Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1

by Julia Kent

  Let’s move on.

  “How about a game of chess? Or we could play Candyland. You always loved that when you were little.”

  I get a head toss and a sigh, as she drags her clothes into the laundry room off the kitchen. I accept my role as utilities provider and start up the espresso machine. Having my own washer and dryer has turned out to be a young adult insurance policy. At least once a week, I get their undivided attention for a few hours.

  Especially when they know they can raid my pantry, too.

  Elodie comes into the kitchen and snipes the shot of espresso I’ve just finished making. “Almond milk?” she asks, rummaging in the fridge.

  “I don’t know how to milk an almond. Do they have udders? Besides, last month you drank nothing but coconut milk.” I point to the half-gallon I bought for her this week.

  “Daddy! That was last month. Now I need the manganese.”

  “Manganese?”

  “It’s a mineral.”

  “I know what manganese is, Elodie, but why do you need to drink it?”

  She waves her hand in the air with an air of sophistication that reminds me so much of her mother, Simone, that I freeze, blinking into dead air.

  “The college cafeteria refuses to stock almond milk now because of protests.” She settles for cinnamon and downs the espresso shot like tequila.

  “Protests?”

  “Almonds use too much water and some agricultural climate change group thinks we need to stop drinking almond milk because of a moral imperative.”

  “Almonds have morals?”

  “Daddy, stahp.” She draws out the word like a Minnesotan, then hoots.

  Followed by the evil eye.

  “You look different today,” she announces, peering at me. Of all my kids, she’s the one who looks and acts the most like Simone.

  “Different?”

  “Happier.”

  I scowl.

  “Ha! That’s what you normally look like. You have Resting Jerkface.”

  I quirk an eyebrow. “What?”

  “It’s like Resting Bitchface, but for men.”

  I just peer at her. Sometimes I think I’ve produced progeny from another planet. Where do they come up with this stuff?

  “You frown all the time, Dad! All the time. You never, ever smile.”

  I give her the fakest grin I can muster.

  “Now you’ll give me nightmares.” She grabs a reusable Trader Joe’s bag and starts stealing...er, liberally sampling from my pantry. “Where’s the good peanut butter?”

  “Why don’t they make peanut milk?” I ponder, making myself an espresso and sprinkling cinnamon on top.

  “Ewwwwww.”

  “And almond milk is any better?”

  She just sighs. Most of her tenth grade year involved nothing but sighs. I am fluent in Sigh. This one means, Shut Up.

  Now that I think about it, they pretty much all mean Shut Up.

  “How’s Brandon?” I ask.

  Elodie has been half-chasing, half-ignoring Brandon for the past six months. I pretend to rifle through my day’s mail, giving her covert glances. If you look a young adult straight on while asking a question designed to elicit more than a Shut Up sigh, you will never get actual information out of them. You have to be an information ninja. Eye contact shuts down the speech center.

  Better to act distracted, because then they actually try to get your attention. Make them work for it.

  “He’s great! We hooked up last week and—”

  “You went out on a date?”

  “Went out, hooked up...you know.” She blushes.

  Oh, no.

  Sometimes, my covert information tactics work too well.

  Danger, Will Robinson. We’ve ventured into sex revelation territory. Where’s the shotgun when I need it? I take a deep breath and let it out.

  Sounding a little too close to Sigh.

  “Dad, stahp!”

  “What?”

  “I know you don’t like Brandon.”

  “How can I not like him? I’ve never met him!”

  “What was that sigh?”

  “It was an old man deflating. Sometimes we need to let some air out.”

  “EWWWW!”

  “That’s not what I meant!”

  “Says the man whose favorite bedtime book was Walter the Farting Dog.”

  I start laughing at the memory. That really is one of the best children’s books ever.

  She peers at me again. “Who is she?”

  I choke on my coffee. From farts to women. Elodie can change a topic like no one’s business.

  “Aha!”

  “Aha, what?”

  “That was a shot in the dark. So there’s a she? Finally?”

  My front door opens. We peer around the breakfast bar to find another enormous bundle of laundry invading my home. It’s an infestation.

  “What are you doing here?” Amelie yells, clearly offended by Elodie’s presence.

  “Talking with Dad about his sex life.”

  “I do not have a sex life!”

  That came out wrong.

  True, but wrong.

  “That’s the problem!” Elodie fumes.

  “The problem is that you are hogging the washer and dryer, El,” Amelie says, frowning at the tornado of clothing poured out on the floor in the hallway outside the small laundry room. She gives me a pouty face and says, “Make her take turns.”

  “You are not five any more. You are both twenty-one. If you need your dear old dad to mediate when it comes to laundry, how are you going to get anywhere in the business world?”

  Her green eyes flash behind old-fashioned fifties-style glasses, big and rectangular with dark rims. Like her sister, she’s wearing flannel pajama bottoms, but her feet are stuffed into unlaced Doc Martens,.

  “It’s that woman you saved!” Elodie shouts, triumphant. She and her twin share one of the thousands of twin-looks that I can never decipher.

  “Who?” Amelie looks as confused as I feel, which is small comfort.

  “Dad is dating. He has a girlfriend!” Elodie is majoring in Folklore and the Spoken Tradition at her progressive college. It’s a self-crafted major. Highly employable.

  “I do not have a girlfriend.”

  Amelie turns her full attention to me. Elodie’s plan is clear to me: distract her sister so she can hog the washing machine.

  “You do look different,” Amelie says with caution. “More relaxed. Happier.”

  “Regular sex will do that,” Elodie announces.

  I close my eyes and—yep.

  Sigh.

  “I am not—” I was about to say having regular sex, but that crosses a line. “I am not dating.”

  “You should be.” Amelie scowls at me. She and Elodie are fraternal twins, and everyone in our lives has said she’s the feminine version of me. I wonder if I look that fierce when I’m studying a project at work.

  “You need to ask her out.” Elodie has found the good peanut butter, a jar of Nutella, and a batch of Mint Milanos I thought I’d hidden carefully in the pantry, behind the black beans. Guess not carefully enough.

  Amelie grabs the cookies and dips one in the peanut butter, then the Nutella, and stuffs her face. I turn away and make myself another espresso. Whatever happened to post-softball-game ice cream cones and fevered discussions about Justin Bieber?

  This has veered into dangerous territory. When you become nostalgic for Justin Bieber, it’s bad.

  “I’m not talking about this.”

  “We worry about you.” They share another one of those looks. Something in my chest tightens and loosens at the same time.

  “Why would you worry about me?”

  “Because we love you.”

  I clear my throat, which has suddenly become thick with confusion.

  “And because you really need to get laid.”

  “Elodie.” I say her name low and slow. That used to be enough to get her to stop doing whatever she was doi
ng that broke the rules.

  “What? It’s true,” chimes in Amelie.

  “Chloe!” Elodie exclaims, snapping her fingers, giving Amelie a conspirator’s look. “That was her name. The woman Dad saved from her drunk, half-crazed boyfriend.”

  “Ex-boyfriend.”

  Four evaluative eyes land on me.

  “See? You totally like her,” Elodie declares.

  “She’s a work colleague. I don’t date women at work.”

  “You don’t date women at all,” Elodie shoots back.

  They share another look.

  “Does that mean you date men?” Amelie asks, her voice soft with compassion. “Because if you’ve been afraid to tell us, we’re fine with—”

  “As relieved as I am to know you’re open-minded, no—I don’t date men.”

  “Maybe he’s asexual,” Elodie says at the exact moment that the washing machine buzzes. Cycle over. Has this conversation really lasted that long?

  No. Those were my clothes.

  “Go!” I hiss to Amelie, who sprints down the hall while I step in Elodie’s way.

  “Daddy! Now I’ll only get one load in!”

  “Payback.”

  “For telling the truth?” Her eyes turn into deep brown triangles, challenging and calculating. Before I can give her a wise response, the storm passes and she is aloof. Untouched.

  Chloe. Now that her name has been invoked, I find myself completely overwhelmed by the image of that smile. Her poise. The ramrod-straight posture and the confidence that she holds, as if the world is hers to open. I’ve spent so many years pushing aside opportunities that I knew would just lead down blind alleys, dead ends, and into relationships that would cause more pain than they alleviated. The kids came first.

  Always.

  Amelie comes back, the distinct sound of the washer filling in the background a taunt aimed at her twin. “Who are you texting?” she asks Elodie.

  Who is holding my phone.

  I snatch it back to find the text function open to Chloe’s name.

  “You started to write a text to her?” I choke out. Sure enough, there are the words Would u like 2

  “We have to make sure someone takes care of you in your old age,” Elodie huffs.

  “First of all, I’m not exactly old. I’m in my early forties, kid. Second, I would never abbreviate words like you and to.” I’m not sure which offends me more: being called old, or the grammar hack.

  “I would never actually text her,” Elodie says with an impish smile. “I just wanted to get you to think about it. You already set up the perfect meet-cute.”

  “Meet-cute?”

  “You rescued her from her creepy stalker drunk ex, Dad!” Amelie exclaims. Now she’s fishing through my pantry, taking cans of my favorite soup and stuffing them in her backpack. Don’t universities feed their students any more? How much am I paying for room and board so my kids can come home and pilfer?

  “That’s, like, you’re like Bruce Wayne.”

  “What?” I ask Elodie.

  “You know. Nick Grafton by day, superhero by night.”

  “Right.” A memory from work hits me. “They call me Focus Man!”

  Withering looks radiate from both of them.

  “That is so not a sexy superhero name, Dad,” Amelie says, shaking her head sadly.

  “That’s the best he can come up with,” Elodie adds, giving Amelie a sigh. “He really needs our help.”

  “Do not!” I protest.

  “Do too!”

  They’re in stereo.

  “Text her! Ask her out for a work dinner. Do it. Do something,” Amelie urges.

  I am not taking dating advice from my daughters.

  I am not.

  But I am smart enough to realize they’re on to something.

  I type, I think we should have another meeting.

  And hit Send to the sound of twin squeals.

  Chloe

  Jemma gets up from the counter and opens my refrigerator. She refills both our wine glasses. To the brim. And these are balloon glasses.

  I raise one eyebrow.

  “Saves a trip,” she says. “We’re going to drink it anyway, why get up twice?”

  Right. I am comfortable now. Soft grey leggings with tiny ruffles on the hem, and my black cashmere hoodie. I stretch my legs out and admire my pedicure: Over the Taupe, my favorite polish. Goes with everything. Just like the rosé wine.

  “You never went back to work after that lunch meeting with Nick?” she asks.

  “We just walked around the city all afternoon, talking. About everything. He cancelled his afternoon appointment, said he was in meetings about a new branding initiative for an Anterdec property.”

  “You walked all afternoon in four-inch heels?” Jemma asks skeptically.

  “We stopped a lot. Benches. Cafés. A wine bar.”

  “And talked about the O brand?” She is still skeptical.

  “Well, not exactly. We talked about what happened with Joe. And we talked about Nick’s job, and his kids. And his ex-wife. She abandoned them all and went back to France. Can you believe that? But it sounds like she still shows up for the kids. Sometimes. When it suits her.”

  “Did you tell him?” I know what she’s really asking.

  “Yes, I told him about the baby. A little bit.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t say much, just listened. He asked if I had family nearby, or close friends.” I look at Jem and my eyes fill up. “I said yes to friends.”

  The front door opens and Henry comes in.

  “Damn, it smells good in here,” he announces.

  Since nothing is cooking, he either means perfume or the faint scent of alcohol.

  His arms are full of brown bags. I get up and help him unload. Take-out sushi and three bottles of wine. Red, white, and prosecco. I love bubbles.

  I love Henry.

  “Jessica Coffin says I will only eat Happy Meals for the rest of my life,” I inform them.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Henry says, handing out soy sauce. “What does she know? There’s Chuck E. Cheese, and pizza, and in about twelve years, you can try a real restaurant if you go at five o’clock.”

  I try to stab him with a chopstick but he’s too fast.

  I hate Henry.

  “So where were you all day yesterday?” he asks me. “Explaining massagasms to the board of directors?”

  “Kinda,” Jemma answers for me. “One at a time. Starting with Nick Grafton.”

  “The guy who put Joe Blow in a chokehold?” Henry’s confused.

  “Don’t call him Joe Blow,” I say automatically.

  Henry puts a spicy tuna roll in his mouth and smiles.

  Jem and I exchange a look. “See that box over there, honey?” she asks him. “It’s a car seat. Could you finish your sushi and go install it in Chloe’s backseat? Or you could just take your container of sushi with you and go now?”

  My text pings.

  I think we should have another meeting.

  I don’t recognize the number, but this can only be one person. Henry and Jem are staring at me.

  “I think it’s Nick,” I whisper.

  “He can’t hear you,” Henry whispers back.

  Another text bubble appears on the screen.

  Does Friday work?

  “It’s just a work question,” I say. Why do I feel a little disappointed? Of course it’s just a work question. I report to him now. What else could it be?

  Sure, I type back.

  Three dots tell me something’s coming soon. I wish I were coming soon.

  Great. Pick you up at 7.

  Wordlessly, I hand the phone to Jemma. She reads it and whispers, “Oh my god, Chloe! A Friday night dinner? That’s not business!”

  “Why are we whispering?” Henry whispers. We ignore him.

  Three more dots.

  Do you like Mexican?

  Nick

  “What’s she say, Dad?”

 
; “She says dot dot dot.”

  “DAD!” Elodie grabs the phone out of my hands and watches with the intensity of a Pats fan watching Brady shout “Omaha!”

  Which is not a bad analogy, all things considered.

  “SEE!” Elodie screams.

  “See what?”

  She shoves the phone in my face.

  Ah. Not “see.”

  Sí.

  Chloe said yes.

  “She said yes!” Elodie and Amelie start screaming and jumping in the air, as if I’d just won something on a game show, or caught a foul ball at Fenway.

  My heart is imitating them, silently.

  “I am done talking about this,” I say, mustering my air of authority.

  “It’s not like we’re going to ask you any details. I mean, EWWWWWW,” Elodie declares.

  “We’ll make sure we don’t stop by for food or laundry on Friday night, though,” Amelie announces, winking at me.

  “But I do have to come and do laundry for my big trip,” Elodie says to herself.

  A sharp inhale from Elodie makes me turn and look.

  “What if you date a woman who wants kids?”

  “I have kids.” I’m confused by this statement.

  “I mean more kids.” They share bright-eyed excitement at the thought. Where is their brother? Jean-Marc is the cynic in the family. He’s also my only kid who doesn’t live in Boston right now, which automatically makes him my favorite. Three in college at the same time.

  The job at Anterdec needs to be solid.

  And here I am, asking a colleague out for dinner, and possibly jeopardizing it. Someone who is adopting a baby in the next few months.

  “I have plenty of kids. Don’t need more.”

  “Be upfront, Dad. Don’t string her along.”

  “It’s a business dinner,” I growl.

  “Let’s go pick out what he’s going to wear on his date!” Elodie shouts, as she sprints down the hall. Amelie darts into my bedroom as I watch her sister double back, turn off the washer, take out the sopping clothes and load her own in.

  That one is going to be a lawyer some day, folklore major be damned.

  Chapter 9

  Chloe

  Friday night. After a week packed with three bachelorette parties, two divorce celebrations, one widow party (yes, we were surprised, but freedom comes in many forms) and a state elevator inspection that took more of my time than it should have, here I am, ready for Nick.