“The one the children told me you’re dating.”
My turn to narrow my eyes and study her.
She doesn’t like it.
I say nothing, but I don’t break eye contact.
She squirms. Funny. She never squirmed before when confronted.
“Good for you,” she finally says, then sips her martini, evaluating the quality. From her expression, she’s satisfied. Barely. “I’d assumed you’d been a monk all these years. The children never mentioned any women.”
“We’re not going to talk about my love life, Simone.”
Her eyes widen. “I wasn’t talking about your love life, Nick. I was talking about your sex life.”
“The fact that you don’t realize they can be the same thing tells me nothing’s changed.”
Her face turns ugly. Deeply ugly, with a pent-up anger that a part of me jumps to soothe. I’m able to stop myself. Old habits run deep, but they’re not etched in my core any longer.
She shakes it off, clearly working hard within to find that delicate balance that gives her a feeling of control. “I’m glad to hear you’ve found some joy. Have you been dating her long?”
“I’m not going to talk about her.”
“Chloe, is it? You can’t stay away from French women,” she says with a smile and a wink, moving with feline grace as she crosses her legs, leaning back in the chair, her smile flirtatious and dangerous.
I start to argue that Chloe isn’t French. This is a trap, though. The best way not to engage is to withhold.
That’s how the last two years of our marriage worked. Simone poked and demanded, and I withdrew.
And then she left.
“I can’t stay away from some women,” I say with a laugh, pulling out my phone and typing just as the waiter brings a bread basket. I look up from the phone, ignoring Simone, and order for us both. As she stares at me, nonplussed, I type out a text.
I’ll save you. Say the word. Can I come over tonight?
But I don’t hit Send.
Not yet.
“You’re different.” Simone’s statement makes me look up, placing the phone face down on the table. I dip a piece of bread into the olive oil the waiter just plated and fill my mouth with something other than a retort.
Mouth full as I chew, I just shrug.
“Harder.”
I check in below the belt.
Nope.
“More authoritative.”
I raise my eyebrows and look at her.
“More commanding. You’ve come into your own, Nick. And I deserve some of this.”
It takes everything in me not to choke on the focaccia. A piece of rosemary pokes my tonsil. The martini washes all the uncertainty away.
“You deserve what exactly, Simone?”
“I never thought this would be easy.”
“What would be easy?” A preternatural sense of unease creeps through my skin, making my hands clench, thighs tighten, body priming for battle.
“Testing the waters. Seeing what’s left between us.”
Instinct is a double-edged sword. I didn’t want to believe it. Didn’t think the signs she was sending were real. Couldn’t fathom that this was happening. Thought I was making it up.
No.
Simone is coming on to me.
“What’s left between us are three beautiful, kind, good children we produced, Simone. And that’s all.”
Caprese salad is delivered. I dig into mine. Simone orders a vodka soda with lime.
Guess the martini didn’t meet her standards after all.
“That’s all?”
Flavor explodes in my mouth as I chew, the fresh basil sweetening my thoughts. She’s looking at me with bedroom eyes, and I can’t help myself.
I pick up my phone and push the damn Send button, then set it back down.
I smile.
She smiles.
“Thank you,” I say.
She leans in, her mouth tight and loose at the same time, her eyes victorious. Simone looks like the cat that ate the canary.
“For what?”
“For clarity.”
Bzzzz.
I check my phone.
k, says the text.
I blink. I look at Simone. Amelie’s face flashes through my mind, a snapshot of the moment Simone shunted them off, picking dinner with me over the kids yet again.
Deserve. What does Simone deserve? She doesn’t deserve whatever she wants from me. A reconciliation? A roll in the hay for old time’s sake? Something in between, more likely.
I’ll give her a taste of her own medicine.
My body decides before I do, the napkin against my mouth, folded on the table as I stand, shoving my phone in my back pocket.
“I’m so sorry, Simone. I’m having a work crisis. A colleague needs me.”
She flinches, her swan’s neck graceful, pulse thready and quivering at the hollow of her throat, where the skin is suddenly flushed with anger. “What?”
I pull out my wallet and throw a handful of twenties on the table, a sense of power building in me. Her face is tipped up in shock, eyes tracking my movements, her expression one of disbelief.
“I’m sure you’ll be well taken care of by the waiter, Simone. Perhaps you can call the children and invite them to join you. I can’t have dinner tonight.”
“You’re leaving me for her.”
“No.” And this is the truth. “I’m leaving because I have to go save someone.”
Not Chloe.
Me.
* * *
I wait at her door after pressing the bell. Feels like ninth grade, when I asked Mary Elizabeth Manning to the Valentine’s Dance, and had to stand in the cold, wearing an ill-fitting suit, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into, but unable to undo it.
The door opens.
Chloe’s there, hair in a messy topknot, wearing an Ed Sheeran concert t-shirt and brightly-patterned leggings. No make-up, and she’s holding Holly on one hip. The baby is playing with Chloe’s ear like it’s the best toy ever.
“Nick. Hi.” She looks down at herself. “As you can tell, I made a big effort.”
God, I’ve missed her.
I kiss her cheek, then Holly’s, trying to hide my disappointment that the baby’s awake. They both smell like lavender lotion.
“You look fabulous, as always.”
She ignores the compliment. “I’m about to put Miss Fussypants down for the night. Come in!” She shivers. I take her up on the offer, crossing into the warmth of her place.
Holly stares at me, bouncing slightly in Chloe’s arms.
Her eyes are so wide.
Wide awake, that is.
“Why the sudden visit?”
I haven’t been honest with Chloe. Didn’t say a word about Amelie’s concert and Simone being in town. I regret it. If I mention it now, my sudden appearance will rub her the wrong way.
If I say nothing, chances are good she’ll find out one day, assuming…
Assuming this isn’t just a short-term relationship.
“Just missed you. Missed talking.”
“Talking?” That seductive eyebrow arches, curling like a hand around the base of my shaft.
“Everything. I missed everything about you, Chloe.”
Holly yanks a piece of Chloe’s hair hard enough to make her yelp, tears filling her eyes.
Holly stares at her mother in wonder, then turns to me and grins.
“Sadist,” Chloe mutters, bopping Holly on the nose with great affection. “You infant sadist.” The casual way Chloe welcomes me into her place, how she chats with her baby, the way I’m just here, out of the blue, and that’s fine, makes my edginess that much worse.
It shouldn’t.
It does.
The dissonance between my hours with Simone and these two minutes with Chloe and Holly is so extreme, it’s like I’m living parallel lives in two different universes. Two different Nicks. Two different paths.
I want slow,
languid time with Chloe. Explorative, contemplative time. I want hours at wine tastings and long walks on the beach, rented houses in Wellfleet and red-eye flights to Rome. We can have that.
We could have had that.
Holly nuzzles Chloe’s neck.
I could have that.
Chloe’s at the beginning of a life lived in quicktime, where every day feels like a race to get to the end, the finish line resetting itself every sleep-deprived morning. Her batteries will hold a charge less and less over time, and just when she thinks she can’t take it anymore – the baby will become a child. Sleep will re-enter her life, but a new set of challenges abound.
I’m at the end of the long tunnel of parenting, the arched doorway of light in the near distance.
Which Nick do I choose?
And where would I fit into Chloe and Holly’s life?
“Grab a beer,” Chloe tells me. “This could take a while. Have to read her Guess How Much I Love You before bed, then rub her back until she closes her eyes.”
“No Walter the Farting Dog?”
She pauses and turns around, giving me a mock angry look. “You’ve ruined my daughter with that story.”
“Then my work is done.”
“And she doesn’t even understand the words yet.”
Chuckling, she heads down the hallway while I make myself at home. Two bottles of my favorite beer are in the refrigerator.
I’ll take that as a sign.
Twenty minutes later, Chloe’s ass walks into her living room. Just her ass, as she tiptoes backwards in an exaggerated creeping motion.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, loosened by the beer, relieved to be away from Simone.
“Shhhh,” she answers, barely audible.
“Did you say the ritual prayer? Sacrifice a goat to the druid god of sleep?”
She smiles and turns to me, arms in the air like an Olympic gold medalist. “Ah! I did it! Baby asleep.” She does a silent victory dance. Hmmm.
No bra. Nice.
We both pause, because the sleep gods do not reward hubris.
No cry.
“C’mere,” I order, pulling her into my lap. She’s on me, straddling, more aggressive than I could have hoped, her tongue tangling with mine, hands everywhere, supercharged.
“I don’t know how long we have,” she moans against my mouth, hands pulling at the tails of my shirt, yanking the cloth up, palms on my skin in seconds as I strip her shirt off, one rosy nipple in my mouth.
Which means I can’t answer her.
She doesn’t seem to mind.
Tell her about Simone.
The thought makes me startle, tensing. There’s a time and place for everything, and Chloe’s unzipping my pants right now, pulling me out and palming me.
Last person I want to mention is my ex-wife.
We stand, quickly undressing, and then she shoves me onto the sofa, rolls on a condom that comes out of thin air, climbs on board, and sweet god, I’m encased in warm, wet perfection.
This night has not gone as planned.
A moment ago, I was worried about where I fit into Chloe and Holly’s life.
I know where I fit in Chloe.
“Oh,” she gasps, the outbreath of pleasure tickling my ear, her heat maddening. I reach between us and touch her sweet spot, knowing she’ll tighten, familiar enough with her body to stroke her in ways that damn near guarantee she’ll come, and come hard, in my arms.
“There,” she moans, then urges me at her breast. I bite, a little harder than I should, my restraint so thin it’s about to snap. We’re slick with sweat and I’m wild-eyed with the speed of change, until my orgasm catches me before I can catch it, my body roaring up, hers matching my rhythm, Chloe biting my shoulder as she screams quietly, the pain enhancing our joining.
My thumb stays on her clit, knowing I can give her more, slow and steady as—
“Waaahhhhh!”
Holly shrieks from down the hallway.
Chloe falls backwards off me, like a spider blown by a gale-force wind onto its back, legs and arms flailing.
I catch her, but it takes precision I don’t possess to avoid falling completely. We tumble, my hands bracing the impact, our naked, awkward bodies sticky and inelegant.
“WAAAHHHHHHHHH!”
Deprived of instant comfort, Holly’s screams ratchet up. Without a word, Chloe disentangles herself from me and lurches down the hallway, calling out nonsense words in advance of her mother’s soothing touch.
I’m on the floor, on my naked ass, sitting on my discarded pants.
What the hell am I doing?
Scrambling, I dress quickly and dispose of the condom, assuming that when Chloe reappears, she’ll have something on as well. My mind jumps from thought to thought, scattered like dandelion seeds on the wind, all the thoughts in one direction but without any rhyme or reason.
I left Simone, abandoned in a restaurant she hates, to find comfort with Chloe.
And here I am, about as uncomfortable as I can be.
“Hey,” Chloe says, re-appearing in a loose bathrobe, a red-faced, tear-streaked Holly in her arms. “Looks like she has a new tooth coming in.” Chloe’s doe eyes meet mine, her bewildered expression filled with regret and questions.
“Right.”
We smile at each other.
“That was, um…” Chloe searches for the right word.
“Intense.”
“Yes.”
“I should—” I point toward the door.
She nods slowly. “Right.” Her face falls.
“Chloe – I don’t want you to think I run around doing this all the time.”
“Doing…?”
“Showing up at women’s doors having a quickie.”
“Really? You’re not the booty call type? Because I hate to break it to you, Nick, but that’s what you just did.” Her words come with a heavy dose of amusement.
The words booty call hit me like an arrow to the crotch.
“Booty call?” That’s what my kids call it.
“You know. Call or text a woman. See if you can come over. Netflix and chill…”
I groan. “That’s not what this is. That’s not who I am.”
“I know.”
“You do? How?” Because I’m not sure who I am right now. Tell me, I want to ask. Tell me who the hell I am.
She shrugs. Holly grabs a fistful of her hair. “Because we didn’t do the Netflix part.”
I groan again.
“And because I can just tell. You have integrity. I can trust you.”
Tell her about Simone.
“Chloe, I—”
Holly starts to cry, the sound one of pain.
“I have to go,” Chloe says sadly. “Time for some ibuprofen and a long night.”
I almost offer to stay. It’s reflexive, the impulse to provide assistance.
I fight instinct and don’t say a word.
Instead, I kiss her on the cheek, offer a peck for Holly, and make my way quietly into the cold, stark night.
The slap of icy air does not provide clarity.
Damn it.
Chapter Seventeen
Chloe
My mother is back from Paris, recovered, and in need of a massage after a day of “helping” me.
We pull into my parking space at O, Charlotte, Holly, and of course me, the driver. Or at least we try to pull in, but there is another car in my spot. A decrepit Hyundai that looks like it may have once been red.
Great.
“Okay, Plan B,” I say. “I will double park at the front entrance, set up the stroller, put Holly in it, and you can take her to my office. I’ll find a place to park on the street.”
“I’m sorry, Chloe, but I don’t have time. My massage appointment is in seven minutes.”
I just look at my mother. She shrugs, the innocent victim of circumstance.
I drop her at the front door. She waves cheerily as the doorman opens it for her.
I circle
the block four times.
When I finally stagger into the reception area, there’s no one at the desk. A few seconds later, Carrie pops around the corner and looks at me. At us.
“May I help you?” she says frostily.
“Actually, yes, you may. Can you take this diaper bag to my office?”
There’s a pause as she studies me.
“Chloe?”
I smile weakly.
“Oh my god! I didn’t know you were coming in! I didn’t recognize you! Is that the baby? I thought you didn’t return to work for another week?”
Bite back sarcastic reply.
“I don’t. We’re here for my mother. It’s a muscle emergency.”
By now, Carrie’s astonishment has drawn attention. Holly’s stroller is surrounded by a crowd of women, all cooing in high-pitched voices and all with their backs to me. I am invisible.
Which is a good thing under the circumstances.
In the flurry of getting Holly dressed to impress on her first visit to O, I sort of forgot about myself. She is wearing a tiny sundress, something Charlotte picked up in Switzerland. The skirt has a border of hand painted wildflowers, and it came—inexplicably—with a matching handkerchief. To dry my tears of joy when I am overcome by her sweetness, presumably.
I, on the other hand, am perhaps not at my best.
I didn’t really have time to change my clothes, what with getting Holly ready and packing her bag and the equipment, and making a salad for lunch. Charlotte wanted a glass of Sancerre, so I opened that, and then I made up my bed with fresh sheets for Howard’s arrival tonight.
We were just out the door when I heard a little noise. Everybody back inside for a diaper change.
Anyway, I’m still in the black Athleta dress and espadrilles I wore to the North End this morning on yet another pastry run for my mother. Was it only this morning? Looking down, I see remnants of powdered sugar at the hem. I brush at it but it doesn’t improve.
I am holding the crumpled-up Swiss handkerchief, which I have been using to blot the perspiration from my face.
No wonder Carrie didn’t recognize me. I don’t recognize me.
“I’ll just be in my office,” I offer, but no one hears me. I clear my throat. “Carrie, could you join me?”
I leave the door open so I can listen for crying—Holly’s, that is.
“What’s going on today?” I ask Carrie. My desk is covered with papers, fabric samples, magazines. I hate that.
Spring Romance Page 103
