A Thousand Starry Nights

by Addison Moore

  “So the Jeneration Jinx app.” I pull up the file on my laptop and spin it toward him just enough as if it mattered.

  Carter isn’t wearing his suit jacket, just his slacks, a powder blue dress shirt, his long silver tie that looks like liquid mercury. Jinx is the most casual place to work on the planet, and yet the Cannon brothers continue to express their frame of power by way of their Italian cut-to-fit expensive designer suits. I myself like a good heel as opposed to the flip-flop wearing sunshine girls that roam the halls.

  A smile comes and goes from his lips. Carter has those kiss me lips that not many men have. Most men are thin lipped, but Carter has the mouth every woman in the United States dreams of applying lipstick to let alone making out with in the dark.

  “I have a list a mile long of new ways to market it as the must-have upgrade.” He leans in with a bored affect. “I’ve done the legwork. You can add and subtract to it, make it your own, trick it out with all the new logos you want, but it’s a done deal.”

  “Great. Then we have nothing further to discuss.” I lean into my seat as a numbness rises through my legs, barreling toward my chest threatening to suffocate me. Here, my ego wanted to believe he wanted me back, and, now, he’s all but dissolved any need to be in the same room with me.

  A tired smile rises on his lips, affording those dimples of his a quick workout. “This is earmarked as a sixteen week project with a budget that rivals the expenses of a small country. I’ll let you call it in two if you do me one favor.”

  A proposition. My heart buoys to the surface again, gasping for the air of his affection.

  I swallow hard. “What’s that?” An entire litany of inappropriate thoughts traverse my mind. Carter and those hands, those heated kisses only he knew how to deliver come back like a tidal wave. But then he walked down the aisle with someone who wasn’t me. Carter gave those strong hands and incredible kisses to someone who makes the devil look like a Girl Scout. I’m shocked he’s come away with his balls, but, then again, I’m not able to confirm that theory.

  “Have dinner with me. Every night. Two weeks.” Those dimples flash again. The thin veil of arrogance lights up his eyes.

  “And then what?”

  “And then I won’t be able to get rid of you.” His smile spreads wide just as mine fades.

  “You’ve done it before.” I shut that good time of his down in an instant. “I’m sure you could figure it out.”

  His eyes widen in horror as his narcissistic boast backfires.

  A squawk of a laugh trembles from me. “I have a husband I share my dinner with.”

  “Then we’ll make it lunch.” He’s unflinching with his proposition. Something tells me that filling me with calories isn’t his intention. “Two weeks, the report is done, and I’m off your back forever. You may ignore me to your heart’s content. In other words, as you were.”

  “Nice.” I tilt into him slightly disarmed by this juvenile overture. “And then I fall in love with you and leave my husband, and we live happily ever after.”

  His face darkens with color. Carter is clean-shaven as opposed to the other peppered-with-stubble Cannons that run amuck around this feline fraternity. Although I’ve never seen him catch color quite the way he is now. I think I’ve hit a nerve.

  “You said it, sweetheart, not me.” He stands to leave and pauses for a moment at the door without bothering to turn around. “Thank you.”

  “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

  “You will.” He strides out with a self-righteous hubris, and the room cushions with silence once again.

  He always was a cocky son of a bitch.

  * * *

  One of the things I like to ask people is what’s your favorite color? I’m sure most people don’t get my obsession with the childlike question, but a person’s favorite color says a lot more about them than they believe. You have your standby answers, blue, green, the occasional, and sometimes unbelievable, red. But then you have the unubiquitous responses like the color of a tangerine sky at sunset, the color of God at midnight, the color of light as it reflects in your eyes—that was Carter’s answer the first time I asked. We had gone around and around with that one, and he’s yet to change his mind. The last time we spoke—way back when—I told him, I think your favorite color is the color of the shit you just took all over my heart.

  I’d love to say I hadn’t given Carter another thought since he left my office this afternoon, but it’s been all Carter all the time since as far back as when I took this position, and, then if I were in the mood for telling the truth, the curtain to the Carter show can be pulled back to reveal years of lewd theater. I know that’s despicable—that it’s not fair to Henry. I didn’t especially seek out to be an undeserving, ingrate of a wife.

  Jennifer and her deceased husband come to mind.

  I’m sure she would gladly hang up all her hair-petting crazy just to have him back in her arms. Hell, I’m sure having him back would cure her of all her crazy. But, let’s face it, Henry is no wartime hero. He’s not your average Joe just plugging along trying to make ends meet like everybody else. Henry the do-nothing is a drunk with the spending habits of a Hollywood housewife sans the billionaire husband to back it.

  I drive up to the Trattoria and hand my key to the valet. I’m about to stride toward the walkway when the young man paid to park my car pulls me back by the stomach with a violent yank. A sports car, traveling way too fast, speeds down the narrow strip with a marked aggression.

  “Holy shit!” The valet relaxes his hold on me. “That guy almost killed you!”

  My heart ratchets up my throat again, second time in less than twelve hours. Two near misses? On the very same day? What are the odds?

  “Thank you.” I reach into my purse and furnish him with the first bill my fingers stumble upon, a ten. “Here’s for saving my life,” I say as I run into the restaurant.

  It’s happening. Henry and his moronic dealings are coming to a head. Why in the hell would he get us so in over our heads? Clearly he was drunk or high, or both, when he decided to fill his craving for a fucking ocean liner. Who crawls more than a quarter million dollars into debt with a loan shark? And conveniently forgets to tell his wife, i.e. his piggybank? A part of me wants to run. The last thing I want to do is bail my ass of a husband out of yet another bad venture. But judging by those two near misses, I’ll only be sealing my death warrant. I need to figure out a way to pay this off and then seriously reevaluate the sorry state of my marriage.

  I spot Lincoln and my sisters at our usual table and make a beeline over.

  “What’s up?” Lincoln scoots into the booth to make room for me, and I graciously take the spot he just warmed.

  “What’s up with you?” I say winded, removing the scarf from my neck as if it were a noose.

  “Just taking a cue from Henry. Slapping the hoes, jockin’ the bitches.”

  I avert my eyes. Lincoln might be a playboy, but if he ever did manage to fall in love, get married someday, nobody would love a woman as fiercely as my brother.

  My stomach rolls at the thought of what I’m about to say. “Henry bought a boat.”

  It’s all I can manage. It’s all I want to. I’ve never spoken a word about his underworld dealings to my family. The last thing I want is a lecture from my father. Hans Lionsheart would gladly deliver an ego worthy smack down—but his money? Forget it. At least to me anyway. Stevie refers to Lincoln and Kinsley as “the core.” But somehow Stevie managed to thaw our father’s wicked heart and crawl into one of his cobweb-laden chambers. Now it’s just yours truly who’s the only one left out in the cold—on a glacier left to drift to sea. Only I won’t be fortunate enough to freeze in my sleep. By the looks of things, the boys over at Sonic Glass would like their payment for the new “seaworthy” windows they’ve furnished my husband with. I’m guessing we’re already late on the payment.

  “A boat, huh? When do we get to see it?” Lincoln looks less than impressed. “Have y
ou named it? Let me guess—Seas the Day?” He glances superstitiously toward Stevie. “Henry seems to be seizing a lot of days as of late—at home.”

  “If the boat comes with a name, you can’t change it.” Kinsley tilts her margarita my way. “It’s bad luck—everybody knows that.”

  “Bad luck?” God, with the way my life is going, you’d think I’ve made a habit of smashing mirrors every single day of my twenty six years on the planet.

  “Yes, very bad juju,” Kinsley admonishes. “Karma and all that shit.”

  “Bad karma?” Stevie looks almost amused. “Like the kind you’re going to have for locking yourself in Dillon Collette’s trailer and making it rock like nine point five on the Richter scale?”

  “Is this true?” I knew Kinsley was capable. I knew she was at the brink of a full-blown affair, but just hearing this takes the wind out of my sails (no Henry-inspired pun intended). I’ll have all the time in the world to think of a million hilarious one-liners as I’m laid up in a hospital bed with my matching broken legs.

  “Maybe.” Kins bites down on a breadstick rather aggressively as if reliving one of her trailer park romps. “I’m simply gifting him a little much needed rest and relaxation. That’s all.”

  “Oh, Kinsley”—I close my eyes briefly—“don’t open yourself up to the universe like that. Now karma has to implement a teachable moment. When someone steals the one you love, you won’t be so charitable. It’s bend over, coming at you fast and hard, no KY.” Both Lincoln and Stevie groan at the analogy.

  My own words resonate with me for a second as Cher comes to mind. Where’s her karma? Maybe that was the divorce, but, in truth, that seems far too peaceable.

  Kinsley gives a coy smile. “Dillon’s character is putting a ring on it.”

  I gasp. “He plays your brother!”

  “It turns out he’s just a stepbrother.” She waves me off with a brush of her hand. “Besides bedding your stepbrother is all the rage right now in romance.” She perks up in her seat and holds out her freshly polished nails to us. “Lincoln Park after Dark or Midnight in Moscow?” She bounces her left and right hand respectively.

  Here I’m trying to decide between two men, and her biggest worry in life is having two OPI shades to choose from.

  “We’re shooting a scene where my hands will be the focus.” Kinsley fondles her fingers. “You know, for the engagement.”

  Stevie taps her on the hand and Kinsley agrees on the shade.

  “How did your meeting go with Carter?” Stevie tilts into me with a bland expression as if this were merely a clinical reading, as if hours earlier she didn’t shout save me all the dirty details!

  “Yes, Aspen”—Kinsley lifts her brows amused—“you gifting anyone a little rest and relaxation these days? How’s all that brainstorming going with Carter? He thinking with his little head yet?”

  Et tu, Kinsley? I’d ask the question, mostly because she’s been a hard-core Henry proponent, but now that I see she finds infidelity no big deal, it doesn’t at all surprise me.

  “Nope. Our relationship is chaste as the day is long.” My cheeks burn at the thought of Carter thinking about me with his little head. He might be. Hell, I think he is. That text he sent the other night was clear out of the blue even for him. It came at eleven thirty-two. I know for a fact last Monday at eleven thirty-two I was occupying at least one of his little heads.

  Stevie purrs at me with that determined look of hers. “It won’t be chaste for long. That boy has the certified shakes whenever you’re around. It’s going to happen, Aspen. And, when it does, it’s going to be explosive. What you two had was something others only dream about. Except for me, of course.” She leans back and runs her hand absentmindedly over her belly. “Ford and I already have it all.”

  “Show off.” I take a nice long swig of Lincoln’s ice tea before I realize it’s a Long Island.

  Stevie is campaigning hard for Carter to win the election. Little does she know there isn’t a vacancy to be filled. Or maybe that’s what she’s really campaigning for, a reelection—a damn recount—and she’s ready to veto my decision if she has to.

  The waitress comes by and takes our orders. We’ve been haunting this place for years, and I don’t think we’ve picked up a menu in the last five.

  “As I was saying”—I tap my nails over the table—“you can fill your mouth with arguments all you want. It doesn’t change the fact I’m married.” I wave my wedding band at the three of them briefly. Two simple diamonds set neat in a row. I thought it was odd at the time. The first time I saw it was at our wedding. It was his grandmother’s ring. He had my finger sized and promised me I would love it. My first reaction was, oh God, it’s so old the diamonds have fallen out. Not that I wanted a flashy ring, it’s just the fact there were two square cut diamonds set side by side threw me. Two, one for each year of our marriage. I wonder if that’s telling.

  Stevie sucks on her straw. “You’re not his wife. You’re his concubine.” She looks to Lincoln and Kinsley as if searching for camaraderie. “What? She’s a legalist. She needs to color outside the lines once in a while.”

  “Leaving my husband does not equate to coloring outside the lines, Stevie. It’s more like burning the coloring book.”

  Her eyes brighten at the idea. “I’ll supply the match.”

  Kinsley’s mouth gapes. “Would you stop?” Kinsley is my only supporter, and that, alone, should make me want to jump ship. There I go being punny again. “There is no scenario in which Aspen leaves Henry. So just lay off would you? Tell Carter to take his woody down to the dominatrix that just signed on and get his tushy spanked on the company dollar.”

  Stevie waves her off. “No scenario? Is it true?” She locks those glassy clear eyes over mine. Once Stevie is determined to make something happen, she has the tenacity of a pit bull. There’s that buzzword of Carter’s. Maybe he was simply serving up the compliment to the wrong sister. “Is there nothing that would make you consider leaving Henry? What about the traditional if he beats or cheats rule?” Her eyes narrow in on mine as her features harden to stone. “Oh wait, he’s already broken one of those, hasn’t he?”

  I give a quick glance to Lincoln before shaking my head. No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince her that outside of a little rough sex, Henry has never laid a hand on me. Visions of him kicking in doors, punching holes through walls, throwing things across the room in a violent fit run through my mind. He may have pushed me a time or two. Once he yanked my wrist so hard I thought he twisted it right off.

  Stevie waves her hand over my face. “Earth to Aspen.”

  I clear my throat. “I guess—you know, if he cheated.” I bite over my lip as soon as the words sail out. Let’s hope karma isn’t tuning in on our little convo. Henry and that blank wild-eyed stare he gave this morning come back to me, and I’m quick to shake off the idea. “If he cheated, I’d be out of there in a heartbeat.” A horrible sinking feeling comes over me because, truthfully, I would feel a sense of relief upon discovering an affair. It would be my ticket to a Henry-free life. But I would rather go to the grave than ever express the sentiment. Good, God. Who the heck roots for their husband to have an affair? “Cheating is a terrible thing.” I say it out loud as if trying to convince myself. A part of me wonders if I would leave Henry in a heartbeat if I wasn’t so bound and gagged by my own twisted ordinances on the institution. Marriage is the only thing in my life I don’t want to fail at. If only we hold on a little tighter. Find help for his drinking, his gambling, his spending, his hysterical fits of anger, then it will all be peaches and cream—or something a little less desirable because I’m pissed at him at the moment. Leeches and cream. That sounds about right. Also, I’d hate to give Carter the impression I’ve left Henry for him. A part of me beats down my chest from the inside, crying, begging to let go of Henry and run screaming into Carter’s arms, but I’m too stubborn to entertain it any further. In all honesty, my marriage has always been smeared with the p
atina of retribution.

  Lincoln lifts his glass in my honor. “To Henry cheating.” His eyes narrow in on me with a critical anger. “And may I never discover that he once laid a hand on my sister, or that bullet with his name on it, is going to find its home.”

  Geez. I blow out a breath at the thought of Lincoln committing murder for me. Enough is enough.

  “To Henry cheating.” Stevie lifts her glass, her eyes shining like onyx in the shadows. “May you find him defiling your marriage bed with the street corner skank as soon as you get home this evening.”

  “Real nice,” I whisper.

  Kinsley lifts her glass, that dopey smile floating to her lips. “To cheaters and lovers and liars.” Her eyes expand twice their size. “Sometimes I feel most alive when I’m all three.”

  Cheaters and lovers and liars.

  I shake my head—although, ironically, I felt most alive today with Carter, and at that moment I, too, was all three.

  Carter

  “Harley, no.”

  About a year ago, just before my marriage bit the big one in any official manner, I thought a dog might be the answer to some of my troubles. In some respects I was right.

  “Harley, get down.” I pull a tennis ball from under the couch and chuck it across the room.

  Abby laughs herself into hysterics as both she and Harley run after it. Harley, a beautiful purebred husky, came from a local breeder, Jener’s sister to be exact. Jener brought a few of the puppies in to work, hoping to offload them, and I ended up going home with Harley. Can’t say there are days when I don’t regret it, but those are far and few between. She’s always happy to see me, and I’d swear on my life that dog knows how to smile.

  A sharp knock explodes over the door, and I head in that direction.

  Too polite to be Cher. Too harsh to be Aspen. A dull smile comes to my lips, and I can’t seem to evict it. As if Aspen would ever consider gracing my doorway. She will, though. I’m almost ashamed that I turned on the cocky ass routine full volume in her office. When we are together it’s as if we’re right back in school again with me trying to convince her to go out with me and her getting high off how far down she can toss my ego. I miss that. And that, in and of itself, is why I keep up the routine. Sometimes there’s nothing sweeter than a quick bite of yesterday.