by Moss, Brooke
“Well, I think it sounds like Fletcher’s being a gentleman.” Candace slowly turned her focus back to Marisol. “Maybe you should adopt Lexie’s logic, and take the slow road for once.”
Marisol scoffed. “Please. I’ll get him on our next date.”
My stomach pinched. “How do you plan on doing that?”
She strutted back to the table. “I’m going to cook for him.”
My head snapped up, sheer panic washing over me like a bucket of ice water. I was met with Candace’s curious gaze. She frowned at me, but I didn’t respond.
It was common knowledge that—if history served—Fletcher would be powerless to Marisol’s lure especially after she cooked. She’d landed many a boyfriend with her Puerto Rican flan and braised short ribs. That, paired with her impressive cleavage, was a one-way ticket to Orgasm-ville, population: two.
Ugh.
My heart sank. Fletcher would be using one of Marisol’s spare toothbrushes by the end of the week.
Marisol went back to her work, satisfied with having stunned us both into silence. I tried not to crush my zucchini into mush while Candace started cleaning up the bags and napkins from our lunch.
“So, while we’re on the topic of abstinence,” she finally said, tossing all of the garbage into the trashcan. “Lexie, you’re really plugging away at this pregnancy.”
“Yup.” I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. My hormones were all over the place, and I was already planning how I was going to go home in a few hours to have a good cry. Did I have any ice cream in the freezer?
“So, Marisol and I have been patient through this whole secrecy thing.” She plucked a sliver of zucchini off of my cutting board and nibbled it. “But the novelty is wearing off. We need to know.”
I raised my eyebrows at her. “Know what?”
“Who put the bun in your oven?” Marisol barked.
Candace grit her teeth together. “Was it Carl?”
“Who’s Carl?” I asked.
“Brian and I set you up with him awhile ago.” She brushed a strand of her blonde hair out of her eyes. “Remember?”
I wrinkled my nose. “The one with psoriasis?”
Candace shook her head. “That was Odin.”
Marisol snorted. “You went out with a guy named Odin?”
“Shut up,” Candace scolded. “He’s really sweet.”
Marisol’s eyes narrowed. “Was he a Viking with a horned hat?”
“I said shut up!” Candace turned her back to our gorgeous friend. “We also set you up with a guy named Doug. Was it Doug?”
“I didn’t sleep with him!” I went back to grating zucchini with vengeance. “That date only lasted an hour and a half. He cried, and I convinced him to give his ex girlfriend a call after he dropped me off.”
She chewed her thumbnail. “Oh, right. They’re engaged now, you know.”
I closed my eyes. “Isn’t that nice.”
Candace snapped her fingers. “What about Kevin?”
My eyes popped open. “My landlord?”
“Yeah!” She grinned. “Your sink was clogged, and you said he stayed forever to fix it. Maybe you and Kevin had a little…fling.”
“He’s married,” I cried. “Is that something you think I’d do?”
Candace frowned. “Well, no.”
Marisol rolled some parchment paper onto a sheet pan. “Oh, come on. You’ve never been with a married man?”
Candace and I both gaped at her.
“No!” I yelled.
She shrugged. “To each his own.”
“Seriously, your morality, or lack thereof, baffles me.” Candace said over her shoulder, before facing me again. “A few months ago you said that a guy at your bank was flirting with you. Was it him?”
I put down my grater. “You think I slept with the guy from the bank, and just mysteriously forgot to mention it to either one of you?”
“Did you?” Marisol asked.
“Of course not,” I snapped. “I tell you guys everything.”
Candace looked over her shoulder. “It’s true. She told us when she changed tampon brands last spring.”
Marisol chuckled. “Guess she doesn’t need those anymore.”
I scowled at both of them. “No. I did not sleep with the guy from my bank.”
“Then who, for Pete’s sake!” Candace threw her hands out at her sides. “Lex, we’ve known the inner-workings of each other’s lives for thirty years. Why in the world would you keep something like this from me?”
I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, my eyes stinging. Time passed slowly with both of their heavy gazes fixed on my face, but still I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say.
I mean, I wasn’t loco. I knew that my baby hadn’t been conceived via Immaculate Conception.
But if anyone—even my two best friends—knew how it had been conceived, they’d be so hideously disappointed in me. And I couldn’t stomach that.
“Lex?” Marisol took her place at Candace’s side. “Come on. This has gone on for long enough. Just tell us.”
Candace’s warm hand touched my arm, and I fought the urge to curl into her shoulder like I used to when we were little and we’d lie under the stars in our grandma’s backyard together. I’d always been so afraid of the dark, and Candace had to talk me through each of our backyard sleepovers. “We won’t judge you,” she said softly. “I promise.”
My throat clenched, and I slid out from under her touch. Grabbing my purse and denim jacket off of a hook across the kitchen, I walked straight toward the door. Pushing the glass door open, and letting a burst of crisp fall air into the kitchen, I mumbled, “I’m not feeling very well, Marisol. Finish up the zucchini cakes for me, will you?”
Chapter Nine
As soon as I let myself into my apartment that day, I’d fallen onto the couch and wrapped myself in the afghan my mother sewed for me after my divorce. (Because handmade blankets were apparently the cure for a broken heart.) Then I cried into the cushion for half an hour.
I’d never walked out of Eats and Treats like that. I’d never left Marisol to finish the work without me. And I was pretty sure that if I weren’t four months pregnant and slightly crazy, she’d probably have followed me to my car to cuss me out. Luckily for me, I’d gotten away unscathed, and was now sobbing on the very piece of furniture where The Incident began.
Wiping my nose, I sat up and looked across my tiny apartment. Through the French doors beyond the kitchen, I could see my messily made bed, the patchwork quilt tossed in a haphazard pile over the pillows.
My red nostrils flared. That was where The Incident had ended. That day had been a rough one…
Marisol and had I spent that day in April catering a wedding reception with over four hundred guests, and by the time I’d stumbled into my apartment that night, my feet were throbbing so much it felt like there were subwoofers in my shoes. I’d ordered a large serving of chow mien from the local Chinese restaurant, then plopped down on the couch with one of the bottles of merlot Marisol sent home with me. We’d ordered too much for the reception, and now the Eats and Treats kitchen was bursting with the non-returnable wine that the bride and groom gave to us as a thank you.
I’d never been much of a drinker. I left the bar hopping and beer binging to Darren. But our clients had paid over fifty bucks a bottle for the stuff, so I decided it was better not to waste it.
I was wrong.
It probably would have been better to waste it. Or let Marisol take all the bottles home for her seduction supply. Because what happened next could only be blamed on two things:
Me and a bottle of fifty-dollar merlot.
Right around the time I poured my fourth glass, and the opening credits rolled on my second Lifetime-made-for-television movie about a woman finding love after losing her husband to cancer, a soft knock sounded at the door.
I sat up, brushing fortune cookie crumbs off my shirt, and looked around the room in a haze. The furniture blurred
into the walls like a drippy watercolor paintings, and I released a pungent red wine burp that made my eyes water.
When I passed the beveled mirror hanging next to the door, I caught a glimpse of myself. The hair on one side of my head was sticking out from laying on the couch, and there was mascara smeared underneath both of my eyes from weeping during the movie. (In my defense, it really was sad. Who knew that the chick from 90210 could make me cry?)
“Hello?” I called through the door. Even in my inebriated state I knew that I couldn’t just open my door to any old riff-raff.
“Lex?”
The voice on the other side of the door made all of my major organs clench. For a split second, I thought I might throw up or pee my pants. Considering how much wine I’d had, there was a potential for both. I flipped the deadbolt and swung the door open.
“Nate?”
There stood my ex husband. In all of his dress-slacks-and-button-down shirt-even-when-it’s-casual-Friday wearing glory. His light brown hair was cropped close to his head, and on his face was the telltale “aw-shucks” smile. The right side of his mouth had always tugged up when he was up to no good.
It was that smile that had won me over at a fraternity party in college. It was that smile that he’d flashed when he popped the question Christmas ten years ago, while my mother wept nearby. And it was that smile he’d worn when we’d argued our way through weeks of divorce mediation.
I balled my hands at my sides to keep from slapping that smile right off of his face.
“Hello, Lexie,” he said.
I thought I smelled alcohol on his breath—or maybe that was mine. But when he swayed in place, I knew he was drunk. Placing myself in the middle of the doorway, I blocked his entry.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hadn’t seen Nate in two years, and before that, I’d only seen him from afar. Candace had stopped me from running a red light to hit him in a crosswalk once. “How did you know where I live?”
He grinned cheekily. “Your mom let the address slip when I called her.”
“When did you call her?” I looked at the clock on a nearby table. “It’s a quarter to eleven.”
“A few minutes ago. Her number hasn’t changed.” He leaned against the doorjamb.
“Neither has her décor since 1985.” I tried to fold my arms across my chest, but lost my balance, and braced myself on the door instead.
Leave it to my mother to inform the man who had abandoned me without so much as a second glance of what my new address was. She was probably sketching designs for my second wedding dress right now.
He chuckled. “Looks like I’m not the only one who was over-served tonight.”
“Oh, please. You’re one to talk.”
Nate had been quite the drinker when we were in college. Ever the frat boy, he’d won many a game of beer pong, while Candace, Brian, and I watched in awe from the sidelines. It wasn’t until we’d divorced that I’d realized what a red flag it was that my husband could drink a three hundred pound trucker under the table.
I shook my head, making the doorway sway a bit. “Wait. You didn’t answer my question. What the hell are you doing here?”
When I moved, Nate stepped into my apartment. Stretching his arms high above his head, he looked around the tiny space. His nostrils flared at the sight of all of the pieces of vintage furniture I’d kept in the divorce. His style was much more modern and streamlined than mine, a topic we’d always argued about. “I see your taste hasn’t changed at all.”
I slammed the door. “Why should it? You took what you wanted. I kept the leftovers, remember?”
His expression split into another grin when he spotted the lone glass of wine in front of the television. There was a woman crying on the screen. “Neither has your taste in entertainment.”
Stomping over to the coffee table, I snatched up the remote and turned off the television. “Argh! Shut up. I don’t even understand why you’re here. Didn’t you move away from Spokane a while ago?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I went to Seattle, but my company downsized me back to Spokane.” He hiccupped quietly. “I’m really beat. Can I sit down?”
The floor swayed again, so I flopped down onto one end of the couch. My lips were numb. “Fine,” I muttered, gesturing at the opposite end. “Go ahead. But you can only stay for a minute.”
I was too tired to argue with Nate. And even if I wanted to, I wasn’t sure which one of them to argue with, as I was currently seeing two.
“Got it.” He sat down opposite of me, and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry to barge in on you like this. Some coworkers and I had dinner and drinks at The Elm, and I was in no shape to drive. I heard you lived close, so…”
“You came to your ex wife’s apartment to sober up? Don’t make a habit of it. I really can’t stand you.” When he looked up at me with his infamous wounded puppy expression, I added, “I’ll go make a pot of coffee.”
“Thanks.”
I walked as straight as my noodle legs would allow, and leaned against the counter while I poured grounds into the coffee maker. By the time I shuffled my way back to the couch, Nate had refilled my glass, and was downing it like a triathlete chugs Gatorade.
“Hey!” I snarled.
“Sorry.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put the glass back onto the table. “Oh, woops. I was, uh, thirsty. Good wine, by the way.”
“Oh-kay.” I said slowly, sitting back down. “So you’re back in town? Still working with the consulting firm?”
He nodded. “Yeah. And you’re still doing the restaurant thing?”
“Catering.”
“That’s right.” He slapped the couch cushion, sending fortune cookie crumbs flying. “You always did like cooking.”
“Yup.” I glanced at the coffee machine. “So, last I heard, you had a girlfriend.”
“Yes!” His face went bright red. “Hilary. We live together. In fact, she’ll probably be ticked that I came here.”
“She wouldn’t be the only one.” Folding my arms across my chest, I narrowed my eyes. “Why didn’t you call her to pick you up instead of showing up on my doorstep?”
He fingered something in his pocket. “It’s…complicated. She actually kicked me out this morning. She says we need a break.”
I eyeballed him. “Well, you’re not spending that break at my apartment, that’s for sure.”
“I know.” His glassy green eyes looked up at me. “It’s just that I’ve been meaning to call you. To talk to you.”
“Oh, good Lord—”
He cut me off. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.”
When I rolled my eyes upward, the room dipped to the right. “Oh please, Nate, I—”
“Just hear me out.” He scooted closer to me on the couch and put a hand on my knee. “I screwed up.”
I jerked it away and reached for the wine bottle and glass. If we were going to have that conversation, I needed more of my fifty-dollar merlot.
He watched me, a smile tickling at his lips. “I never apologized.”
My eyes reeled back to Nate’s, blurring the room for s second. “You’re apologizing? For what?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
I filled my glass right to the top, and took a healthy swallow. Or two.
You know, this drinking thing really did make all of your inhibitions melt away. Maybe Marisol wasn’t such a lush after all.
“There’s several things you could be apologizing for.” I swallowed some wine, then burped into my hand. “Oh, well, let’s see…packing up and leaving while I was at work? Emptying our checking account to get a bachelor pad overlooking the city? Refusing to answer any of my calls until after you’d filed for divorce? Sleeping with my divorce attorney? Twice. Only marrying me because your dad said that you wouldn’t get your inheritance if you didn’t marry me after four years of dating? Or lying to me about wanting to have a family?”
Nate’s face paled. I gu
ess he’d forgotten exactly how many things I had to be pissed off about. Silly him.
“I, uh, well,” he stammered. “All of it, I guess.”
The coffee pot gurgled in the next room. “No offense, but that was a blanket apology.”
He shifted in his seat. “What do you want me to say?”
My temper started to boil the merlot in my gut. “You came to my house at almost ten thirty at night to talk, but you won’t even acknowledge everything you did?”
“Okay, okay, okay. Easy.” The end of Nate’s nose had the red, shiny quality of a very drunk man. I doubted he would even remember all of this when he woke up in the morning. “Fine. Yes, I accidentally had a brief affair with your lawyer. That was wrong. I admit it.”
I just snorted in response.
“And I took all of our money to get that apartment.” He pointed a finger at me. “But if you remember, you weren’t making as much as me back then, so technically most of the money was—”
I punched him in the leg. “Don’t even finish that sentence.”
“Ow. Geez.” He rubbed his kneecap. “And not talking to you was immature, I admit that. But I was afraid of what you’d say.” He looked past my shoulder at the TV screen vacantly. “Believe it or not, I felt bad for hurting you. When you started talking about having kids, I just panicked.”
Wine apparently made me emotional, because hot, alcohol-tinged tears filled my eyes, and I crumpled right there on the end of the couch. Covering my face, I squeaked, “Why didn’t you tell me that you never wanted kids? Why did you let me marry you thinking that we would have the white picket fence, the family, and the whole stupid fantasy?”
“I’m so sorry.” For the first time since arriving, Nate’s voice softened. He sounded like the sweet kid I’d spent countless nights making out with in my dorm room. The kid who put a bread tie around my ring finger during economics class, promising me he’d replace it with a real one someday. The boy who’d touched me in the darkness of the back of his car, giggling about not getting caught by the R.A. “I never meant to hurt you. I just decided it was time to finally be true to myself. For the first time in my life, I didn’t want to please anyone except myself.” He took the wine glass from me and drank a gulp. “I know it was selfish. I apologize.”
