As the golf cart rumbled over the gravelly shoulder, cars whipping by and honking at Tom, he couldn’t stop thinking about Brody and Emmeline. About how Brody’s upward trajectory always seemed so effortless and how, over brunch, Brody had instantly dispelled a lifetime of myths.
Brody had been miserable. For years. Maybe forever.
And now Tom was miserable.
If trying to walk the path John wanted for him was futile and stumbling after his brother was riddled with misery, Tom had to find a new path. It should start with something he’d never done before. Because today was about being the anti-Tom. No more chasing validation. No more obsessing about keeping things smooth and civil. He’d done all that and it’d led him into a damn time loop.
He’d tried to keep Megs happy and his parents happy and Megs’s family happy and his coworkers happy and now he was going to do the one thing he’d never thought he’d do.
But first, he needed a shower.
Once he reached Roche Harbor, he jogged up the steps to the hotel’s gift and clothing shop, chose the least dorky chinos and pastel golf shirt he could find (complete with Roche Harbor insignia), bought a beach towel, and headed for the public showers at the marina. Unfortunately, the gift shop didn’t sell underwear, and Tom’s suitcase was presumably at the bottom of the ocean, so once he showered, he was going commando.
Smelling of eucalyptus and whatever else was provided in the soap dispenser, Tom wiped the steamed mirror with a paper towel, finger-combed his hair, and took his wallet and a packet of breath mints out of his suit pants before ditching them in the garbage can. He might be wearing clothes from the gift shop, but he hoped his boy-next-door looks and a little charisma could make up for that.
Because, after twelve years of dedication to one woman, he was about to experience something new. Someone new. He was going to do the first 100 percent selfishly motivated act of his entire existence.
Tom was about to figure out how Megan felt when she’d cheated on him.
At the hotel restaurant, the hostess offered him a table with a view. He waved her off, heading for the bar. He took a seat at the same stool he’d occupied that second day and waited for Casey to appear.
When she did, she did not disappoint. This time he took the opportunity to register how she reacted to him. Despite his pastel-and-khaki motif—or perhaps because of it, who knew—she appeared to light up, drink him in. He gave her his best impression of Brody’s smile, the one that somehow balanced wolfishness and disarming sheepishness.
“Hi,” he said with an ease he wasn’t sure he felt.
This was delicate. Coming on to women might be second nature for Leo, but Tom was out of practice. In fact, Tom had never really practiced at all. Sure, he’d had a few girlfriends in high school, prom dates and casual teen flings. But he’d never had to pursue Megs. They’d clicked right away. Their chemistry had been effortless.
For some reason, every move he was about to make with Casey seemed smarmy. He didn’t want smarmy; he wanted hot. Unattached. Other people did unattached, so why couldn’t he?
“Hey there, sailor.” He wondered how many times she’d used that line on customers. Eyes gleaming with sass and a smirk Tom instantly wanted to kiss, she leaned on the bar. “I see you’ve visited our gift shop.”
Her voice was as sultry as he’d remembered. He wanted to twist her long ponytail with its blue raspberry ends around his fingers. He looked down at his outfit and let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah. I had a bit of an emergency.”
“What happened?” Her eyes were wide, amusement dancing in them.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
If he was in a day of no consequences and zero fucks, why not tell her the truth? He leaned in conspiratorially. “I seem to have ripped a bit of a hole in the space-time continuum.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Well…that doesn’t totally explain the gift-shop ensemble, but I agree that’s quite a story. How’d you manage to do that?”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
“Did you piss off some Time Lords or something?”
He laughed, catching her Doctor Who reference. “I guess I must’ve.”
“Just when I think I’ve heard everything at this bar,” she called over to a coworker. “This guy walks in.” She turned back to Tom. “You’re an intriguing man…”
“Tom,” he filled in for her.
She tapped her name tag with a zebra-patterned fingernail. “Casey. What can I get you, Tom?”
Now what? How did one move from small talk to something more? He supposed he could use some of the natural rapport he’d already experienced with Casey. She wouldn’t remember and he could go from there.
“I think I’m in the mood for some liquid sunshine.” Tom could feel his growing confidence beaming out of him like a spotlight.
She laughed. “Then you’re in the wrong place. You know alcohol is a depressant, right?”
He’d known she would say that but enjoyed it nonetheless. He liked the sound of her laugh and wanted to keep things light.
“Technically, yes.” Putting both arms on the bar, he leaned forward. Megs had always told him she loved his arms. “So why does it make me so happy?”
“I should start ordering whatever you get,” she said, cocking an eyebrow. “What’s your drink?”
She was back to business. He needed to keep her engaged before he lost her to another customer. The way she smiled at him flirtatiously encouraged Tom. He rubbed his hands together, making a great show of turning her question over in his mind. “I don’t know.”
“Well, what are you in the mood for?” She leaned forward and wiped at the already clean bar with a towel. She was stalling. That was a good sign.
Now for his secret weapon. A phrase he knew would get her attention because, quite frankly, it had come from her.
“Why don’t you surprise me? I’m looking to chase the great unknown,” he said, keeping his gaze focused on her to gauge her reaction.
She froze and blinked. “I always say that.”
“Say what?” He played innocent.
“Say I’m chasing the great unknown.” She was leaning close now, her voice losing its polite-to-customers timbre and sliding into something more intimate.
She was intrigued, he could tell, by the way this meeting felt fated. She didn’t have to know fate was really just a glitch in the universe.
“Have you found it yet?” he asked. His cheeks were beginning to ache. He couldn’t stop smiling at her. What had begun as a strategy was becoming real for him too.
“Have I found the great unknown?” she asked, biting her plump bottom lip.
“Because I’ve been wondering if the great unknown was a place or a feeling…or a person.” He swallowed, a boyish gesture belying the confidence he was trying to exude. She saw it, the indicator of his nerves, and instead of laughing, she seemed to light up.
“You’re kind of adorable, you know.” She stage-whispered, “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”
Tom nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I am.”
“Then you could use some help.” She shrugged coyly. “I thought I saw something unknown next to the shed behind the pool.”
“I guess I should go check, then.” He patted the bar twice, maintaining eye contact, looking for clues they were on the same page. He’d never been this brash before and was afraid he was misreading the entire situation. But she winked at him.
“I’ll meet you there in five,” she tossed lightly over her shoulder before refilling some sodas at the other end of the bar.
He kept his cool until he was at the bottom of the steps and then his jaunty, confident stroll broke into a run.
The shed behind the pool.
He scanned the area, looking for the quickest and most discreet route. He must’ve calculated wrong, because by the time he got to a copse of trees looming over the shed, she was already there. Leaning against the wood siding. Looking even hotter than before.
His physiological reaction made it clear his body was ready. Now he just had to convince his wavering mind that this was a good idea.
Tom was about to kiss another woman. He wanted to high-five himself and maybe take an aspirin.
“You took your sweet time,” she teased.
“You have freckles,” Tom replied, noticing the faint speckles across her nose and cheeks for the first time in the natural light.
“I do.” Her laughter trilled as she leaned farther back, her body so close to Tom all he had to do was take a breath and they’d connect. More than anything, he wanted to connect with someone right now.
“They’re really cute,” he whispered, afraid this would all go away—that she would go away and leave him with his thoughts. He knew he had plenty forming and suspected none of them were good.
“You’re really cute.” In a flash, her fingers were on his face, pulling his lips to hers. Tom pressed against her, grazing one hand under her thigh to hitch up her leg. She moaned into his mouth.
Their kiss deepened as he rocked against her, driving them both insane. She took the hand that wasn’t on her thigh and brought it to her breast. Tom became dizzy, wanting this to go on forever—and they were both still clothed. He couldn’t imagine how much fun he could have with Casey if they were naked.
As though reading his mind, she tucked her hands under his shirt, scratching at his back with her painted nails, until her phone unexpectedly started chirping.
“Should you get that?” he asked as her teeth grazed his neck.
“Nah, it’s probably my boyfriend.”
The knee-jerk conscience he’d been trying to smother all day pulled him back. “Boyfriend?”
“Relax, we have an open relationship. Not that I normally make out with customers…” She went back to kissing his neck and he felt her smile into his flesh. “But you were an exception. Intriguing under those preppy clothes.”
He took a breath, trying to recapture the fracturing mood they’d created.
She laughed softly. “Besides, he’s kind of scrawny. You could totally take him.”
Regardless of the tacit approval, the magic had withered. He heard the squeals of small children from the pool, and the spell between him and Casey was officially broken. He took a half step back.
“I should…” His attempt to extricate himself fell flat between them.
“Oh, should you?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You should probably also start thinking of baseball or your mother because this is a family-friendly resort and that”—she pointed to the front of his pants—“ain’t family-friendly.”
The pheromone high washed off Tom much faster than it had arrived. He suddenly felt absurd, leaning against a shed with a woman who was beautiful but a stranger. He missed Megs with such ferocity, his knees buckled beneath him.
“I think I hate myself,” he said to the ground, forgetting Casey was still with him.
He heard her scoff and looked up.
“Poor little rich boy.” All the flirtation had dissipated from her demeanor and been replaced with a note of disgust. He wondered just how many wealthy yet secretly miserable hotel guests she’d been with. She pulled out her phone and checked her texts as she walked away.
Whatever she did was her business. Tom respected her unabashed pursuit of pleasure. But the feeling of being some guy whose name she wouldn’t remember, a face among a sea of faces, left him with an aftertaste of self-loathing. Tom and Megs had had sex hundreds of times. Probably thousands. Sex with Megs came in a myriad of different colors and flavors, each with varying degrees of intensity. They almost never kept their shirts on and they’d definitely never fucked. But that was exactly what almost hooking up with Casey had felt like. A precursor to fucking.
He wondered if this was how Megs had felt after sleeping with Leo. Or was it different because he’d meant something to her?
A hollow sense of loneliness was rising like seawater. And he didn’t want to drown.
Wherever she was, whatever point in this day they were in, had her heart shattered when Tom touched Casey? Tom could have sworn he felt it happen.
Or maybe that was his own heart breaking all over again.
He slumped to the ground, head pounding, an ache in his chest. He remembered one night, maybe three years ago, maybe five. When you spent so many years together, the memories didn’t always stay chronological; they scattered and shuffled like cards. But that night he and Megs had been fooling around on the couch, their television playing some show from the Bachelor franchise.
“If this goes any further, we’ll have to get a condom, Mr. Prescott,” Megs had said to him mock sternly.
“Or we could just make a baby,” he’d replied, only half joking.
They proceeded to come up with the worst baby names they could think of (“What about Alexander Graham Bellhop?” “No, no, I much prefer Camembert Von Gouda”) and laugh until they were in tears.
“I just hope I don’t end up like my mother.” Megs wiped at her eyes, her tone losing its mirth.
Without even thinking about it, he’d let a long-covered memory tumble out.
“Me neither. One time I asked my mom to take me to the park and she said she had a meeting. So the nanny took me. We came back early because I stayed on some spinning contraption too long and made myself sick. I found my mom wearing a faux fur coat, parked in front of the television, eating processed snacks and watching Days of Our Lives. She was crying.”
Tom had never told anyone that before. There was a way he could’ve delivered the anecdote that would’ve made it comical. Something they could laugh about. But the way it came out made him sound tragic. Megs pulled him into her arms and told him she loved him.
Then, when Tom was starting to feel embarrassed about making a big deal over something that had happened so long ago, Megs kissed his nose and said, “I promise to never choose daytime television over you.”
The mood had lifted and they’d spent the next several minutes coming up with the worst names they could think of for soap opera characters.
Tom hit the back of his head against the shed once in an attempt to pull himself together. Prescotts weren’t criers. Crying didn’t solve problems; crying showed weakness, which was probably why his mother hadn’t taken him to the park that day—so she could do it quietly, without witnesses.
He raked his fingers through his sensible hair (“Didn’t you know? Sensible is the new sexy,” Megs often told him). He tugged at the ends until he felt a pull. And then Tom pulled harder, making his eyes water.
That morning he’d wanted to wake up to a new day. Now he wanted a do-over.
As it turned out, there was nothing supreme about anarchy.