by Julia Kent
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Chloe. Anyway, I’m working tonight, so it’s perfect. If I get out early, I can do research on my thesis until Jem gets home.”
“Thank you, Henry. For everything.”
He winks at me. “You’re our girl.”
I tear up, and wave. He signals, looks over his shoulder, and eases out into the street. Miraculously, no one hits him.
Godspeed.
Inside, a shower. Hot water and ginger-scented soap to wash everything off my skin. As if Joe never touched me. A clean slate.
By the time Jemma walks in the door, I have assembled the following out of the refrigerator: a container of olives (cocktail mix, the kind with tiny onions and dried cranberries), a small block of Parmesan cheese, a dish of honey, a Granny Smith apple, and three slices of smoked ham. Also some crackers of questionable freshness.
She looks it over.
“Maybe if we boiled a pound of pasta and mixed it all together, we could make a dinner out of this?” She sounds doubtful.
“I have an entire case of Prisoner, Jem,” I offer. The Prisoner is our favorite Napa red. Food just became irrelevant. Dinner will be served in a glass tonight. Possibly tomorrow night as well.
She settles on a counter stool as I pour.
“Okay. What’s been going on?”
“In the last twelve hours?” I smile wearily. “This morning I gave a kickass presentation to senior management, during which I exposed myself in a black corset. At least they know I don’t pierce my nipples. Andrew McCormick green lighted my gO Spa project. I also met an incredible man, who turns out to be the brother of my high school boyfriend. I went back to my office after the presentation and there were dozens of white roses from Joe. I gave them away. He called about sixty times, but I didn’t answer, so he showed up at O. Drunk. And tried to fight with Nick, who is the incredible man I met. Then he puked all over the hallway in shades that do not match the color palette.”
Jemma blinks. “That’s it?”
“And I have a meeting with Nick next week.”
“Want to hear about my last twenty-four hours?” Jem asks.
I nod.
“Yesterday I had a meeting with my editor, then I went home. Henry made salmon for dinner, after which I exposed myself in a lace bra. This morning I walked three miles. I wrote half of an article on nutrition for pregnant women in displaced populations. I took a nap. Henry called four times and I answered four times. Then I showed up here. Might get a little bit drunk.”
I look at her lovely, serene face.
“I would trade with you in a heartbeat,” I say sincerely.
“So Joe Blow earned his nickname,” she muses. “I am so sorry, Chloe. That must have been awful.”
I know she means the confrontation at work today, but my mind goes back a month.
“Don’t call him that. It was awful, Jem. I will never get that picture out of my mind.” I press my hands to my eyes. “And Blowjob Barbie was wearing a bra printed with Red Sox logos! How could he?”
Jemma shudders.
“The only thing worse would have been a Yankees logo.”
I throw an olive at her. She catches it neatly in her palm and eats it.
“He tried to fight with some guy at your office?”
“Yes! In front of the whole staff! I tripped and fell, and Nick caught me and somehow he had one hand on my boob, and Joe saw that and went crazy—well, he already was crazy—and took a swing at him. And Nick just went like this,” I stand up and do my best to demonstrate how he overpowered Joe, “and that was it. Security took over.”
She is just staring at me. I sit down again.
“Oh, and then Joe threw up all over my lovely New Zealand wool carpet. I chose that carpet when we remodeled the building.”
She starts to giggle. I see her point and join in, until a horrible thought stops me cold, and my eyes fill up with tears.
“Jemma,” I whisper, “What if the adoption people find out about this?”
“Do you think they could?”
“O keeps pretty tight control over information. All the employees know that any leak would cost them their job. But still… there’s always a chance… and it would look so bad. It was a violent outburst. The timing could not be worse.”
“Actually, it could. Suppose you hadn’t found out he had this in him? Suppose he acted this way around the baby? You know Henry and I were never big fans of Joe’s, but I would not have predicted any of this. Did you see it coming?”
I think for a minute. “Not really, no. Maybe I should have. Looking back, I guess a lot of things didn’t really add up. But he loved me so much!” I frown. “I mean, I think he really loved me… right? He said he did, all the time.”
Jemma looks at me sadly.
“He didn’t love me, did he?” I ask, but I don’t really expect an answer.
“He wasn’t really getting a divorce for three years,” she says. It clearly pains her. “So...”
I make an animal noise in the back of my throat that can only be cured by wine.
“Chloe.” Jem takes a deep breath. “Chloe, you are our best friend. You are the best person. You’re lovely and kind and smart and funny. You work so hard, and you love so hard. You’re true blue. And you deserve so, so much better than Joe Blow. You deserve a guy who will love you every day. Only you. A guy who will show you how much he loves you, and not just say the words.”
“I look at what you and Henry have, and that’s how I know it’s possible. It exists.”
Jemma sighs. It’s the sound a friend makes when she wants to say something she shouldn’t, but has to anyway. “Chloe, you know how people ask you sometimes why you decided to adopt?”
“Yes.”
“And how you choose not to give a reason?”
“Yes.” Where’s she going with this?
“I think part of the reason is that you knew you didn’t have a future with Joe, so you decided to make your own future.”
Ouch.
“Please don’t be mad.” Her fingers land on my forearm, pressing compassion into me.
“Not mad,” I choke out, trying not to cry. “Just blindsided a little. You’re right.” I look at her with a starkness I wish I could share with a life partner. “Joe was never, ever going to give me what I want.” I squeeze her hand.
We share a sad smile.
“Now tell me about this incredible man you met.”
“Not much to tell, really.” I let out a cleansing breath. “Pretty high up at Anterdec. He’s handsome. I think he liked me—he might have been flirting—but I’m not sure.”
“Well, he liked you enough to grab your boob,” she smiles.
“That was an accident!”
“Ah. He can put another guy in a choke hold with one James Bond move, but he is so klutzy, he can’t hold you up without feeling you up?”
She raises one eyebrow.
I’ve always wanted to be able to do that.
“He’s my high school boyfriend’s older brother. There’s something about him, Jem, I can’t describe it. I want his arms around me. It’s a funny feeling. Safe sexy.”
“That does sound like my Henry,” she says, almost to herself.
“I never felt safe with Joe. Why did I stay with him for so long? How could I not see this coming?”
She just looks at me, and I can see she is really fighting her desire to say We told you so.
She struggles. She loses.
“We told you so! About a hundred times! Look, Chloe, I’m not going to say Joe didn’t love you at all. I’m sure he did, in a way. But it was just all about him! His convenience. His rules. His fun. And you bent over backwards for years to please him! What the hell was he doing in that conference room?” Her hands are in the air, flailing and gesticulating like she’s conducting the Boston Pops with her pent-up emotions.
I stare into my glass.
“He was doing the same thing to me that he’s been doing to Marc
y, his wife. Cheating.”
I guess it really is that simple.
“All these years, he said he was on the verge of a divorce. God, Jemma. I have to rethink three years of my life,” I gasp.
“Oh, honey.” Jemma shifts from outrage to compassion.
“He wasn’t ever going to get a divorce, was he?” I ask, although I know the answer.
“Of course not. Give up Marcy’s money? Lose the country club membership? Never going to happen.” I regret telling her those little details about Joe. I feel so stupid.
We sit in silence, sipping our wine.
“What about this new guy?” she asks. “Not married?”
“No idea, but he wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“Let’s Google him—where’s your computer?”
I pull it out and flip it open.
Nick Grafton, I type.
Page after page of entries come up:
Nick Grafton, Funeral Director.
Nick Grafton, Marathon Runner.
Nick Grafton, Hollywood Stunt Man.
“Not an unusual name, I guess. It would take hours to sort through this—days, even. But look, here’s his picture.”
“Wow.” Jemma’s impressed, her voice drops low. “Look for a wife, keep scrolling.”
There are several group shots, obviously taken at public events, but nothing conclusive. Never the same woman twice.
And he’s not smiling in a single photo.
I refill our glasses.
“The only thing that really matters now is the baby. Li is due in eight weeks.” We’re in the safety zone. Crossing thirty weeks, according to the doctor, means that even with a preterm birth, the baby should be fine.
“Think it might be time to buy a few baby things?” Jem asks gently. “Just some basics? A bassinet, maybe? Some clothes? Some little t-shirts or whatever babies wear?”
“It seems too much like tempting fate. What if something goes wrong? So much could still go wrong. Li is just a teenager. She’s homeless. Who knows what that first trimester was like. She didn’t get medical care until the fourth month. And she can still change her mind. I’m not going to have a peaceful moment until the final papers are signed. And it’s going to be an open adoption. Now I have to worry about this fiasco with Joe becoming public knowledge.”
“It’ll be fine,” she says.
“And last week I was supposed to meet her for an ultrasound. Went to the clinic. Waited for two hours. She no-showed, then texted a bunch of apologies that night.” I frown into my drink. “I hope she’s safe. I hope they’re both safe.”
“It won’t go wrong,” she reassures me. “In two months or so you are going to have a tiny new person here to take care of and love every day. Everything’s going to change, forever. You won’t even remember that you ever knew a guy named Joe Blow.”
“Don’t call him...” I start, but give up. The name fits.
Joe Blow.
Chapter 7
Nick
Maman says she is coming for my fall concert.
The text arrives like any other text, resting in my phone, and only now have I seen it. Something in my chest snaps, like a toothpick pressed too hard on the ends, breaking unevenly.
Leaving the possibility for splinters.
Great, I lie, texting back to my daughter Amelie. A dual major in music and computer science, Amelie managed to thrill both her parents by juggling the impossible. This is her senior year, and she has a solo concert. My ex-wife and the mother of my children, Simone, has missed every single other concert in this child’s life.
The fact that Amelie has a chance for a spot at Juilliard and Eastman has piqued Simone’s interest. Status is like a bat signal for her. To fly all the way from Paris and force herself to spend time in the U.S. is all about bragging rights.
She is coming without Rolf, a second text reads.
I nearly drop the phone.
Great, I text again, this time telling the truth.
He’s such an ass, Amelie adds.
“He is such an ass,” I grumble aloud, surprising myself with my own voice. With my youngest, Jean-Marc, off to NYU for his early start this summer for his freshman year, and twin daughters here in Boston at their respective colleges working on campus before their senior year, the kitchen is quiet.
Too quiet.
My index finger goes numb and I look down, finding purple fingertips and bulging forearm veins. I’m gripping the granite countertop edge so hard, I might snap it in two.
Daddy? Are you there? Are you okay? Don’t make me resort to calling, Amelie types.
I chuckle. God forbid they use their phones for actual calls.
Fine. Just beat up a guy at work today. Typical day at the office.
I press Send and start to make a shot of espresso.
“One,” I count aloud. “Two. Three. Four.”
Ring!
Huh. I should beat people up more often.
“Daddy!” It’s Amelie, breathless and intense. “You beat someone up? Was it over a woman?”
Kind of.
“No. Just a drunk jerk who came into a meeting and tried to harass a woman at a presentation.”
“You’re a hero!”
I haven’t heard that tone of admiration in her voice since I scored tickets to a One Direction concert a few years ago, before she declared Harry Stiles “so yesterday.”
“If you say so,” I reply, laughing.
“Tell me everything. Elodie is going to be so jealous that I got the story first!”
Twins. Life with twins means that everything is a competition.
“Nothing special. Chloe’s ex-boyfriend sent her flowers and was drunk when he insisted on seeing her, and—”
“Chloe? I love her name! What’s she like?”
Hold on. This conversation just shifted from Daddy the Hero to Chloe in three seconds.
“She’s fine. Smart. Sophisticated. One hell of a presenter.”
“I don’t mean that! I mean—is she your type?”
“Amelie!”
“What?”
“She’s a work colleague.”
“Oh.” She sighs. “That means she’s old and ugly.”
“Hardly,” I mutter, then wince. Oops.
“Oooo, you like her!”
“Honey, that’s not how this works.”
“Actually, it is how this works. You like someone. You say something. You kiss them. You spend time with them. And then Daddy, when a man and a woman lust after each other very much, he goes to the drugstore and buys condoms, and—”
“Cut it out, kiddo.” I let the edge in my voice stay.
She goes silent. “Fine. Topic change. Maman left Rolf.”
I stop breathing.
“What?”
“She’s divorcing him. Says he’s boring.”
Where have I heard that before?
Beep.
“Hang on, Amelie. Someone’s on the other line.”
Click.
“I heard my dad is a hero!” Elodie crows into the phone.
“Two children speaking to me at the same time on an actual phone. Has the zombie apocalypse begun?”
She sighs. “I wish it would. Then I wouldn’t need to finish this political cartooning paper that’s due tomorrow.”
“Political cartooning? That’s an actual course?” Summer school offers strange choices.
“Yes. I thought it would be a blow-off, but the professor actually expects us to take it seriously and talk about imagery and know political history!”
Her outrage makes me laugh. “How dare he expect you to analyze? And learn! Oh, the humanity!”
“Daddy,” she growls. “Who’s Chloe?”
“How do you know about Chloe?”
“So she is your new crush!” Elodie squeals. “Now I owe Amelie five dollars.”
“You two are betting on...me?”
“Just your sex life.”
“Uh...”
“Blame Jean-Marc
. He started it. Said as soon as he moved out you’d turn the condo into a shag pad.”
“A what?”
“A sex den.”
I am not having this conversation.
“I can’t wait to tell him you’re beating up your competitors for women at work!”
“That’s me. Nick Grafton, cage fighter.”
Beep.
“Hang on. Your sister’s on the other line.”
Click.
“Did you drop me for Elodie? Not fair. I had the scoop first. And Maman wants to stay with us.”
Us means here, in my townhouse, which means spending days with my ex-wife who left me when the twins were five and Jean-Marc was barely three.
Because I was boring.
I would sympathize with Rolf if he hadn’t been the person she left me for.
“Why does she want to stay here? She’s never stayed with us before.” Ever. Once a year, by legal agreement, she had the kids for three weeks in the summer. I always flew them there, spent two days in a hotel, and flew back, gutted, hoping they would adjust.
They always did.
Me, on the other hand...
“I don’t know!” she chirps. “But it’ll be nice to have both of my parents at an event for once.”
And gutted again.
“Right,” I say faintly, swallowing a suddenly dry mouth. “We’ll figure it all out.”
“I’m so happy to hear you’re dating, Daddy!”
“I’m not dating!”
“If you say so... Love you! Gotta get on the T!”
Click.
I switch back to Elodie. Gone.
And then I look at my texts.
Three requests for money.
One from each kid.
I set my phone down, shake my head, and pick out tonight’s date.
Pinot Noir, or a nice Flemish red sour ale?
Black Sails or The Wire?
Twenty minutes later, a sandwich and a beer in front of me, I pick my poison and settle in for a night of binge watching.
By the second sex scene in Black Sails, I’m twitching, unable to stop thinking about Chloe, the piles of roses outside her office, the horrified look on her face when that sonofabitch came barreling down the hallway, screaming her name.
How instinct kicked in.