On Second Thought

  Love is never easy.

  But once you add a complicated ex-wife and eight-year-old daughter, you’re playing with a new set of rules. Madisen’s just beginning to figure out those rules when she meets Rae in what becomes an all-consuming affair filled with late nights and exhausted euphoria. Rae is charming. Madisen is smitten. And life couldn’t feel more perfect.

  At least, that is, until her ex-wife begins to have second thoughts.

  Praise for C. Spencer

  “Truth or Dare is an entirely fun read. When Truth or Dare reaches into the realm of the erotic, it excels. Such scenes are sexy and palpable; they’re striking and tense…and there’s much solace to be found in the book’s snowed-in, relaxed atmosphere and pleasing plot. This book is a must for fans of multiple-character structures and shows like The L Word. Truth or Dare is charming with its stories of queer women falling in and out of love. It is smart, funny, and romantic—the perfect read for a snowy night in.”—Foreword Reviews

  “Truth or Dare is a thoughtful, intimate, slice-of-life story that delves into relationships and the intertwining of lives. It’s a must read for those who enjoy unique and well-done character work and a multiple-character structure that allows for a more expansive look at our humanity. Because of its depth and many layers woven into this work, I know it’s one of those books that will offer something new with each read, so it’s a story I’ll revisit many times.”—The Lesbian Review

  “This is a great story for a debut novel. One that quite honestly, I wasn’t expecting. This is more than a romance novel. I think it’s a Lesbian Romance and Drama novel. Great debut novel and I can’t wait for what’s next from C. Spencer.”—Les Reveur

  On Second Thought

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  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  On Second Thought

  © 2020 By C. Spencer. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-416-8

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: February 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Tammy Seidick

  By the Author

  Truth or Dare

  On Second Thought

  Acknowledgments

  I enjoy writing. But quite honestly, there’s little reason to put as much effort into it as I have without a reader on the other side of the page. On most days, I like to think of writing as a conversation I might be having with an old friend. So thank you for picking up this book and for making that conversation possible.

  I’m eternally grateful to my editor, Ruth Sternglantz, for her brilliant (and that’s no exaggeration) critique and guidance, for steering me in the right direction—and for brainstorming me through the areas I simply could not have navigated on my own.

  To the entire team at Bold Strokes Books.

  To Radclyffe for her humility, vision, and leadership. Thank you for backing this book.

  To my aunt Debbie, who taught me the meaning of loyalty, friendship, and family.

  To my daughter Tera, who is my everything.

  And with immense love and gratitude to my wife, who makes the best daiquiris, reads drafts, braves to offer suggestions (even if it’s mostly “add more sex scenes”), and encourages me—not an easy feat. This would not have happened without you.

  To every girl who has stayed home alone on a Friday night listening to love songs or watching rom-coms in hopes of finding true love.

  Chapter One

  How to Raise a Tomboy

  Madisen

  It isn’t every day that your wife says she’s walking out on you, taking the kid, leaving your twenty-one-year-old cat (who was yours to begin with), and good luck paying the mortgage on your own. Let’s break out the bubbly. Where have I been for the past ten years because I thought I was sitting pretty.

  But I only have myself to blame for not catching those warning signs. Not just the arguments but the fact that neither of us could compromise, let alone see the other side, certainly not in the way we used to.

  And maybe I didn’t want to see her side. Maybe I had stopped listening. Maybe I wanted to talk—talk over her, talk louder, talk before I even listened to a word she said. And she stopped understanding me. She stopped looking at me that way. And I stopped wanting her to. Until we eventually stepped back to marvel at all of those subtle cracks that had ruptured into a gaping Grand Canyon between the two of us.

  But who actually realizes how emotionally unstable you’ve become until you’re standing in front of some small-town county courthouse, face-to-face with the family court judge, hashing out some mutually beneficial visitation schedule complete with child support payments and split assets and 401(k)s? Signing it all away as if this really was just a legal contract.

  All because of those two little words: It’s over.

  To me it was a question mark. To her, an exclamation.

  And anyway, that’s how parenting became constrained into our court-ordered biweekly schedule—with my weekend commencing on Friday, as in last night, and our daughter Jordan camping out on my living room floor watching Netflix as I dealt with emails well into the night.

  In fact, I think it was well after midnight before I crawled into bed, which explains why I’m flat-out exhausted notwithstanding three cups of the strongest of all brewed coffee. Blissfully spent, mind you, given the outset of my day wasn’t marked in panic as it had been just a year ago, when our new arrangement officially commenced.

  Such a difference a year makes. In some ways, at least.

  Still, my weekends haven’t changed all that much.

  Which brings us to today and our current midday distraction, watching Andi, my BFF, in cleats obliterating her opponents while immersed in her field of soccer dykes, all sporting low ponytails or cropped frosted tips. Add my chilled bottle of Snapple unsweetened straight-up tea. Coconut sunscreen. And a pack of Post-it flags prepped to study this year’s International Building Code.

  Thinking to myself, if we all just could be as athletically inclined as she, if only for that hero’s reception.

  Unlike me up here, yanking the corner of my blanket back into the shade, a shadow that keeps shifting with the sun. On one of those rare but welcome days when it’s not pouring down rain across New England.

  Until eventually I’ve settled comfortably into my book, and my gaze drifts over the edge of the page where I catch Andi ducking through the crowd as she heads through the team in my direction, cleats tugging turf, shirt hiked across flushed cheeks in that oh my way, before she’s collapsing beside me on the blanket, palms tucked under her head as she gazes up at a Tiffany-blue sky.

  “Did you win,” I say, “or is this another inning?”

  “There are no innings in soccer,” she tells me with such a glare. “I scored the winning goal. Weren’t you even watching?”

  “So that’s what that was,” I say, scanning the field to find my kid’s now kicking the ball around.

  And who knows,
maybe I do have this parenting thing down after all. If only I could say the same about single.

  Because why is it two gay parents at a park shout Modern Family, while solo lesbian me—even right here beside Andi—gets labeled straight girl instead? Every single time.

  Andi, on the other hand, enjoys her constant relationship turnstile.

  The good news being, for a fleeting moment last weekend, as we stepped into the only gay bar left in town, drinks in hand, cracking up about who remembers what, I was almost gay by association.

  And that would be where I met Rae.

  Chapter Two

  Racked

  Rae

  “Look, I have too many deadlines,” I tell Avery.

  Not helping matters is a terse email I mistakenly read from a client, leading me to Command+Q him away since I have little patience for this new tier of mansplaining. Particularly on a Saturday night, when my response should not be par for the course.

  And still Avery’s insisting I join her as opposed to spending another night hunched over my keyboard amid the glow of task lighting with a chilled bottle of Dogfish Head as I click through thousands of photos, cataloging each.

  “You’re tempted,” she says, only to bribe me with a drink.

  “Deadlines, dear.”

  “But I’m usually so convincing,” she tells me.

  “You need to up your game,” I say.

  “Why isn’t this working?”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

  Because I admit, Avery’s beginning to wear me down. Or maybe I just need to get out.

  Even still, the thought of becoming her captive audience as she mourns the loss of true love number…whatever we’re up to now—the biologist. And that’s this thing she does—conjuring up this and that, all of her goings on, in short hoping to convince me that 1) either I stay home and sit on the phone with her like this indefinitely, or 2) I hang up, give up, and join her. It’s pretty obvious where this is going.

  And music does tend to drown the worst of it, right?

  Which means, predictably, by the time the sun’s setting into a pretty sweet Coca-Cola red on the best excuse to pull out my leather racing coat sort of a night, I’m making my way toward the bartender in his hipster hat to order a beer on tap.

  Afterward, I survey the Jack Daniel’s, the Captain Morgan, the Vieux Pontarlier and Jose Cuervo lining shelves just beyond his shoulder. Edison bulbs dangling like pendants. And of course Avery’s arrived—her thick nondescript curls let down for a night of I can only imagine, paired with that appreciative gaze.

  And I’m enjoying the muffled beat spilling over from the dance floor when she shouts, “They’re so perfect together,” only to drop more of her sarcasm as I chalk my cue.

  “They’re not perfect,” I say.

  “She was perfect,” Avery says.

  “And you could literally care less about her before she walked out,” I add as I break the balls. Thinking it’s warm enough to prop a window.

  But I peel off my coat instead. And I’m hitching it on the back of an empty chair when I hear, “I met this firefighter.”

  “Where?” I say.

  “Panera during lunch,” she tells me, “Friday. In steel-toed boots and full uniform.”

  “And did you swoon?” I say.

  “I did, but—”

  “There’s a but?” Aghast, knowing her.

  “She’s not a top.”

  “Don’t tell me she’s a bottom.”

  “Not exactly,” she says.

  “Nobody can help you there,” I say.

  “I know,” she says. “I’m far too selective.”

  “Or something like that,” I say, now fixed on her. “It’s your turn.”

  As she draws back her cue with, “Dreamy, though,” bending across the table just so—those wide pendants casting shadows until her face is only half lit.

  “Which means you’re heading into your next Shakespearean tragedy,” I say.

  Afterward, she leans back against me, and we’re peering at the dance floor where a few’ve stepped in, boisterous, making their rounds. “So what if I am?”

  A mood that shifts when I catch this caramel blonde with her hair let down after what could’ve easily been a careless stroll along the shore. Disheveled in that surrendered sort of way. To which I would imagine, noting our glances, the sizing up, that she’s convinced herself it might be less conspicuous to be apart from that crowded crowd out there. Her gaze catching mine.

  Really, though, I need to quit staring.

  “And who’s this?” Avery says, startling me.

  “How would I know?”

  “And yet you can’t take your eyes off her,” she says.

  Gesturing as if to say It’s your turn. And I flatten a palm on the pool table, lifting my gaze, somehow managing the shot. Then afterward trying not to notice—but noticing—she’s no longer alone. Which figures.

  “Want me to handle that for you?” Avery’s saying.

  “As if I need help.”

  “I’ll go distract her friend,” she adds, bottoming her drink.

  “So you’re forfeiting the game?” I say. “Come on.” As she hands me the cue then wanders off with the nonchalance of someone who has played this game a million times before.

  Leaving me with little time to think it through, let alone hide the obvious.

  As I make my way over and take a seat—admittedly nervous as hell.

  To the tune of running palms down the length of my jeans as I shrug out a hi. Because that was a brilliant line. And, yeah, this girl’s too much. But I’m pretty sure she’s on to me. “I seem to have lost my opponent,” I say.

  “I’ve noticed.”

  “You wouldn’t want to take her place?”

  Next, she’s mouthing something like, “Sure.”

  And I brush her thigh unintentionally, drown too deep in this, in her immediacy and the scent of something light, layered, her gaze clearly going to my head.

  But what a commotion they’re making in the next room. That’s what she’s thinking about, isn’t she? That’s what she’s focused on.

  As I get up, glance back, and offer a hand. “Are you in?” And, yeah, that she is.

  Introducing herself. “Madisen,” I hear.

  So now I’m wondering everything. “Rae.” Like that look and what it means. How half-witted and useless I feel. Because why is it the simplest thing, like a game of pool, can feel so much more complicated with a girl like this against my hips?

  Her, bending over the table as I trace the muscles along her arm. Her gaze intent on the length of a cue before turning—as if her eyes are searching mine, and right, I’m to make the next move, eh? And this is where I could say something reasonably intelligent. But why haven’t I? Like this, I say, hair trickling along my arm. You want that ball in the side pocket.

  But what am I doing?

  I’m stepping aside to find my empty drink at the table, admiring her build, her chest pressed against red felt. That beat pounding in time with my pulse.

  And it’s after that play, the slow anticipation, her studied stroke, which leads to my next three in a row, that I win.

  I win and grab my coat and why not. “Could I buy you a drink?”

  “Shouldn’t I?” she says.

  “Hey, follow me,” I say and reach back and feel her hand.

  Even still there’s something in the way she orders, squeezing between stools, her gaze trailing the stretch of the bar as if she was expecting someone to step up. Me, transfixed by strands now winding along the front of everything unbuttoned, and I’m sorry, I’m thinking I’m too into this girl. She’s just my kind of incredible, that’s all.

  Which is why I hardly notice when she turns to me with, “Confession—”

  So I ask.

  And she says, “I’ve never played in my life. I mean, not the actual game. I don’t count racking a few balls as a kid, matching colors mostly. At that age, it’s more like a pu
zzle.”

  “Which means you’re not into the game but only played to appease me,” I say, “or perhaps you’re oddly into puzzles.”

  “I don’t mind the game,” she says. “And I wouldn’t do anything to appease.”

  Next I sense her hand at my back as I lean against the bar. “You’re not that bad,” I say. “I can tell. So I’m thinking this might’ve been your plan all along.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Throwing the game deliberately,” I say, “so I might buy you a drink?”

  And she laughs. “Is that what you think. That I’m interested in…a drink?” As we settle into this look that doesn’t want to stop. At least, I don’t want it to. But her drink arrives and mine. And next, we’re shouldering past the crowd, grabbing a seat as she draws a straw to her lips before leaning in. “You wouldn’t be okay if I won the game, would you?”

  “Is it that obvious?” I say.

  “You must not lose often,” she says.

  “That I don’t.”

  As light shifts and shadows cross her features.

  Then I catch Avery’s gaze from across the way. But this knee is brushing mine. And, yeah, it’s warm in here again. “You’re good,” she says.

  “I can be.”

  But with each opening, each tell me about yourself, each response cut short or unheard aside from her gaze fixed, which makes me lose all cool, I take a drink. As we play our conversation out nonverbally. As if we knew too much. While I enjoy the legendary taste of this drink.

  And her.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says.