Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  I look in the carriage bottom. The top of the shoebox where I stored the auction items bounced off, the contents of the box spilling out. I happened to grab what turns out to be her ex-lover’s t-shirt.

  “Um.” My brilliant response rings through the air.

  Chloe’s eyebrows go up.

  “Nick?”

  “If you’re going to mop up baby puke, a Coldplay t-shirt is a great candidate.”

  She doesn’t laugh. Damn.

  This is going downhill fast. A glimmer of light on water catches my eye.

  “Let’s walk to the bridge,” I say, my hand on her back as she puts Holly down. The baby’s front is wet, but she settles in quietly, bubble thoroughly evacuated.

  The look on Chloe’s face makes it clear a long explanation is in order.

  One more block and we’re at the Charles River, coxswains calling out orders and encouragement to their crew teams, kayakers frolicking in the water. The early fall weather draws people out of their tiny boxes in the city, giving Cambridge an air of vitality. Students fill the streets, going for runs, wearing backpacks, and cluttering the side roads.

  “How, exactly, did you come to possess my ex’s t-shirt?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  She points to the now-sleeping Holly, one corner of her mouth twisting up with mirth. “I’ve got about twenty minutes.”

  “Not sure that’s long enough.”

  “That’s what she said.” Chloe speaks through the side of her mouth, tone husky and with great affect. But she’s tightly-wound and twitchy.

  I groan.

  “Spill.”

  Bending down, I re-collect Joe’s auction items, placing them carefully in the box, the strap-on centered on top of the rest of the items. I stand up holding a closed parcel.

  “Here.” I thrust it at her.

  She opens it, nearly choking as she sees what’s on top.

  Then she looks at me and says dryly, “Most guys wait until the third date to suggest the strap-on.”

  My butthole clenches involuntarily.

  “Oh, god,” she groans. “This is, um… I know this particular strap-on.”

  “Intimately, I’d imagine.”

  She looks up sharply, real anger in her face, and it’s clear I’ve crossed a line.

  Damn, she’s hot when she’s pissed.

  “This is Joe’s stuff! These are all the items he used to leave at my place while we… when we were…” A speculative horror fills her face. “Why are you gifting me a sex toy Joe bought after seeing Deadpool?” She fishes around the box, horror filling her features. “And no, I did not use it on him! He begged me, but…”

  I start to laugh.

  “—we never even got to March for International Women’s Day!”

  I stop laughing.

  Chloe grips the stroller and slowly begins to back away from me, a protective air around her. “What is this, Nick? Did you do something to Joe?”

  “Do something?”

  “You had him in a headlock that day at the office. Maybe you’ve… hurt him?”

  “Hurt him? Hurt him how?”

  “How else would you have these very personal items of his?”

  “I bought them. Paid $1,077.51 in an auction.”

  “Auction? You spent what? You’re not making any sense.”

  “Ever heard of a site called Never Liked It Anyway?”

  Her hand flies to her mouth. The strap-on drops out of her other hand and plunks softly on the bonnet of Holly’s carriage, rolling slightly to settle into a groove. It looks like a space-age dog toy.

  That would be one hell of a game of fetch.

  “He didn’t! Joe did not sell my… our… what?” Her face fills with genuine horror and shock.

  “You didn’t know?” I’m blown away. “Chloe, the auction was all over social media. One of those three-day phenomenons shared all over Facebook, Tumblr, Snapchat, Twitter – you name it. No one in modern America could have missed it.”

  “Henry and Jemma said something about a porn star with a name like mine having an ex sell their sex toys online. It was right in the middle of Li giving birth and disappearing, so I put it out of my head and – oh, my god, Nick, how many people know about this?” She points at the strap-on.

  “A few million?” I guess.

  “I’m ruined.”

  “Not really. Between buying Joe’s auction items and shutting down his account, and having Charlie get a hacker to—”

  “Charlie knows about this?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who else? And how did you find out about it?”

  “Elodie.”

  “Your daughter found out my ex was selling our shared strap-on and sought you out to tell you?”

  Progressive parenting at its finest.

  “It didn’t quite go that way.” Although she’s damn close.

  Chloe begins to pant slightly, the sound a little too close to hyperventilation for comfort. Holly sucks on her pacifier like it’s an Olympic sport. I feel like I made a terrible mistake, but I can’t take it back.

  I glance at the strap-on.

  Definitely can’t take that back.

  Seizing the item by the dildo end, Chloe pulls her arm back with impressive form. She must have played softball from a young age, because the pitch has perfect arc and aim, flying rubber tip over belt as she releases the strap-on into the throw.

  I resist the urge to hum the theme to Wonder Woman.

  As the strap-on makes its third mid-air revolution, the bow of a racing shell filled with eight rowers shoots from under the bridge.

  Chloe’s throw is perfect.

  The strap-on beans the coxswain right in the head.

  Then plunks into the water, like a very porny orca at a Sea World aquatics show.

  “Hey!” The coxswain looks around wildly, focusing on us. We’re the only two people by the bridge.

  And then Chloe kisses me, her mouth tight and fierce against mine, lips bruised as she bangs into me, teeth aching until one hand settles on my shirt, pressing into my ribs, and she softens, the kiss taking new form.

  “What’s that for?” I mumble against her mouth, wanting more of it, my hands mimicking hers, one palm on the stroller handle, one on Chloe’s ass.

  “For being so deeply depraved.”

  “That deserves a kiss?”

  “Here’s the problem,” she whispers. “You don’t look like a weirdo.”

  “That’s a problem?”

  “You look like one of those guys who has his shit together. A grownup. A real one. The kind I find intimidating.”

  “Intimidating.”

  “Yeah. The kind of guy who would never flash a nipple to a conference room because of a bustier malfunction.”

  “That will never happen,” I agree, looking down at my chest.

  “The kind of guy who doesn’t make mistakes. Who is guided by certainty.”

  “I look like that guy?”

  “You are that guy.”

  In her eyes, I am.

  “Chloe,” I say, kissing her ear. “I’m Nick. I’m a father and a man and a director and a guy. I’m imperfect and uncertain sometimes. I make mistakes and I can be gross and I yell and get upset.”

  “You? Gross? Charlie, sure. But not you.”

  “Spend enough time with me and you’ll see.”

  She answers that with a kiss.

  “I knew you were nuanced, though. Suspected it all along, when you wouldn’t smile.”

  “Wouldn’t smile?”

  “The day we met. I figured anyone who has that kind facial control has some deep layers.”

  “I do.”

  “And a warped side.” Chloe takes all the other items out of the box and dumps them, one by one, into the river.

  She finds her lipstick vibrator last and holds it up, speechless.

  “You kept this!”

  “Your special O ‘lipstick.” I lean in to her ear and whisper “Bzz bzz.”


  Laughing, she considers me. “Didn’t fool you from the start, did I?” She starts to drop it in the water, reconsiders, and tucks it in her bra.

  I raise my eyebrows.

  With a shrug, she says, “The Charles can have Joe’s strap-on.” She looks back at the water, the sex toy long gone, being nibbled by fishes in its watery grave.

  “Never liked it anyway,” she sighs, one hand on the stroller’s handle, the other threading fingers through my own.

  * * *

  Chloe

  I can’t believe he’s still here.

  If that sounds snarky, it isn’t. I sincerely cannot believe he’s still here. With me. With us. What man would put up with my mother, a cancelled dinner date, a screaming infant, spit-up, his predecessor’s strap-on, possible arrest for assault on an innocent rower, my throwing trash in the Charles River, a long walk on a chilly late afternoon, and a woman who paid absolutely zero attention to him until her child was fed, bathed, and asleep? Not to mention the garbage needed to go out, and as Charlotte announced, there are three loads of unfolded laundry in the living room.

  No one else would put up with it, that’s who. Joe would have been out the door two minutes after Charlotte left.

  At least my hair is clean. And my underwear (thank god I did all that laundry this morning).

  Holly’s deep, even breathing tells me she has finally fallen asleep. I rise from the rocking chair very slowly and move across the darkened room, where I carefully peel her from my chest and lower her into her crib. Wait to see if she stays asleep. Check the baby monitor. Check the thermostat. Tiptoe out. Exhale.

  At least, I hope he’s still here?

  Heading down the hall, I begin to smell something delicious and realize I am starving. I pass the living room and do a sort of walking double take, backing up a few steps to look.

  The room is now lit by candles and the flicker of the fireplace. The cocktail table is set with plates, napkins, and chopsticks in paper sleeves. Champagne glasses are sparkling in the candlelight. There are two large brown paper bags on the floor next to the table. Sinatra is crooning “Just in Time.” There is no laundry in sight.

  Nick comes walking in with an open Champagne bottle.

  “I figured you like Thai food since I saw the delivery menu in the kitchen drawer,” he says. “I had to guess at what to order, though.” He chuckles. “I waited at the door because I was afraid the doorbell would ring at exactly the wrong time.”

  “I can’t believe you did this! It’s amazing!”

  “I dialed the number on the menu,” he laughs. “I didn’t cook it myself. Any ten-year-old could produce the same meal, if they can pronounce ‘tom yam goong.’”

  “Ten-year-olds can’t pop a Champagne cork, though,” I say, accepting a glass, “and Holly is not allowed to light candles until she is twenty. At least.”

  “All three of my children could open a Champagne bottle properly by age eight. No big pops. Just a tiny puff of air. We just have to teach her to point the cork away from her face.”

  That “we” hangs there in the air for a moment.

  “Let’s eat,” I suggest. I kneel on the floor and pull open the paper bags. Inside are six appetizers and four main course dishes in plastic containers.

  “Are we expecting other people?” I ask, confused.

  “I wanted to be sure there was something you liked.”

  I look in his eyes, and a smile spreads across my face.

  “There’s definitely something I like.”

  And the food is good, too.

  Eventually I lay down my chopsticks, unable to take another bite. Nick stands and picks up our plates.

  “No, no!” I protest, unfolding my legs and trying to get up from the floor. “I’ll clear. You’ve done everything so far!”

  “Sorry,” he says. “House rule is that mothers of children under three months do not wait on adults. I’ll be right back.”

  “But it’s my house!”

  “But it’s my rule,” he smiles.

  “Wish you had explained that rule to Charlotte,” is all I can say. But I settle back down and enjoy the luxury of being taken care of, just for one night. I am stuffed. Content. As Nick leaves the room, I let myself fall backwards on the carpet, the food and wine and warmth all washing over me.

  * * *

  Nick is seated on my sofa, reading on his iPad. I’m looking up at him from an odd angle. Why?

  He notices me. “Hey,” he says softly.

  “Hey,” I answer, sitting up stiffly. “Oh no—I fell asleep? I am so sorry!”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. You’re exhausted. Come up here.” He touches the sofa next to him, shifting to wrap his arms around me as I sit. He rests his chin on top of my head.

  “Soon she’ll sleep through the night. And then she’ll be a teenager, and she’ll sleep till one in the afternoon, and you’ll be trying to wake her up all the time. Every stage has its challenges. As soon as you figure one stage out, they pass through it, and you have to figure out the next one.”

  “And you did it alone too. With three of them.”

  “Yes, and only two hands.” He chuckles.

  “What was the hardest part?”

  “Oh, without a doubt, the times when there was supposed to be a mother on the scene. You know, school events, proms, awards. Milestone things. My parents would come sometimes, but it wasn’t the same.”

  “Your parents?” I realize I don’t know much about Nick, but I did date his brother.

  “My dad died a few years ago,” he explains.

  “Oh!” A memory of Charlie’s parents flickers through me. Norm was a tall, lean guy with big hands who spent a lot of time doing woodwork in their garage. Their mother, Celia, was a tough-as-nails kindergarten teacher. “I’m so sorry. What about your mom?”

  “Retired. Lives in Florida now.”

  “Sounds like they really helped you when the kids were little.”

  He shrugs.

  I turn and look at him, heartbreak on my face.

  “Will it be like that for Holly? Will she miss having a dad terribly?”

  The contemplative way that he takes his time before answering is endearing, and it makes me listen carefully. “To be honest, I think it was a lot harder on me than on the kids. For them, it was kind of normal. But as a parent, you just can’t stand for anyone to hurt your child. And I had a lot of anger towards Simone that I had to keep hidden.”

  A quiet moment passes, as I think about what he’s told me. This exceptional man.

  “I think it’s going to be a little easier for you and Holly. I think there’s more of an understanding now that families look different in many ways, but it’s only the love that matters.”

  He picks something up from the floor beside him.

  “You started to open this earlier, but you didn’t finish. It’s for Holly.”

  He looks so excited, like it’s a gift for him. I separate the tissue paper in the bag and find a flat gift. I pull off the wrapping paper and see that it’s a children’s book with a bright cover featuring an illustration of a little girl and a big dog. The little girl is holding her nose.

  “Walter, the Farting Dog,” I read aloud.

  I look at Nick.

  I am speechless.

  “I know I said ‘no princesses,’” I begin, “but…”

  He’s shaking with laughter.

  “Best. Children’s. Book. Ever.” he manages. “This book got me through story time for years. I can’t wait to read it again.”

  “But…” I begin.

  “Listen to this!” he interrupts me. “Backstory—”

  “Backstory? A children’s book with backstory?”

  “Yes! That’s why this is the greatest children’s book known to man. Poor Walter got depressed and ate a twenty-five pound bag of low-fart dog biscuits.”

  I’m trying to follow this. I really am.

  “Low-fart dog biscuits?” I ask, eyebrows hitting the moon. No
te to self: time to get threaded.

  “And poor Walter tries to hold in his gas, but then burglars arrive. So he lets it go.” Nick picks up the book and points to the page, trying to read. The man is shaking so hard from laughing that he can’t speak.

  “Ah,” I say. I am really trying to understand.

  “Look at this picture!” He points to an illustration of a dog actually farting on a veterinarian, who is peering into the dog’s, uh… backside. Tears are now running down Nick’s cheeks.

  I suddenly understand what he meant earlier, when he said he could be gross.

  I take the book from him and leaf through the first few pages. Where I see this introduction: “For everyone who is misjudged or misunderstood.”

  He’s right. This is a book we need on our shelves.

  And did he say, “I can’t wait to read it again”?

  “Thank you,” I say sincerely. I put the book on the cocktail table. “Thank you,” I whisper, and kiss him.

  He’s not laughing now. He’s kissing me back, the kind of kiss that wants more, wants everything.

  He’s not laughing as I slide to my knees in front of him.

  He’s not laughing as I unbuckle his belt. Unzip his pants. Gently free him, and just in time. He’s rock hard.

  “Chloe,” he gasps, as I circle him with my tongue, teasing for a moment. I inhale his intimate scent.

  My lips are around him now, moving and sucking, enjoying the connection and the power. Then he begins to move too, fingers threading in my hair, his hands guiding me to his perfect rhythm until I hear him moan and he bursts into my mouth, masculine and delicious.

  This is as close as I can get to experiencing what he feels, and I love it.

  I love that he loves it.

  “That was worth waiting for,” I say, and I smile to myself.

  “Incredible,” he’s saying, his breathing ragged, “unbelievable.”

  “Come to bed,” I tell him. “You can read Walter at three a.m.”

  He gives me a sad smile. “An hour ago, I’d have had to decline, because I had plans with my son. But he texted me.”

  “He ditched you?”

  “He postponed.”

  I stand up and reach my hand toward him. “I’m sorry he did, but his loss is my gain. Now you don’t have to postpone with me.”