes I’ve ever eaten and stalks of young, tender asparagus. Elle has the salmon, and it’s cooked perfectly, with a lemon-honey spice rub, and served with mixed wild and brown rice and broccolini.
And it’s all foreplay.
All of it. The way Elle licks the rim of her wineglass just before she offers it to me, the way she looks teasingly up at me through her eyelashes when she drinks from my glass. The roll of thinly sliced salami she slips into her mouth, her tongue peeking out to lick salt from her lips. The expression on her face when she tastes the brie. The shocking expanse of her skin where the dress bares her back, the curves of her calves, the swing of her skirt, the keyhole cutout that exposes creamy cleavage, the spark that jumps between us when she reaches up to dab a crumb from the corner of my mouth.
The wedding cake has been cut and served, and I’ve eaten as much as I could cram in (the cake, like everything else, is fantastic). The toasts are in progress, and everyone’s attention has turned to the groom’s brother. He begins to talk about when Trevor first met Helen.
I turn to look at Elle, and she’s pale as a ghost.
Of course. The time period he’s talking about, the time when Trevor met Helen—that’s before he met, impregnated, and married Elle.
What a horror show.
No, just no. She can’t listen to this. But if we get up and leave now, we’ll be conspicuous. Everyone will see her leaving. They’ll see her fleeing.
I have to distract her.
Which is when I remember a very specific promise I made her.
I want to mess with you under the tablecloth.
Admittedly, when I said it, I was mostly just trying to get under her skin. Make her squirm a little at the Moving Up ceremony.
But given the circumstances, it’s not the worst idea ever.
Under the table, I slide my hand to her thigh and give it a squeeze.
Elle has the smoothest skin I have ever felt. It’s like satin. And there’s just a little give to the flesh underneath, a delicious softness, before I feel the tautness of muscle. Her skin at the edge of her dress is cool, but as I draw my hand higher, pushing her skirt aside, it gets warmer, until I can feel the heat where her thighs are close enough to touch.
She lets out a quick, nervous breath, but I don’t look at her. Her hand touches mine as if she’s going to bat me away—but she doesn’t.
A little higher and I can feel the edge of her panties, then damp lace, and then my fingertips move through silken wetness, and now it’s my breath that’s too loud for the still room. But no one turns to look at us—they’re fixated on Trevor’s brother and the story he’s weaving—so I keep playing. With the softness of her folds through her panties, with her lube, which I slick over every part of her I can reach, until I find the hard knot of her clit.
She squeaks.
I smirk.
She wriggles against my fingers.
�
��Hold still,” I murmur in her ear.
She is having a hard time obeying.
I whisper, “You have to hold completely still or I’m going to stop.”
Obediently, she goes still. She stares straight ahead, only the slight slackness to her lower lip and the dazed expression in her eyes giving away that anything is going on below the surface. And meanwhile, my finger moves in the lightest, sweetest, most tantalizing circle around her clit, dipping lower to find more wetness and smooth it over her. Every time I dip I feel the impulse zipping through her pelvis to push down against my fingers, to impale herself on me, and, holy hell I’m hard.
Just when I’m wondering if it’s actually possible to bring her off this way, with no pressure, no penetration, and no way for her to control the speed or intensity of what I’m doing, I feel a tremor rush through the tense muscles of her thigh. I can feel her fluttering against my fingers, as light as butterfly kisses. It’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever experienced—followed closely behind by the hot pink flush that covers her whole face and the keyhole opening of her dress. But everyone else’s attention is so fixed on the wedding party that no one but me notices.
She’s all mine, and the wild burst of possessive feeling that goes through me practically bowls me over.
Just then glasses clink and the room explodes in applause.
Elle and I lift our glasses, clink, drink, and smile at each other.
Chapter 37
Elle
“Want to dance?” Sawyer asks.
What I want is to climb Sawyer like a tree, which I’m pretty sure he knows. But I let him take my hand and lead me onto the dance floor. The music is the usual upbeat dance stuff interspersed with a parade of everyone’s favorite slow songs—so generic that I wonder if Trevor and Helen chose the songs or just told the DJ to “play stuff people like.” Right now, we are dancing to “Wonderful Tonight,” which also played, equally forgettably, at my wedding to Trevor, as well as pretty much every other wedding I’ve been to.
