by Tessa Bailey
“Where’s Amelie?” I ask.
Holly’s head pops up, as if to ask the same question. She looks around the room as if we’re on the hunt.
“On her way.”
“I really do get all three of you here tonight?”
She shrugs. “It’s winter break. I’m not doing anything until Monday.”
“And you said because I’m doing study abroad next year, you wouldn’t pay for me to go anywhere,” Jean-Marc grouses.
“You poor, suffering child. Would you like an extra serving of porridge to make up for it?” I ask dryly.
“So you get us all!” Elodie squeals, her face stretched into an overly happy expression as she taps Holly’s nose.
Peals of laughter fill the room.
Bzzz.
Fumbling, I reach into my back pocket for the phone. It’s an actual call.
“Nick? Nick? How is everything?” Panic fills my ear. “Is Holly okay?”
“Bop!” Elodie says.
Holly giggles.
“Is that Holly?” Chloe asks, the panic draining out of her voice.
I laugh, a deep sound that surprises even me in its purity. “Yes.”
“Bop!” Elodie, encouraged by her audience’s response, keeps going.
Giggle.
“It sounds – it sounds like you have everything under control,” Chloe says, her voice filled with marvel.
“So far.”
“Is she upset?”
“She’s had her moments.”
“What happened?”
“She got scared.”
“She must be terrified! She’s only ever been watched by me or Jemma. Is – should I talk to her? Can you Facetime?”
Chloe’s words are blipping in and out. “Chloe? I think the connection’s bad.”
“I – but – can you Face—”
Signal out.
“Shit.”
“Daddy! Don’t curse in front of the baby!”
“It’s fine. She can’t really imitate words for another few months.” I chuckle. “I remember when Amelie learned to say merde, though. Your mother said it one too many times around her when she was about fourteen months old and it stuck. Oh, man, was Simone pissed.” I smile at the memory.
Holly smiles back.
Elodie and Jean-Marc share an intrigued look. “Really?”
“Except she said it like mer, so Simone convinced people she was just talking about the sea.” My mind takes me back to a time when both twins were starting to walk and talk, when Elodie had long, crazy hair in a topknot and eyes bigger than her head. “But she said it whenever she was mad.”
Elodie tilts her head as she watches Holly, brow knit. “What about me?” she asks softly.
“What about you?”
“Tell me a story about me as a baby.”
My mind goes blank.
She waits, holding her breath.
“You were the sweetest baby. The easiest of the three.”
Elodie reels back in shock.
“Maman says I’m the most stubborn of her children!”
“I said you were an easy baby. Not an easy child.”
“What went wrong, Dad? When did she become such a pain in the ass?” Jean-Marc asks, crossing his arms, giving Elodie an amused chuckle.
“After I dropped her on her head.”
“DADDY!”
“You were fluent in French before English,” I say slowly, remembering. “Which was strange, because Amelie and Jean-Marc learned English first. You wandered around like a little drunken toddler, mixing English and French all the time. At one point, Simone was worried you had a speech disorder. We finally had you evaluated when you were about two and a half and the specialist said you just had a unique way of learning.”
“That’s medical speak for weird,” Jean-Marc interjects.
Elodie throws a sofa pillow at him. He ducks. It hits the empty Pringles can and sends it flying across the room.
Holly giggles.
We all laugh.
This is going to be a piece of cake.
* * *
Chloe
Jack has managed to get me into an Anterdec reserved hotel room, which must be the only available room in the entire city. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my phone.
No messages of any kind.
I call Nick. Voicemail.
I call Jemma. Voicemail.
I call Room Service. “Yes, Ms. Browne?”
Thank god somebody picks up my calls. This was beginning to feel like a sci-fi movie.
“Could I please have a vodka martini with a twist? No, on second thought, two vodka martinis?”
It’s not like I’m going anywhere. I look at the window. Whiteout.
“Yes, Ms. Browne. Anything else? We are serving a full dinner menu.”
I’m a contentment eater, remember? And I am SO not content right now.
“No, thanks, just the drinks.”
That first martini may be the best thing I have ever tasted. The second is pretty damn good, too.
“Yes, Ms. Browne?”
“Hi. Hi,” I say softly, sweetly. “I was wondering if you could maybe send up another of these fantastic martinis? With lemon?”
“Of course. Will there be anything else? We’re featuring tagliatelle pasta with a puttanesca sauce. It’s excellent.”
“Oh no, no, thank you. No pasta. Just the drink.”
I have no clothes to change into, but there’s a white robe in the closet. So much more relaxing than work clothes and stockings.
I should be giving Holly her bath right now. I can practically smell the lavender baby shampoo. What is happening there? Why is no one picking up my calls?
At last, my phone lights up:
Text from Nick: She’s crying. Been crying for about fifteen minutes, no sign of stopping. All 4 of us have tried everything. What does she want?
All four of us? Huh?
Me: I don’t know, what’s happening? Who’s with you?
Nick: I gave her bottle, now crying. Me and my three kids here to help.
Oh, they’re all there? The bridge of my nose prickles with a rush of emotion, eyes filling. Nick managed to call in reinforcements. I couldn’t find anyone, but he has this network.
I need a network.
I need him.
Me: Did you try her binky?
Nick: What is binky?
OMG! Does he not speak English? Should I check Google Translate?
Me: Binky! Binky!
Nick: ???
I stare at the screen, thinking hard.
Pacifier, I type.
No dots. A very long minute goes by.
YES! appears in a grey bubble.
I fall backwards on the bed in relief.
Found it in cat litter box. Wiped on pant leg. She’s sucking on it happily, he answers.
I burst out laughing.
If I weren’t in your debt, you’d be dead, I reply.
You owe me? he types back. That could get interesting.
I’ll be home first thing tomorrow, I tap out.
Doubt it, Nick replies. There goes our date.
Oh no no no, oh please no… I really need that date…
Facetime, I type.
Nick: ?
If we can’t be together, we’ll Facetime our date.
Blank screen.
G2G need to rock her now chat later
Seriously? He needs to rock her? I need him to rock me.
Hello? I type. Facetime date. I promise you’ll have fun
Sometime later, he responds: ;) Exhausted G’night
I can’t imagine why he’s so tired?
I click on the TV and scroll through the offerings, which seem to be mostly described as ‘Adult.’ Which gives me an idea.
* * *
Nick
“There’s Mama,” I say, pointing to the iPad screen. Elodie’s sharing hers with Holly so Chloe can “talk” to the baby. Chloe looks haggard and frayed, deep grooves of worry in the mu
scles of her face, but her eyes light up when we get Holly on screen.
“Hi, baby!”
Chloe promptly bursts into tears.
Holly tries to gum the corner of the tablet.
“She’s fine,” I soothe, at a loss. How do you comfort someone on Facetime? You can’t hug the screen and have that count.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe says with a sniffle. “It’s just so good to see her. Thank you. How is everything going?”
“We want to babysit more!” Amelie chirps, half her face coming into view from the left side of the screen. “Holly’s a blast!”
“Hi Amelie!’ Chloe says with a shaky smile. “Are you all there?”
“Yes!” Elodie says, waving.
“Hey,” Jean-Marc grunts.
“You have four adults for one baby. You’ve got this covered,” she says, her voice filled with awe. It hits me. She doesn’t have three people she can call for help. She has Jemma and Henry, but they’re more like one person.
That’s it.
I bounce Holly on my knee as she slimes the glass screen, trying to touch Chloe, who makes raspberries at the baby.
Chloe has Jemma and Henry.
And now she has me.
The kids talk to Chloe while I balance the baby, her hands sticky with saliva, little baby noises indicating happiness. Chloe’s engaged in an intense discussion with Jean-Marc about the restaurants closest to her hotel in NYC as Amelie sneaks off to do her laundry. Elodie watches me.
I hope she can’t see all the pieces of me, slowly falling to the ground, like a tree shedding fall leaves.
Free. For years I’ve spent so much time spinning my wheels, taking care of kids, building a business, finding stability, with my eyes on the prize. Not freedom.
No.
Family.
I look around the room, at Jean-Marc scavenging for food again, at Holly playing with my shirt button, at Elodie telling Chloe they’re about to make a toy run for Holly and not to worry about BPA or red paint in any toys, and the concept of freedom turns to mist.
One gust of wind and it’s gone.
One deep breath and it blends.
Chapter Twenty-One
Chloe
Date night.
11:00 p.m.
Showtime.
I’ve spent the day watching the snow pile up, plows rumbling by on the streets, small Bobcat vehicles clearing the sidewalks. Constantly checking Weather.com and the airline site doesn’t seem to have any effect on accumulation. It just keeps relentlessly falling.
Twice today, I’ve tried Facetime with Holly. Nick has held the screen right in front of her, and I’ve recited The Runaway Bunny from memory. This was not as successful as I’d hoped, partly because every time I tried to say, “If you run away,” said his mother, “I will run after you, for you are my little bunny,” I broke down and sobbed.
Again.
And partly because Holly showed no interest in the screen whatsoever, other than using it as a chew toy. She patted it a few times, but then twisted in her high chair, reaching for Nick. I thought all children, no matter how small, adored technology? Clearly she is not destined for a career with Mark Zuckerberg. Damn.
I’m hoping that my appearance on screen tonight, just for Nick, will be more compelling.
To that end, I have carefully hand-laundered my black lace bra and thong from yesterday, and the dark grey thigh highs. I dried everything with the hotel hairdryer, which wasn’t easy because it’s one of those little ones mounted to the wall. These are not my absolute dead-sexiest pieces, but when I put them on yesterday morning, I wasn’t planning on an audience. Still, they’re La Perla. Nothing to be shy about.
Which is good, because tonight is not about shy.
I put my silk shirt from yesterday over the bra, leaving it half unbuttoned. Black heels. My hair is pinned up, makeup perfect, with red lipstick. It’s not like I had anything else to do this afternoon. Plenty of perfume—he can’t smell it, of course, but I can. After all, this is a date. I turn the lights on, but low, and set tonight’s martini—dry, with a twist—next to my computer.
At 11:04, my phone rings, and I answer on the laptop. There he is, looking incredibly handsome. I love when he wears his glasses.
“Hey there.” He looks a little more worn than usual. I hide a grin. Mr. “It’ll Be Easy” is getting a refresher course in infants.
“Hey. Are you okay? Looks like you might get home tomorrow, snow’s letting up.”
“Thank god! What’s happening there? Is Holly asleep? Are you exhausted?”
“She’s asleep. The girls were here all evening playing with her. They just went into their rooms with their phones. It’s so quiet.”
“Oh, that’s good. That means you can concentrate. Focus.” I adjust the camera angle, moving it just a bit lower.
“Oh my,” he breathes. “Look at you.”
I take a sip of my drink. I move the camera lower. I say nothing.
I unbutton my shirt. Slowly. One by one.
Nick laughs quietly, a low sound of appreciation. “Even your pixels are gorgeous,” he says.
I push open my shirt and slide my fingers under the lace of my bra, massaging. My head tips back.
And in a moment, I stand. Every movement is slow. There’s no hurry.
Now he can see my thong, the lace tops of my stockings.
I turn my back to the camera, hook my fingers under my thong, and slide it down. Slowly.
And then I turn back.
And I hear him—at a distance of two hundred miles—draw in his breath. I watch his face intently. Lifting one high heel onto the edge of the chair, I lick a manicured finger, and touch myself where I am yearning for his touch.
“Chloe…oh, my…”
I reach to the keyboard to increase the volume, wanting to hear his every sound. His excitement feeds mine.
And the screen goes black.
Shitshitshit!
What did I do? How do I undo whatever I did, right now? Where the hell is tech services when you really need them?
Frantically, I restart the computer, wait, enter my password, wait, reopen Facetime. The mood is evaporating with each lost second. I type Nick’s number into the box, as I try to compose myself and recreate the hot scene I just disconnected. I stand, face the camera, position myself, take a deep breath.
And there on the screen is the devastatingly handsome face of…
Henry.
I shriek. He shrieks.
Jemma walks up behind him and shrieks.
We shriek in surround sound.
I sit down, fast.
“Chloe, what the fuck?” I didn’t know Henry’s voice could hit that register.
“I was calling Nick! I don’t know what happened!”
“Henry, go in the other room,” Jemma orders. “Chloe, what the hell?”
“I don’t know! I was Facetiming with Nick, and my computer shut down, and I was calling him back! Why are you online, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at the wedding?”
“I broke the heel on my shoe dancing. We just came back to the room so I could get another pair. When did you get a full Brazilian?”
“Oh my god. Can we talk about this another time? I need to call Nick back. Is Henry going to be okay?”
“Are you kidding? In his line of work? Henry actually does know how to unsee things,” Jemma says, clearly annoyed, but if she’s making jokes, I know it’ll be okay.
“I am so, so sorry!”
“All good, honey.” She sighs. “But I am clearly going to have to up my game here.”
* * *
Nick
I haven’t gotten that hard that fast since high school.
And now Chloe’s gone.
What did I just see, and how can I see more of it?
I fiddle with my laptop keyboard, taking two seconds to readjust myself. It’s late, Holly’s asleep, and I’m in sweats.
Which means I can’t stand up and go out into my own damn li
ving room for a few minutes.
Laughter fills my chest, though I repress it. Don’t want to wake the baby or draw attention to myself. Last thing I need is one of my kids coming in here when Chloe comes back on screen.
She is coming back on screen, right?
Coming… on screen… please…
Silence. One minute. Two. Three. The image of that lusciously hot position of hers, the wanton abandon, fills me with—
Damn it.
Hard again.
Bzzz.
My phone’s on the edge of the desk and the vibration is just enough to put it over the edge.
Like me, in a moment.
I bend down, wincing, but grab it.
A text from Chloe.
Sorry about that.
Nothing 2B sorry about, I text back quickly. I’m desperate to have her come back on screen.
So desperate I’m using txtspeak.
I am so embarrassed, she replies.
Facetime with me, I urge.
Can’t. I clicked over from you accidentally and, she texts.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Two minutes of silence.
I call her on Facetime. She doesn’t pick up.
Sorry. I accidentally called Henry instead of you and he got a show, she finally explains.
I stare at the screen, jaw on my desk.
U wat? I text back.
OMG is this one of Nick’s kids? she replies.
No. Sorry. I’m so shocked I reverted to txtspeak, I answer, jaw grinding. Henry? I add.
Yes. Sorry.
Make it up to me by going on Facetime again. In that exact same position, I reply, resisting the urge to add, That’s an order.
Terrified. Mood gone, she answers.
Mood gone?
I look down at my groin.
My mood is definitely not gone.
Thank you, she adds. And I’ll make it up to you when I come home.
I’m throbbing. I look like I have a joystick growing out of my sweats. Henry got to look at Chloe’s naked, sprawling, hot show.
And this is where being a nice guy sucks.
But I do it anyway.
It’s fine, I say, finding some mature part of myself I don’t really like.
It’s not fine, she texts. None of this is fine. But you made it all safe. Thank you.
I soften in more ways than one.
Any time, I reply.
I’d like that, she answers.
Like what?