Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  Her eyes fly open and her face flushes, jaw set, nostrils flaring.

  And then she marches off without another word.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chloe

  “Remember that party game, Twister?” I ask Jemma. Henry is only half-listening, since the Pats game is on, fourth quarter. Harold is with my mother, off at the Four Seasons again. By the time I arrived home with a still-hysterical Holly, there was only time for an air kiss and a promise to visit again.

  I escaped to my safe spot.

  Even if it involves football.

  “Sure,” she answers. “There was a big plastic mat with colored circles, and a spinner, and you had to put a certain body part on a certain circle. And everyone was on the mat at the same time. Eventually someone couldn’t reach, or couldn’t hold their position, and they collapsed. That caused everyone else to collapse with them.”

  “I loved that game,” Henry says fondly.

  “Says the seven-foot-tall dude,” Jemma notes bitterly. “I hated that game. I was too short to ever reach the outer circles.”

  “Well, Twister is what dating in your thirties and forties is like.” I take a sip from my bottle of Corona Light.

  “What?” she laughs.

  “Sshhhhh!” from Henry.

  “The circles are all the different parts of your life,” I explain. “So you each have a hand for your kids, and a foot for your job. Maybe the other foot is your former relationships, your exes.”

  I move to the floor to demonstrate. Henry looks up from the TV screen. I’m stretched out and arched like a spider. I wave my spare hand in the air.

  “Now I have this one hand left for a new relationship. The spinner points to a red circle, but it’s just a little too far to stretch. I try hard, but I just… can’t… reach…” I collapse dramatically on the carpet. “I fall down, and Nick falls on top of me. Game over.”

  “Yes! That’s the whole point!” Henry says, astonished. “Did you not understand that?”

  We both glare at him.

  “It’s a metaphor,” I sigh.

  We are sitting in the living room of their loft. Henry needs a lot of room, so the loft is perfect. Super-high ceilings, wide-open space, and it accommodates their large-scale furniture. Holly is sound asleep in the center of their California-king-size bed, blocked all around by pillows.

  “The point is, trying to start a new relationship at this point is different from dating in your twenties. Our lives are full of other responsibilities and experiences, and we can’t just let go of them. They make us who we are, but they don’t leave a lot of room for more.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” Jem says thoughtfully. “At least, I hope it’s not true. I think we have an infinite capacity to add love to our lives. You had room for Holly. I think you have room for Nick.”

  “Holly arrived all by herself. She didn’t bring a French wife and three kids who call during sex.”

  “Wait a minute.” Henry’s paying attention now. “Ex-wife. But that’s not the point. You’re not exactly free of baggage yourself, girlfriend.”

  I squint at the ceiling.

  “In fact, Nick spent quite a bit of money buying up some of your baggage online, as I recall.”

  I begin inspecting my pedicure.

  “And he seems pretty willing to play Twister with you. He doesn’t mind putting his hand on your red circles.” He pauses. “I mean… you know what I mean.”

  “We all have to live our lives, Chloe,” Jemma chimes in. “We experiment and take some detours, probably make a few mistakes. That’s how we learn and grow and figure out what’s right. We can’t just sit and wait for some perfect person to come along.”

  I look up.

  “Worth the wait,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “Nick said this was worth waiting for. He said he would wait.”

  “Why would you want to make him wait?”

  “I don’t know,” I say miserably. “But Joe said I was worth waiting for, and I believed him, and then he said it to someone else.”

  “Even a baby can see that Joe and Nick are nothing alike,” Henry observes.

  “Speaking of babies, I should go check on mine.”

  Jemma follows me to their bedroom. Holly’s still out like a light, lying on her back with her arms flung wide, totally secure.

  We stand and watch her for a moment in peaceful silence.

  “I have to find someone to take care of her, for when I go back to work,” I sigh. “But I can’t bear to think about leaving her all day long with a total stranger.”

  “I know,” Jem agrees. “Henry and I were talking about it. She’s precious to us, too.”

  We tiptoe out of the room.

  “We had an idea,” she says tentatively. “It’s just a thought, and it might not work for you, but… I already work at home, and I could just as easily write at your house as here… and she knows me… and I’ve spent so much time with her already…” she pauses. “And I love her so much.”

  “Jem. You’re not serious.”

  She studies my face. “Of course you probably want a trained professional nanny, I totally understand, no worries. Someone who speaks three languages or has a degree in babies.”

  “Jemma! Are you kidding? Henry! You would seriously do this? I cannot imagine anything more wonderful! It’s such a weight off my shoulders – oh how can I ever thank you?”

  Without taking his eyes off the television, Henry suggests “A great benefits package?”

  “Anything!” I laugh. “A car, your birthday off, Henry’s birthday off, a dry cleaning allowance! I’d offer free massages, but you already get those.”

  I throw my arms around her, then bend down and hug Henry, who struggles away wildly as the stadium crowd begins roaring. “Chloe! I can’t see the play!”

  Thus he misses the winning touchdown. He’s mad, but I don’t care. I scored.

  We move to the kitchen for chili, which smells fantastic. Jemma starts ladling it into bowls while I plug in the baby monitor and adjust the volume.

  “So how did you leave it with Nick?”

  “He said to text or call anytime. I will when I’m ready.”

  “And just when do you think that might be?”

  Is that sarcasm I detect?

  “Chloe, I don’t really understand.” She puts down the ladle and turns to face me. “He’s doing everything right. He seems to really like you, and you really like him. The sex is good –”

  I make an involuntary sound. She rolls her eyes.

  “ – okay, the sex is great. He’s unmarried and gainfully employed and has no arrest record that you know of. You make each other laugh. You belong to the same political party. He can change a diaper and sail a boat, and he likes Sofia Coppola movies. None of your ex-boyfriends could say all of those things. Joe couldn’t even say the first three. What exactly is the problem here?”

  “I’m so scared,” comes out of me in a tiny voice.

  “Of what?”

  “I do really like him. I like him too much. He’s too good. You know that saying, ‘If it’s too good to be true,’…”

  She joins in and finishes it with me.

  “…‘it’s too good to be true’!”

  “Jem, I like him too much,” I repeat slowly. “When I’m with Nick, I am perfectly happy. It’s terrifying. I recently had my heart ripped out, and I remember how it felt. I can’t do that anymore. I have a baby now. I can’t have a man come into our lives and make us happy, and then go out of our lives and make us miserable. We need emotional stability.”

  She’s quiet for a minute.

  “I understand that, and I respect it. Part of a mom’s responsibilities involves making good choices, and not taking unnecessary risks. But there are other responsibilities, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s your job to show Holly what life can hold. I think you have a moral responsibility to live your fullest life, full of
love and new experiences.”

  She holds up a bowl of chili. “Look at this – thick and full of good stuff, tomatoes and meat and tons of spices. It’s all been simmering together for a long time over a low flame, so it’s got intense flavor. Chips on the side for texture, sour cream for contrast. Delicious. Or instead, I could have served chicken broth. Perfectly good, healthy even, but thin and boring. And you’d be just as hungry after you finished.”

  You can see why she is so successful as a health journalist. She makes unusual connections to illustrate her points.

  “If Holly grows up seeing that you are scared of a loving relationship, she will learn that love is something to avoid. None of us want that little girl to ever have a single unhappy moment, but she will. What she needs to know is that she’ll get through it. Sadder but wiser, as my grandmother used to say. So you have to be her model. You have to be brave for her. You have to teach her that love is not chicken broth!”

  This is not in my parenting books.

  Henry comes in, opens three fresh beers, and settles himself at the island. He regards the steaming bowl in front of him.

  “Looks great,” he says happily. He has no idea it represents his entire life. “You know your Twister idea?”

  We both look at him in surprise, our spoons halfway to our mouths. He really was paying attention.

  “There should be another version called Married Twister,” he continues. “Or maybe just Twisted Together. Because when you’re together, the problems are shared. There are four hands instead of just two. If one of you has a hand on the mother-in-law circle, for example, the other person can cover the kids circle. You help each other stay balanced.”

  Jem hops off her stool and runs around to kiss him on the cheek. She can reach it when he’s sitting down.

  “In Married Twister,” he chuckles, “I always have a free hand.” He holds it up, then reaches around and places it on her ass, which he squeezes.

  “Chloe’s going to call Nick,” she informs him. “She’s going to play the game. You can’t win if you don’t play.”

  So I guess I’m going to call Nick.

  * * *

  Nick

  “Is this going to take long? Because you’re making us miss part of the Pats game,” Jean-Marc grouses. I get all three kids into the living room, bracing myself.

  “Your mother’s gone,” I say to the three of them, taken back fifteen years to a time when those words stuck in my throat.

  “Right,” Amelie says with a sad smile.

  “I’m surprised she lasted a single night,” Jean-Marc says dryly.

  I jerk with surprise. “What?”

  “Me, too,” Elodie adds, grimacing. “She only came back to try to hook up with you, Daddy.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pretty elaborate for a booty call,” Jean-Marc says under his breath.

  These kids.

  “You’re not… upset?” I’m ignoring all mention of the rest of this.

  “Sure.” Amelie’s eyes fill with tears. “But she came. Other than our high school graduation, this is the first big event she’s bothered to, you know, like… attend.”

  Jean-Marc’s face goes tight. His mother has never attended an event of significance for him.

  “When she said she left Rolf, I knew what was going on. Funny how she wasn’t interested in coming until I told her about Chloe,” Elodie adds with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

  I look at her. “What?”

  “Maman has this way of talking about you like you’re so boring. Or like you’re a lap dog. I hate it.” Elodie’s eyes are alight with fire and indignation. “And normally, she doesn’t even ask about you. So when she started prying, I couldn’t stand it. Plus, she happened to call the day after, um… you know.”

  “You stalked Dad and interrupted him during—”

  “Heeeyyyyyyy.” Charlie interrupts, slashing a hand across his neck while looking at Elodie. “Ixnay on the ex-say.”

  The three kids crack up.

  “Beer? I need beer if we have to simultaneously talk about Simone and Nick’s sex life.”

  How did my serious talk with my kids turn into this?

  “We’re not talking about my and Simone’s sex life.”

  All three kids start gagging.

  Charlie gives me a devilish grin.

  “Daddy,” Amelie says, her hand on my forearm, clearly troubled. “We know what Maman is like. How she is. We—well, she’s not like you. At all. And,” she adds, her voice halting, “it hurts.”

  There you have it.

  I close my eyes, battling my own hurt that Simone has caused, and working not to project that onto my kids. When they were little, I thought I could shield them from the worst about her. And to be fair, the worst that she’s done is to be absent. To hold on to herself and refuse to share.

  But for a child, that burns, a searing brand on identity formation, and there’s only so much I could do.

  “I’m sorry, Ami.”

  “I know.”

  “She ditched Rolf and decided to check you out,” Elodie declares. “Like you’ve been waiting all these years to be picked back up. Like a purse you stop liking and then it comes back into style.”

  They all have this tone in their voices.

  A protective tone.

  When did my kids start to feel the need to defend me?

  “She wouldn’t come to my high school graduation, but she’ll come for a chance to get you under her thumb again,” Jean-Marc mutters.

  There’s a gut punch. And I can’t argue with him. He’s right.

  “It didn’t work.” I look at them, constantly calculating, mind in motion as I try to balance privacy with their maturity.

  All three kids look at each other with frowns.

  “We know,” Jean-Marc finally says. “I was here.”

  “Here?” I’m puzzled.

  “Here when you yelled at Maman.”

  A stony silence fills the room.

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

  “I’m not.” His jaw is tight, arms clenched in a fighter’s stance. “Every word you said is true, Dad. Every word.”

  Charlie is uncharacteristically quiet, just watching everyone. He opens his mouth. “Your mother thinks Nick is a lap dog?” he asks Elodie.

  She nods. “She said a long time ago that if Daddy had been—” She looks at me in distress.

  “It’s fine. Go ahead,” I say in someone else’s voice.

  “She said that she did what was best at the time, and that any man who does not live his own life is a poor role model for his children.”

  I stand suddenly, on my feet via instinct, unaware of the insta-rage that shoots through me like a pipe bomb filled with debris.

  Steady, I tell myself. I think of Chloe’s mouth, the taste of her, how she felt against my thighs, her delicate skin and fine bones all mine. I run through the last few days, my memory a video in 4x time, the sequence of events gaining a different meaning as I put it together in retrospect.

  I sought out the sanctuary of Chloe after Simone came on to me. Not because I needed to feel like more of a man. Not because I needed freedom.

  Because I needed Chloe. The intimacy is emotional and physical, promising and alluring, and I can be myself and be sexual with her. Find connection in the physical and intellectual realm. She’s the whole package. Simone is all surface, no depth, living a life marked by projection.

  Chloe’s just living.

  “Nick.” Charlie’s taking charge here. I shake myself, looking around the room.

  “She’s wrong,” Amelie says. She looks at her phone. “Ooo, text from Kieran. Gotta go.”

  “Who’s Kieran?” I ask.

  “New guy. Meeting for coffee.” She kisses my cheek and flies out the door.

  “Merde!” Jean-Marc calls out, racing to the television. “Pats game! We missed part of it.” Charlie joins him, the two glued to the screen in sec
onds.

  The moment is lost.

  Bzzz.

  My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and when I pull it out, the Holy Grail appears.

  A text from Chloe.

  A relieved smile fills my face.

  Can I come over? Jemma will watch Holly for me.

  Of course, I type back.

  I want to add, Thank you, but I don’t.

  Wouldn’t want anyone to mistake me for a lap dog.

  * * *

  Charlie takes Jean-Marc to a local sports bar, while Elodie finds some folklore thing to visit, leaving me with an empty house. I’m fidgety, checking the wine bottles, setting and re-setting wine glasses on the kitchen counter. Chloe’s text is a sign of hope. I’ve given her space. She needs it. So do I.

  Between Simone, the clash with Chloe, and the decidedly surreal conversation with my kids and Charlie a moment ago, space and time are in short supply.

  “Breathe,” I tell myself, surprised by the case of nerves that hits me.

  The doorbell rings.

  “Hi.” Her shy smile puts me on guard.

  “Hi.” I hustle her inside, out of the cold, and take her coat. Just the feel of my hands skimming her clothed arms makes me stop breathing. I can fix this. We can decide.

  We can choose to make this work.

  “Wine?”

  She nods. “Just one glass.” There are dark circles under her eyes, though she’s carefully made up. Somehow, Chloe manages to look utterly exhausted and radiantly happy at the same time.

  New motherhood.

  We move to the sofa, where she curls up against the stack of pillows, not touching me. I angle myself so I’m facing her.

  “How’s Holly?”

  “Good. Great.”

  “Getting any sleep?”

  She laughs, then yawns as if to prove the point. “No.”

  “It’ll happen soon.”

  “Define ‘soon.’”

  “Jean-Marc didn’t sleep through the night until he was nearly two.”

  “I hate you.” She laughs. “Holly is sleeping at Jemma and Henry’s right now. I don’t have long, but I’ll take what I can get.”

  The physical memory of our rushed night of sex at her place while the baby slept for seven minutes hits me like a tidal wave.