Thirty-Five

Jazmine

It turns out it’s not all that easy to pretend that you haven’t had sex with someone. Especially when that sex was so good.

You know how as soon as you decide to cut out caffeine and sugar, all you want is a Caramel Macchiato? Rich Hanson is kind of like that. I did just fine without sex for most of the last fourteen years, and now I can barely look at him without thinking about it. It’s like all of a sudden my body woke up, realized what it’s been missing, and wants to make up for lost time.

The only thing that keeps me from dragging him into a broom closet is replaying Larry’s advice to Rich about “getting me on board.” Even the thought that he might have slept with me in order to solidify his position makes me sick to my stomach; the fact that I’m the one who kissed him and invited him into my bed only makes it worse.

If only he would disappear now that he’s “won me over,” I think I could get my equilibrium back. But he’s invited me to lunch, out for drinks, and has even asked to go with me to watch Maya play. I keep saying no, but it’s all I can do to treat him like I would any other colleague when I want to avoid him completely and fall back in bed with him all at the same time. The man isn’t even my type. Or shouldn’t be. And why on earth am I so attracted to him when the perfectly perfect Derrick Warren barely crosses my mind?

“Rich Hanson is here to see you.” Erin’s voice squawks on the intercom on my desk because apparently even thinking about him causes him to appear.

“Sorry, on my way out,” I say, jumping up. Because now I need to go somewhere so that I don’t look like I’m avoiding him. “Can you schedule something toward the end of the week?”

I’m shoving files into my tote bag when Rich strolls into my office. “You never struck me as the kind of person who would run away.”

“I’m not running away. Something has come up, and I need to get to an unexpected meeting.”

“Erin said your calendar was clear.”

“Erin doesn’t know everything.”

His eyebrow goes up, indicating that he knows that to be a lie. He moves closer. I fight the urge to step back. Or maybe I’m just trying not to walk into his arms. I hate the way standing too close to him clouds my thinking.

“Larry told me he advised you to get me on your side if you wanted to make your mark here.” The accusation in my voice is clear. So, no doubt, is the jut of my jaw.

“I didn’t need Larry to tell me that. It was obvious the first time I saw you in action. I wouldn’t have even considered trying to create the academy without you.”

I blink. “So, you admit you were using me.”

“Using you? Of course—I was using your brain, your experience, your . . . you. And I assumed we’d use what I bring to the table, too. It’s called collaboration. We formed an alliance—it’s only smart to do that with colleagues you respect. We work well together when you’re not pissed off at me, or afraid of me, or not trusting me. Which provides a very short window in any given day.”

“We shouldn’t have slept together.”

“No,” he says, closing the gap between us. “We probably shouldn’t have.”

“Oh.” I feel a distinct twinge of disappointment. “So, you’re sorry it happened, too.”

“I didn’t say that. I refuse to be sorry about anything that felt that good.” He steps closer, which is theoretically not possible, and lowers his voice. “I don’t believe you’re sorry, either. I think you’re afraid because you lost control, which is something you almost never do.” I can smell his cologne and his intention. If I don’t stop him, he’s going to kiss me.

More appallingly, if I don’t get out of here, I might kiss him first. Again. “You said we could pretend it never happened. We agreed we wouldn’t let it happen again. And I meant it when I said I’m not interested in being a notch on someone’s belt.”

“First of all, I am doing my best to pretend it never happened.” His voice is ragged. “But I can’t seem to actually forget. And I meant it when I promised you no notches. Seriously, Jazz, I don’t even own a belt.”

I snort. But I don’t linger. The longer I stand too close to him, the less willpower I possess. “Fine. But that doesn’t change anything. We stick to our promise, and we keep our relationship strictly professional. I have never seen a workplace romance end well. There’s no reason why we can’t work together, but there’s every reason why we can’t slip up and sleep together.”

Judith

Meena is here at the house helping me sort through what to keep and what to let go. Or more to the point, she is sitting on the basement couch, talking to me while I pull things out of closets and shelves.

I’ve been working down here for three days, and it’s amazing how many ordinary, everyday things now cause a lump in my throat.

“Ethan used to love Monopoly,” I say when I open the bookcase doors and pull out the battered game box. “Nobody wanted to play with him because he always won.” I open the lid and pick up the silver-colored Scottie dog piece, and the past wafts out. “Nate taught him to buy everything he could, even if he had to mortgage something later.” I remember how daringly he played and how much he wanted to emulate his father. “I think he went into finance because of this game. Is it silly to keep it when we haven’t played it in years?”

“There is no silly,” Meena says. “You keep what matters to you. Or you can set it aside and offer it to him when he comes home,” she says, even though Ethan hasn’t yet said he’d be here Memorial Day weekend. “He might feel as nostalgic about it as you do.”

I look around the finished basement with its ping-pong table and second living room that surrounds a flat-screen TV. It has two guest bedrooms and a Jack and Jill bath. No one but Rosaria’s been down here since Christmas.

“I can’t believe I’m actually going to sell the house.” My hand squeezes the game piece.

“It’ll be a lot of work, and there’ll be times you think you can’t bear to leave after all,” Meena says quietly. “But I think it’ll be good for you to try to start fresh. Have you given any thought to where you might want to live?”

“My only thoughts so far are small and low-maintenance. I think there’ll be plenty of time to look around once I choose a Realtor. Susan Mandell has been giving me the full court press. And someone in the real estate office where Nancy Flaherty works reached out.”

I plop down on the couch beside Meena.

“There’s a two-bedroom like mine coming up for sale on my floor and a couple other floor plans in other parts of the building already on the market. I’d love to have you for a neighbor again,” she says.

“That could be fun,” I say. But it’s almost impossible to imagine. Right now, all I can think about is purging and straightening and tidying. It’s sad but comforting to touch and look at all these pieces of our past. I can feel myself saying goodbye to the life I lived and the person I used to be.

“Who knows, maybe once I finish going through the house, I’ll be qualified to put out a shingle and give Marie Kondo a run for her money. Or maybe I’ll take a cruise around the world. Or hike the Appalachian Trail.

“The very idea that what comes next is entirely up to me is exhilarating and horribly frightening. From now on, everything I do, everything I choose, will be up to me. I won’t have anyone to blame if I’m not happy.”

“It’s true,” Meena nods sagely. “Growing the rest of the way up, coming into your own, can be scary no matter how old you are when you do it. So is freedom. Sometimes it comes wrapped up in loneliness.”

I meet Meena’s eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Her exhale is loud and slow. “I’m looking for closure and a chance to hit back. I slept with that man, Jude. And I fell for his bullshit. I don’t even know who that cottage on the Mayan Riviera belonged to.” She shakes her head. “I’m not gonna lie: I’m looking forward to seeing his face when he sees all three of us and realizes that he’s not as smart as he thinks.”

“Too bad we can’t do it in costume,” I say, reaching for yet another box filled with Halloweens past. “Hell, maybe I should open a costume shop. Remember this?” I pull out a single-breasted three-piece suit and a large striped tie. Then I locate the gray felt fedora that Nate wore with the suit and set it on my head at a rakish angle.

“How could I forget?” Meena says. “That’s the year the guys went to the neighborhood Halloween party as Gondorff and Hooker from The Sting and they kept flicking the bridges of their noses all night, like Newman and Redford and the rest of the con men did in the movie. Stan even wore blue contacts, which is as close to Paul Newman as I ever got. Until Frank.” She sighs in disgust. “I can’t believe his blue eyes may have been the only ‘real’ thing about him.”

“You do realize that our sting may not be as satisfying as we’re hoping. There’s only so much we can do.”

“I don’t care,” she says as I instruct Alexa to play the theme song from The Sting. “I just can’t bear letting him think he got away with it.”