by Julia Kent
Years later, I know she’s wrong. Hell, I knew it back then, too.
Meeting Chloe just confirms it. Sophisticated, genuine, smart, funny, and sensual as hell, she’s the whole package.
And now she comes with a ten-day-old newborn attached.
Different package.
A Masshole with a Second Amendment bumper sticker next to a gay pride rainbow cuts me off at Western Avenue, my laughter at the cognitive dissonance a welcome break.
Can two wildly disparate ideas truly co-exist?
Maybe on a car bumper, sure.
But in real life?
Lady Luck is with me as I slide into an easy parking spot down the block from Chloe’s place. Maybe it’s a message, as Elodie would say. A sign. A manifestation of deep wishes.
Or maybe it’s just someone running out for an errand and the timing’s right.
I grab my gift, leaving the shoebox filled with Chloe’s past with her ex in the backseat, ready to give it to her when the time is right. She’s now less than a block away and I can’t tolerate the distance. Must close it.
Must smell her. Taste her. Look at her with hungry eyes.
And meet her new life.
My old life is back at my house, doing laundry and playing Pokemon Go.
The road Chloe lives on is neat, with condos galore, most of the building fronts containing gardens and neatly-manicured yards. Bushes trimmed and outlined, mulch and multi-colored blooming plants, and stars that are painted the right colors all feed into the image of a neighborhood for people who live in Cambridge for all the right reasons.
As I hit the buzzer for Chloe’s front door, I hear the unmistakable sound of rushing footsteps, trying to keep the peace. Chloe opens the door and looks at me with a thousand-watt smile. My heart speeds up, my hands tightening on the gift in my hands, and then she’s in my arms, pressing against my chest, my hands desperate to find more of her in the embrace.
“You’re here! She’s sleeping,” Chloe whispers, her breath hot on my neck. I kiss her cheek with a gentle hello that feels like everything and nothing.
As she lets go, we pull back slightly, catching each other’s eyes, her hands on my forearms, brushing against my tight arms, fingertips turning me tense with desire.
I inhale, catching a sweet citrusy smell. And baby powder.
Strange combo.
“I’m so glad you—”
Without thinking, I kiss her, my palm splayed against the base of her spine, covering her sacrum, my hands hot and grateful for the way she melts into the kiss. Her palms press against my shoulders, then ride up my chest, to the nape of my neck. I breathe hard, her intoxicating presence making me forget all my earlier confusion.
The compartment in my mind that allows me to be Nicholas Grafton, director of branding for a Fortune 500 company, boss to more than twenty employees, father to three young adults, good citizen and decent brother, feels hollow, woefully empty and false as my kiss with Chloe turns into a series of touches and breaths, tongues searching, lips warm and minty, her cheek burning against my clean-shaven face, my fingers on the fine bones of her spine as she molds against me.
This isn’t just about sexual attraction, of which there is plenty. A sense of completion consumes me as the fire we ignite burns and burns. Her body is mine as my fingertips press into her ass, anchored by her body. Having her in my arms for the first time in weeks, the box inside me designed to be filled with love feels occupied. Full.
Love.
I pause.
Chloe breaks the kiss, panting, looking up at me through long lashes, her lipstick intact though slightly blurred on her upper lip.
“You sure do know how to greet a woman,” she says with a saucy smile.
“You make it very easy,” I say, pulling her close again, taking the plunge. “I missed you.” My breath mingles in her hair, making her shiver, her neck smooth as I press my lips against the hollow beneath her ear. She feels good. Real and raw.
“Me, too,” she murmurs, hand on my hip, fingers hooking into my belt loop. The gesture is so casual and deceptively simple.
“Chloe?” A man’s voice, older and filled with an elegant gravel sound, comes from Chloe’s kitchen.
“That’s my mother’s boyfriend, Howard. Come in and meet everyone.”
I hook my arm around her waist, not wanting to lose contact.
“Here we go,” she says under her breath, then puts on a dazzling smile, like she’s ready for the red carpet.
Chloe
Just as Nick and I enter the kitchen, Charlotte sweeps into the room, a vision in a pink Oscar de la Renta dress and black patent sandals. Her idea of what to wear for a quiet night at home, babysitting.
“I am exhausted,” she announces. “Just wiped out. What a day.”
Let’s think about this for a second. Let’s compare days.
“Well,” she says, inspecting me, “Look at you. Is that lipstick?”
“Chloe always looks beautiful,” Howard says calmly. “She’s your daughter.”
Howard missed his true calling. He should have been a high-level diplomat. An ambassador between warring nations. Instead he became a manufacturer of high-design kitchen tools. Still a service to humanity, IMHO, but he made millions. He arrived an hour ago, and already my stress level has dropped.
While my mother has failed to acknowledge the man on my arm, Howard’s giving him the once-over, like an old lion sizing up the new alpha, his jowls turning down with an impressive, contemplative frown. I pour two glasses of bourbon, start to drink one, and nearly drink the other before giving it to Nick.
“It’s a sample from our new private-label cosmetics line,” I tell her. “The shade is called ‘Go CommandO.’ Do you like it?”
She squints. “Nice. A little on the red side for you. Are there any more samples?”
“I’ll have Carrie send some over.”
Howard hands her a frosted martini glass, with a kiss on the cheek and side-eye at Nick that I can’t decipher. Grey Goose, two olives. The olives are Charlotte’s idea of hors d’oeuvres. Ten calories each. And green vegetables, sort of.
“You’re right. She does always look beautiful,” Nick says quietly. My skin suddenly feels hot.
“This is Nick,” I say quickly. “Nick, this is my mother, Charlotte.”
She gives him a hundred-watt smile, and her manicured hand. Her bracelets jingle as they shake hands.
“And this is Howard.” The two men square off, Nick towering over Howard. The strength of their handshake could bend iron girders, Howard’s protectiveness obvious, his mouth leveling out into a look that says Nick passed his first test.
Handshake grip acceptable.
“How lovely to meet you, Nick.” She looks at his glass of bourbon. “I see you have a cocktail. Why are we all in the kitchen? Chloe has become such a casual person. This is not how she was raised.”
“Having a new baby will do that to you. I don’t think I’ve even turned on the lights in the living room since Holly arrived.”
“Let’s go turn them on now.” Charlotte’s already headed in that direction, with a bowl of Marcona almonds in one hand and her martini in the other.
Nick clears his throat. “I think Chloe’s way is perfect. I always feel comfortable here. And welcome. She’s a great hostess.”
He’s only been here once before, but Charlotte doesn’t know that. I smile at him gratefully.
“Bless your heart,” she says, “what lovely manners.”
She’s back before the rest of us have stood up.
“Chloe, there seems to be laundry on every seat in there. What have you been doing all day?”
I actually can’t think of a good answer to that.
“I just remembered, I brought this for Holly.” Nick says quickly. He picks up a wrapped and beribboned package and hands it to me. “Open it.”
I smile at him and slide the ribbon off, and at that moment Holly starts to fuss in the bedroom.
“I�
�ll go get her and be right back.” I hesitate briefly, because this means leaving Nick exposed to Charlotte, but Howard will run interference.
I love picking Holly up from her naps. I get so excited to see her again, feel the weight and warmth of her little body.
I perform a quick diaper change. Funny to think how panicked I was about diaper skills. Was that only weeks ago?
“Turn on the charm, girlfriend,” I advise her, as I snap her leggings. “Make eye contact. Be interested in others.”
She ignores me and stares at the ceiling.
Okay then. I see where this is going.
As we head back toward the kitchen, I hear Charlotte saying, “Charlie is your younger brother? How is Charlie? That boy could sell ice to the Eskimos. Terrible influence on Chloe.”
“He’s currently selling surfboards to the landlocked,” Nick replies. “And is a terrible influence on my kids.”
“Ah, you have children! And how old are they?”
“My daughters are twenty-one, and my son is nineteen.”
“Oh my, they’re grown! Your job is done. You’re an empty-nester! I remember that wonderful feeling of freedom.” She smiles.
Perfect. Thanks, Mom. Well done.
Charlotte frowns. “Did you say daughters? Both twenty-one?”
“Yes. Twins.” When he smiles, a dimple appears in his chin.
“That’s a bit excessive, don’t you think?” Only my mother could make an act of biology into a breach of etiquette.
“And here they are!” Howard says with great cheer, as we enter. Holly looks like a muppet. I realize I have a mental image but don’t know the name of the one with red hair that stands up on end. I huff her baby scalp. In a year, I imagine, I’ll know the names of every single muppet. I’ll probably know their birthdates and social security numbers by memory. I wonder if Elmo dresses left.
Nick looks up and meets my eyes, and the world goes quiet. I realize I am holding my breath.
He stands and walks over to us.
“Well, hello, little girl,” he says softly to Holly. And to me, “I’d forgotten how small they are.” He’s so enchanted. The way Nick looks at Holly takes my breath away. I wish a man would look at me like that.
And then he does.
“‘But little girls get bigger every day,’” Howard sings.
“Gigi,” Charlotte sighs. “That movie changed my life. Even as a child, I just knew I’d love Paris.”
Howard begins murmuring in her ear.
“Would you… like to… hold her?” I ask Nick. “I need to get her bottle ready. Or I can put her in her basket.”
“Of course. Sure. I’d like to.” He smiles. “I’d love to.”
He takes her in his arms, experienced and assured but maybe a little rusty, and turns back to sit on his stool. I take a bottle from the fridge, put it in a bowl, and run hot water. When I glance up, he’s looking at her tiny face, completely absorbed. And she’s looking right back at him. He has one of her hands between two big fingers. She looks even smaller than usual.
My heart skitters.
Why?
Howard and Charlotte stand and walk out of the room, his arm around her, their heads together. He catches my eye and winks.
I think I may have lost my babysitters for tonight.
I test Holly’s bottle on my wrist. Feels right.
“Thanks,” I tell Nick. “Her bottle’s ready. I’ll take her.”
He looks up, surprised. He holds out one hand.
“I’ll do it. Let’s see if I remember how.”
With nothing else to do for the moment, I sink down onto the next stool and watch them.
After a minute, Nick smiles at me. “Like it was yesterday. Muscle memory. I wonder how many bottles I’ve given?”
There’s a clatter in the front hall, and a moment later Howard appears, Charlotte behind him. She is wearing a cashmere wrap and carrying her handbag.
“Chloe,” Howard says, “it is always wonderful to see you, and now Holly, too. She’s an angel. And I know how much it means to you to have your mother here to help with everything when you’re so tired and overwhelmed.”
He looks suspiciously like he’s trying not to smile.
“Oh, Howard. You just don’t know what it means,” I contribute. “Really, you don’t.” Wild hope is rising inside me.
“I think I do, actually. Please try to find it in your heart to forgive me for taking her away,” he continues. “She is wearing herself to the bone taking care of you both, and I just feel I must step in before she makes herself ill. I’ve made a reservation at the Four Seasons for tonight, and tomorrow we fly to France.”
“Whatever you think best,” I assure him. “Of course. We’ll manage somehow.”
“I’m sorry, dear.” Charlotte steps forward and kisses me on both cheeks. “Howard is right. It was too much.” She brightens. “But I’ll send you both some dresses from Paris. We’ll be back in a few days, and I can help more after I’ve recovered.”
Nick is watching all this like it’s an episode of Arrested Development. He can’t shake hands, but Charlotte kisses him and Howard pats him on the back. And then they’re gone, leaving behind just the scent of Chanel No. 5.
I cough.
“Looks like we’re not going out for dinner,” Nick says. “Pizza?”
I burst out laughing, the kind of hysterical peals you can’t quite believe are coming out of your mouth. Holly’s eyes widen, darting to look at Nick, and then her mouth does the telltale tightening I’ve come to know.
“Oh, baby,” I whisper, my laugh halting midstream as she turns her head aside, spitting out the bottle nipple, and makes a squeaky newborn cry that says she’s just getting started.
I hold out my hands to take her back. No man wants to hold a screaming baby as foreplay on a date. The night just shattered, for good or bad, and this date turned into a threesome.
And not an O party threesome.
“I’ve got her.” He stands, all fluid grace and muscle memory, moving her to his shoulder and patting her back harder than I would.
Scrambling, I get a cloth on his shoulder, fussing with the space between Holly’s tiny body and Nick’s broad shoulder. I have to stand on tiptoe, even in heels, to make Nick as spit-up proof as possible.
I manage.
He laughs, the rumble making me suddenly aware of the space between our bodies. “It’s just a little spit up, Chloe. It washes out.”
“Charlotte acted like it was napalm. She wore latex gloves and a Tyvek suit while burping Holly. I’ve seen Ebola researchers wear less.”
“Why do you call your mother by her first name?”
“Because it’s slightly less painful than using her preferred form of address.”
“Which is?”
“Your Majesty.”
Nick is in the middle of finishing his bourbon. He chokes, clapping a palm across his mouth to cough discreetly, those bright blue eyes mesmerizing. I could watch them for hours.
Being with him feels so good.
He’s bouncing and patting little Holly, who decides the world isn’t so scary after all, her little knees tucking up under her, face burrowing into Nick’s shoulder.
I think I’m a little jealous.
Jealous of my own daughter.
This is how far I have fallen in a few weeks?
“How’s life?” he whispers, his tone clearly implying that life as I know it is over.
“I’ve had a good life. A great life. Now this is my new life.”
Holly’s diaper begins making sounds you normally only hear in Lord of the Rings movies featuring the fiery pits of hell. I continue talking, because I’m used to it. It’s not unlike working with a construction crew after the local food truck makes a stop.
Nick is so obviously an experienced dad, because he completely ignores Holly Vesuvius. I take her back from him.
“When you have kids,” Nick says quietly, “it brings up all your own unprocessed issues
.”
“What unprocessed issues?” I say, pretending to be offended.
“Like your mother?” His eyebrows shoot up.
“What about my mother?” Even as the words roll off my tongue like a ribbon of error, I regret them.
“She’s a little — “
I interrupt him. “Petty?”
“I would use the word ‘narcissistic.’”
I shrug. “We all view the world through our personal lenses, right?”
“Chloe.”
“She means well.”
“She’s slowly driving you to the brink of collapse.”
“Only the brink. I’ve lived on the brink for long stretches of my life, Nick. It’s not such a bad place to live.”
Holly begins to cry.
“Diaper change,” I announce.
Nick peels her out of my arms and turns away.
“What are you doing?”
“Changing her.”
I gape at him. “Why?”
He frowns. “Because you just said ‘diaper change.’”
“That wasn’t an order,” I say with a laugh that turns onto a yawn. “Just an observation.”
He blinks, slowly. I haven’t quite gotten used to seeing him in his glasses. They’re stylish horn-rim frames and they make him look more distinguished. Not older, just wiser.
And more vulnerable. Messy. Casual.
Holly curls on his shoulder like a turtle that has crawled out of its shell and seeks comfort.
“Maybe I have some unprocessed issues, too, because Simone rarely changed a diaper. She would declare ‘diaper change’ and that meant I should do it.” His eyes go unfocused. He’s clearly two decades in the past.
Gently, so gently, I reach over, sliding my fingertips between his pecs and Holly’s little body, the back of my hand brushing against his bare, slightly-hairy chest where his shirt is unbuttoned as I find the right grasp to take the baby.
“Chloe, no, I —”
I get her in my arms and give him a firm look. “Some patterns can’t be reinforced, even if they’re for the right reasons.”
“That doesn’t mean I’ll never change a diaper!”