On Second Thought Page 2

  “And what’s that?” I say.

  As she grips my thigh—“Why are we still here?”—her voice breathy.

  It was the last thing I heard before I stopped listening. At least until I’m glancing across at the clock and it’s four a.m. and she’s flushed against a pillow and so am I. Even those rumors just outside our window have settled into still. Her gaze, indecipherable. Moonlit.

  But this is where I roll over, slip on jeans, get her number, drive her back.

  And shouldn’t I be exhausted? But that hasn’t happened yet, either.

  Instead she’s tucked in the crook of my shoulder, heavy. Rising as I breathe. Hair clinging to my chest.

  “I should head back,” I hear. But they’re the most unconvincing words I’ve heard all night.

  “You should,” I say.

  Weaving her fingers through mine.

  So why is this so unsettling? It’s not as if I expected her to stay, share coffee, break bread. This is not that. It’s a night. And yet, as she slides knees off the edge of my bed and makes her way across the length of open space in silhouette, it doesn’t feel like good-bye.

  I find her, sensing hips first, then breasts, skin chilled as her shirt slips down around her abdomen. Her lips brushing mine. Her scent lingering as I dress, reluctantly. My soul sinking.

  Outside, just whispers under the hum of crickets as I open the door to the car and she slips in and so do I. As I watch a knee lift, those streaks of light shading across her face. Her hair, the most beautiful mess the entire way.

  And we exchange too many glances. Yet so few words.

  “I’ll call you,” I say as I shift the car into Park. And it’s not a friendly kiss before she opens the door. It’s that kind of kiss you never want to remember and you never want to forget at the same time.

  Chapter Three

  Rope Me In

  Madisen

  The only way I could describe it is this: it felt like adultery—the sort of thing you can’t help but fumble into for this reason or that.

  At a table where we eyed one another sipping drinks.

  Set back amid shadows, unassuming. Her gaze catching mine. And in a voice so charming, so pleasing, she spoke—leaning tight as if I was so familiar to her. And even still, so much of that night felt unfamiliar. Inconclusive.

  In the way she could unravel me. How my words kept spilling out as her gaze followed along with my every bit of nothing at all. Listening as if devouring every word. Wanting more, but in that way one would wait for that single line, that certain phrase that might tip her over the edge. How could I find that?

  I wanted to. But I didn’t know how.

  What I know is how the night felt when it kissed my skin as we strolled through darkness led by stars so splendid and crisp you’d think they would crumble. The feel of her arm at my waist under the hazy glow of a low moon. Her scent like amber or sandalwood, reminding me of everything I couldn’t have. A canopy of oaks with branches blushing in color. Bursting, really. Escorting our silence. And the sounds of our reckless steps along that pavement.

  Even still, I can’t help but go back to that, as irrelevant as it was. The way she tucked one heel up on the seat of her chair before slipping it off. And those creases along her forehead as she rested against a palm. Listening. The dangle of keys with her stride. And as she pulled the car door shut, reaching across my knee to the dash, then fidgeting. Rolling that tube of ChapStick, when all I could see was a shadowed curve of her jaw.

  Seeming as if she was too much yet not enough at the same time. It was all so uncertain, really. Hearing as I spoke, as I smudged a thumb across my mouth, as her gaze followed along. And the subtlety of her lips as they brushed mine right before that kiss, which threw me into a rush.

  And afterward, her palm slipping up my shirt as crowds and crowds of laughter filed by.

  With a gaze that never left mine as her fingers slipped into my hair, my knees pressing the gear while her palm slid tightly between them. And the taste of her breath as a chill poured in. I wanted everything about her.

  Which is how it all started, at least. As we drove with a window half raised and the radio low. Her shifting to Park. Me following steps, punch-drunk as she keyed the door before gripping and tugging my fingers. As she invited me in with the taste of everything I couldn’t resist.

  That earthy scent of leather as her coat slipped off a shoulder and she shut the door. The sound of a lock, her shoes, mine wandering in search of a light as she wrapped her arms around me, breasts pressed to mine as my hem, my thigh, just lifted. Her breath weak, her jeans rough, rubbing, hiking my skirt, as I fell against the bed, and she weighed over me with knees fixed at my sides in a room so obscure that I scarcely noticed the slow rise of her shirt. Before I felt her skin against mine in borrowed light and she pinned me down, her strength, her mouth tracing a breeze as it trailed my skin, now damp where her lips had been. Where I needed them still. But all I could hear were my sighs in an empty room, a whimper, that ache as she slipped into me with fingers that curled into moans. Hearing the limbs of trees in the wind as an elbow braced my hips and her tongue made me wet, made me swell, insensibly lingering.

  * * *

  “You never said,” Andi says, piercing the best part of my daydream. “How was your night?” She snaps the latch of her moonroof, then opens it and proceeds to lower front, rear, passenger, and driver side windows, jerking my hair along with.

  “Why can’t we do air conditioning?” I say. “It’s ninety degrees.”

  “Which is nice for a change.”

  “Nice for hair like yours,” I say, rolling my side up.

  And when I turn back—“Well?”—she says, expectant.

  “It was a night,” I lie and check my phone, and not for that reason.

  “Did she call?”

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “So what are you reading? Is it work?”

  “It’s called balance,” I tell her.

  “Why can’t you take a day off?” she mumbles.

  “As if there was anything left in that life part of my work-life to balance,” I tell her.

  “Oh, stop,” she says. “She’ll call.”

  “I’m not waiting on a call,” I say, refreshing my empty voicemail. “You think you know me so well.”

  “Because I do,” she says. “And in the interim, you have a wonderful daughter to bide the time.”

  “Those four days a month, I know, thanks a bunch for reminding me of that big role I play in my daughter’s life. Whatever, it’s for the best. In her best interest, right?”

  “Wrong,” she says. “Which means, you strategize.”

  Mm-hmm.

  “Work on her—”

  “Who, Aline? An ex is not someone you work on. It’s not as if we talk—I can’t. And, likewise, I’m not about to send one more paycheck to an attorney and not win any rights to see my own kid.” Visit, I think. Visitation. Even the word devalues.

  “Personally, I’d try something, I don’t know, a little bit more subtle,” she says. “Like maybe weaving in the subject here or there. You know, refined repetition, which you’re so good at.”

  Refined repetition, I think. “But there’s one problem with that. We don’t converse.”

  “Well, you need to,” she says.

  “I know that.”

  “What happened to reassess?” Andi says.

  “She’ll never change the schedule. She likes it the way it is. It gives her something over me. And besides, I’m clearly not capable,” I say.

  “Of parenting?”

  “Because when do I have time?” I say. “But sure, we can. We will. I’d love to. Reassess, that is.”

  “Then—”

  We don’t talk. “Cordially,” I say. “Or at length.”

  “It’s not hard.”

  “She’s—”

  “Jordan’s mother,” Andi says.

  “We’re not there yet,” I say.

  “Why n
ot?”

  “All right, I’m not,” I say.

  “Yet you have fifteen more years of this to go,” she says. “More like a lifetime.”

  “How does anyone do this?” I say.

  “No clue,” she says. “Aline’s confused.”

  “She’s not.”

  “And you’re enjoying that.”

  “I’m not. I’m just exhausted,” I say.

  “Exhausted—I bet you are,” she tells me with this look.

  “Not from that,” I say.

  “Lies,” she says.

  And maybe she does know me, given she’s changed the subject to, I don’t know, an ill-fitting pair of shoes, the demise of journalism. It’s enough to make my mind flit off to…you know. But she couldn’t possibly, and seriously, why would she call? Or maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Maybe I am.

  “Madisen,” I hear. “Aren’t you listening to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re pining over Aline—”

  “Which is the last thing on my mind,” I say. “Though I’m thinking I might redecorate, remodel maybe, something. Change the place up. It feels so Aline.”

  “As in dark and moody?”

  “As in needs more me. Like one of those walk-in showers, perhaps with a glass partition. I could knock a wall out—”

  “Knock out a wall?” she says.

  “Who needs a formal dining room? I don’t do formal. I don’t do banquets or entertaining or Martha Stewart or P. Allen Smith.”

  “Things could change,” she says. “Your life could change.”

  “I still won’t have time,” I say, “or interest.”

  “Maybe just an aloe plant for now?” she says. “I hear they’re low-maintenance. Perhaps a coat of paint.”

  “Paint,” I echo, pondering.

  “We’re home,” she says.

  “You don’t need to state the obvious,” I say, grabbing my keys, phone.

  When she grins. “Call this girl.”

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “You know you want to.”

  “It was a night,” I say. “A really, really incredible night. But other than that, she’s…” Sigh.

  “Don’t be so modest,” she says.

  “And what if she wants to see me?” I say.

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  My kid. “Jordan,” I say, “who doesn’t exactly come up in casual conversation.”

  Which gets a laugh out of her. “Oh, shit.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Did you two even talk?” she says.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Of course we did.”

  “Of course you did,” she says with that crooked smile. “Well then, tell her during one of those in-depth conversations.”

  “Or maybe she wants to keep it at a night,” I say, “and calls for a repeat.”

  “And you’re fine with that?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “Well then,” she says. “Tell me how that goes.”

  When I reach my door, as the cat stretches along the length of the living room window, there’s my phone again. “Madisen”—ugh—“favor?”

  Dropping my keys in the tray. “What, Aline?” I say. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m calling about Friday and this thing I’ve been sucked into.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll come early.”

  “You’ll do that for me?”

  “I’ll do that for Jordan,” I say. Which leads to some words on insurance and mail and Have you straightened that out? Before she pauses and, not soon enough, we’re offering our hasty good-byes.

  So I spend the few remaining hours of my day finishing laundry and cooking a batch of lentil soup for my rest of the week. And as much as I’d like to call Rae, text her, as much as I’m constantly thinking about her, I don’t. Nor does she, evidently, not before I fall asleep or after I snooze my alarm in the morning or roll out of bed or have coffee or check Facebook and email and shower. And I get to work because, right, we had a night.

  And I’d like to say it gets easier the next day, but that would be a lie as well. Because what the hell was I thinking? Doing? Sinking to Grindr levels or Tinder when I’m straight-up U-Haul material.

  Focus. That’s what I need to do, is focus on something other than her, like this magazine says, this piece on urbanization, on the home hub. On hearing Andi always telling me I’m overreacting because I probably am. But the truth of the matter is, she hasn’t called.

  So what? I still have Andi.

  And how we’ve come up with so much to talk about every single night since—how long has it been?—is beyond me. I think it might’ve been that night at the pub, commiserating over her then-girlfriend who up and moved halfway across the country for some hardly worth it job—and that was that. Andi’s life was officially over. And that carried back to my place, well ours then, mine and Aline’s, where she crashed on our pullout sofa in the living room downstairs—because who hasn’t enjoyed my bruschetta? And, besides, we made a serious night of it. That night and every other Saturday since. When pub nights became drinks and appetizers in. A routine only amplified after my divorce.

  Which is how this became our thing. I call her or she calls me once I’ve settled in, and we talk during the time it takes for each of us to heat up and eat dinner together virtually over the phone. Or on the rare occasion, should something important in her day transpire, something Oh my God, you’ve got to hear this, our call is bumped earlier.

  Like today, she’s gushing over this girl she met at Jiffy Lube. Not the mechanic, who she literally goes there to see, but a customer. It was that splendid blend of camaraderie sponsored by ESPN while they were intoxicated by the seductive scent of rubber tires, or so she says.

  Because they were rooting for the same team.

  I don’t know which team. I don’t know which sport. But she got her number.

  And now she’s stalking her online as I select suitable work attire for tomorrow’s meeting—and she’s insisting I do the same, only with Rae. Stalk her, that is. But in any regard, this is how our conversation morphed from Andi’s love life into mine.

  As I open my closet and flip Theory, Brooks Brothers. “So navy…or gray?” I say as I switch her over to speaker where she’s demoted to floorboards, freeing me to slide through all those options—charcoal, powder blue, white, pinstripe—wanting something to say You’re so worth this budget. While at the same time downplaying my two X chromosomes.

  “For the meeting,” she says, “dark gray.”

  “Gray it is,” I say. And I settle on herringbone trousers with a button-down. Afterward making my way to the kitchen.

  “And how exactly did she say it?” Andi says.

  “Good-bye?”

  “Yes,” she says, “good-bye as in It’s been nice, but—”

  “It was more like this,” I say. “She didn’t.”

  “You didn’t say good-bye?”

  “We didn’t say good-bye or anything like that,” I tell her. “She just, I don’t know, kissed me.”

  “As in Please don’t get out of my car?” she says.

  “As in Please don’t get out of my car,” I say.

  “So you got out of her car?”

  “At four in the morning,” I say.

  “Well, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Is that good?”

  “I don’t know,” she says, and I slam the microwave.

  Timer-four-zero-zero-start.

  “What are you cooking?”

  “Soup,” I say.

  “I’m having steak portabella.”

  “From a box?” I say.

  “It’s not bad,” she says, “seasoned.”

  “And that’s better than dinner with me?” I say.

  “As in more of your soup?” she says. “It’s tempting…”

  “It’s lentil this time,” I say. “I found this recipe online with a five star rating. I made so much.”
>
  “So make less,” she says.

  “How do I cook for one?”

  “This is why God invented Lean Cuisine,” she says.

  And I grab a spoon and take a seat and prop my screen, and sure, maybe I’m loading Facebook as well because who knows…

  “I found her,” she says.

  “Who,” I say, “Jiffy Lube?” As I’m typing R-a-e M-a-t-h-e-n-y.

  “Yes,” she says and I hover over Do you know Rae? and Send her a friend request, wondering, should I? Oh God.

  Wait, wait. “Shit,” I blurt out.

  “What?” she says.

  “How do I not share something?” I say.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, how do I hide a few pictures that are posted on Facebook,” I say, “of the kid and Aline. Can I hide this?”

  “Click on settings,” she says. “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “It’s no wonder,” I hear. “She works out.”

  “What’s her name?” I say. “I’ll look her up.”

  “She’s a computer systems analyst,” I hear, “from North Carolina. And she’s checked in everywhere.”

  But Rae doesn’t share much.

  “What else?” I say.

  “Panthers, Patriots,” I hear, “and restaurants and ratings—”

  “So you’ll friend her?” I say.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Who wants to seem anxious?” she says.

  * * *

  While I’m presenting the next day to a room full of people, my phone goes off and I glance down and it’s Rae and my mind floats off—with five more slides and too many questions left to go. In fact, it’s another twenty minutes before I can actually take my seat.

  Which goes something like this:

  Wednesday, 9:21 a.m.: How are you?

  Wednesday, 9:22 a.m.: I can’t stop thinking about you

  Wednesday, 9:25 a.m.: Call me?

  Which means, as soon as I get back to my office, I shut the door, breathe, and call and I’m just… “I hadn’t expected to hear from you.” Because what else do I say?

  “Did you want to?” she says.

  “I had.”

  “Good,” she says. “You aren’t busy, I hope?”