On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

  Even better, he was nice.

  "Walk you back to your car?" he asked.

  "Sure."

  There was no hand-holding on the way back to the car. I was irritated that I even thought about it.

  "Thanks for the ice cream, mister," I said when we got to my car.

  "You're welcome." He gave me a hug, practically crushing me in his big brawny arms, then messed up my hair. "Let's have dinner sometime, okay?"

  "Okay."

  With that, I got in the car and drove home, feeling a lot better than I had before.

  Daniel Breton was a very nice man. A good friend.

  Who would've guessed?

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ainsley

  Stupid-Head didn't call on Sunday. I checked my phone maniacally all the livelong day. Stayed home, even, in case he wanted to swing by.

  He didn't.

  So on Monday morning, feeling very pissy indeed, I stomped into work at 8:29.

  He was on the phone in his office. I glared in his general direction.

  "How was your weekend?" Rachelle asked.

  "It was great!" I said--it was half-true. A quarter true, at least. I dropped the glare and smiled at her. "How about you?"

  "So good. I met someone! He seemed straight, didn't have a doll collection or long toenails and lives in a cute apartment, but his grandmother is the landlord, so there's a red flag."

  "Well, it could be legit," I said. "She's not living with him, is she?"

  "I didn't see her," Rachelle said. "I thought I smelled old lady powder, but I didn't find hard evidence."

  "Ainsley, can I see you for a moment?" Jonathan said.

  "Sure, Jonathan!" I said, my voice hard. I whirled around and swept into his office.

  He closed the door behind me, then sat at his desk.

  "Thanks for the call yesterday." I folded my arms and resumed glaring.

  "I didn't call you."

  "I know."

  He blinked. I don't understand this sarcasm you employ, human.

  "What do you want, Jonathan? Are you firing me? Finally?"

  "No. I need you to sign this."

  He passed a sheaf of papers across the desk, then folded his hands. I glanced down.

  Consensual Romance in the Workplace Agreement

  We, the undersigned...voluntary and consensual...not have a negative impact...public displays of affection...

  I tossed the papers back on his desk. "This your form of snuggling?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "This is the conversation we're going to have after--" I lowered my voice "--sleeping together? Don't you want to say anything to me first?"

  "Absolutely not. I need you to read that. If you wanted to sue me right now, you'd be well within your rights."

  "Why? Because we did it?"

  He flinched. Less than flattering. "Please keep your voice down, and yes."

  "You are the least romantic person I've ever met."

  "I'm simply trying to protect--"

  "I know. I'm not stupid. Give me your pen." I grabbed it, scrawled my signature on every page, initialed in four spots and tossed the pen back at him. It bounced off the desk and hit him in the chest.

  "This is necessary, Ainsley. Please make sure you read the paragraph on public--"

  "Jonathan, enough. Okay?"

  He stood up. "I'm sorry if this has insulted you somehow."

  I threw up my hands. "It would've been nice if you called me. I was feeling a little unsure on Saturday, since your first words to me upon waking were 'Get out.'"

  "Actually, I believe I said--"

  "I didn't even know you liked me on Friday, and the next thing I know, we're doing the wild thing, and then you didn't call, even though you said you would, which is breaking a commandment in the dating world, and now you greet me with a form from your lawyer."

  He took a slow breath. "Lydia was under the weather yesterday, so the girls stayed over last night instead of going back to their mother's."

  "Which you could've let me know."

  "I don't want my daughters to overhear me talking to someone I'm...potentially involved with. Their mother has confused them enough."

  "Text, Jonathan. Email. We live in a wondrous modern world."

  He tilted his head, not quite looking at me. "I wasn't sure what to say."

  Right. I was dealing with Captain Flatline.

  "How about 'Hi, Ainsley, I trust you had a pleasant weekend. I know I did, especially Friday night. Unfortunately, my daughter is sick, so I can't talk, but I'll see you tomorrow.'"

  His mouth curled up the tiniest bit. "I did have a pleasant weekend. Especially Friday night."

  Though they were my words, his deep dark voice made them seem...delicious. "How's Lydia feeling now?"

  "All better."

  "Would you like to say anything personal to me, Jonathan?"

  "No. We're at work." But the smile grew.

  I smiled back at him, feeling gooey and melty and happily stupid.

  "Don't you have articles to edit?" he asked.

  "Right," I said. But my smile stayed put, even as I went off to read articles on how more and more family physicians in our area were offering their patients Botox.

  A few hours later, as I was reading Candy's latest warm and touching response to a daughter whose mother was cold and unloving, my father walked in.

  "Dad!" I said, fear shooting through my limbs. He'd never come to see me at work before. "Who's dead?"

  "Is someone dead?"

  "I don't know. You tell me!"

  "Is it Gram-Gram?" He looked startled.

  "I don't know! Is it?" We stared at each other a second. "Dad, are you here to deliver bad news?"

  "No," he said. "I thought we could go out to lunch." He paused. "Should I call your grandmother?"

  "I'll do it." We were both superstitious, Dad and me. Him, because he worked in baseball, and those men fell apart if they didn't wear their special pants or cross themselves three times before batting or turn in a circle three times at first base.

  Me, because I'd grown up in a world where moms went for a bike ride and got hit by trucks.

  "Hi, Gram-Gram!" I chirped when she answered, giving Dad the thumbs-up. "Just wanted to say hi. How are you?"

  "Oh, honey, you're so sweet! You are! I'm fine. Well, I'm lonely. I'm a lonely old woman waiting to die."

  "Don't say that," I said. "I'd miss you too much."

  "Well, it's true. I have nothing to look forward to."

  "What about that date you went on?" I'd fixed her up with George from Kate's grief group, and they had lunch the other day.

  "All he talked about was soup."

  "You like soup."

  "That's true. Bisque. I really like bisque."

  "See? It's a start."

  "You're wonderful. Do you know that? You're my best friend. I love you, honey!"

  "I love you, too, Gram-Gram." I hung up, feeling relieved, adoring, adored and rather pimpish.

  Jonathan was staring at me from his office. Not only did I have a family member at my desk, I was making a personal call at work. "I'd like to schedule that employee review, Ainsley," he called.

  Apparently, sleeping with the boss wasn't going to win me any points. There was no hint of a smile in his dead-eyed stare. "It was an emergency," I said. "We thought Gram-Gram might be dead. She's not. I'm going to lunch. You remember my dad, right? Bye!"

  My father drove me in his little convertible, and it was like old times, doing errands/visiting his girlfriends when I was a kid. We talked about baseball, how much we both missed Derek Jeter, where Dad's next game would be, the pulled pork sandwich he'd had in Kansas City.

  "Shall we eat here?" Dad asked, pulling up in front of Hudson's. "I've never been." He and Candy didn't go out together a lot (or ever), and the place was relatively new.

  "Sure. I came here for drinks with the girls a few weeks ago. It's really cute."

  A few minutes later, we had a nice t
able overlooking the river and had placed our orders--fettuccine Alfredo for both of us, rich and delicious and unhealthy, the kind of food Candy never made. "So, Dad. This is nice. And strange. I don't think we've had lunch together in ten years."

  "I know, Ainsburger. That's my fault. Too much travel!" But he smiled; he really did love his job. "I wanted to see how you were doing about Eric."

  Dad, worried about me? That was new.

  It dawned on me that I hadn't thought too much about Eric in the past couple of days. I mean, sure, he'd crossed my mind; Jonathan was only the second guy I'd ever slept with, so there was some comparison. I was happy to say that Jonathan won. "Well," I said, "I'm getting over it, I guess. He's making it easy by turning into a total idiot."

  "I always thought he'd take good care of you. That's why I liked him. Nice parents, too."

  They were nice. But the last time I'd called Judy, she hadn't called back. The thought made my throat swell, but I smiled at my dad anyway.

  "How are you doing for money?" he asked.

  I sighed. "I have a little saved up. But I have to find a place of my own. Kate won't want me with her forever."

  "It's awfully nice, you staying with her."

  "It's awfully nice of her, putting me up."

  "She never could ask for help. I'm glad you're there." Our lunches arrived, and we dug in. It was heaven, this food. Heaven.

  "The reason I asked about money, Ainsburger, is I have some for you."

  "That's okay, Dad. I'll be fine."

  "It's from your mother."

  I blinked. "It is?"

  He nodded, not looking at me. "She had life insurance. Not a lot, but it's been earning interest all these years. Close to a hundred thousand now."

  I sputtered in shock. "A hundred thousand dollars?"

  "Yes. I figured I'd give it to you when you got married, but...well, it's yours."

  I sat back in my chair. "Why didn't you ever mention it before?"

  "The truth is, I kind of forgot about it. It was supposed to be yours when you turned twenty-five."

  Leave it to my father to forget a huge sum of cash. I closed my mouth.

  My mom had been twenty-five when she died, almost twenty years younger than my father. Did most young mothers take out life insurance? "When did she do that?" I asked.

  "The week before you were born. She had this... Well, it doesn't matter, does it?"

  "It does, Dad. You never talk about her. Please tell me." The truth was, I'd learned more about my mother from Kate a few weeks ago than I had from Dad in three decades.

  He sighed. Looked out the window. "She had a dream that she was dying," he said very, very quietly. "That she was giving birth to you, but she knew she wouldn't make it, and all she wanted was to last long enough to see you. She woke up so upset. Cried and cried." He rubbed a hand across his forehead. "I used to tease her about it after you came. Tell her at least she got to hold you, see you walk, see your first tooth. I never thought..." His voice broke.

  "Oh, Daddy," I said, reaching for his hand with both of mine. "I'm so sorry."

  "I was ruined when she died. I felt like I died, too." He wiped his eyes in the way men do, pinching away the tears with his free hand. "You're so much like her, Ainsley. In all the good ways."

  I kissed his hand, my own eyes filling with tears.

  He squeezed my fingers, then pulled free. Wiped his eyes with his napkin, shook his head, smiled at me and resumed eating. I watched as he retreated back behind his amiable mask. Somewhat fitting that he wore one for work.

  Not everyone could cope with a broken heart. Some people never recovered. My dad seemed to be one of them.

  Kate would recover. I'd make sure of it.

  Our heart-to-heart was over. I told him about the ice tool museum and suggested we visit it in the fall when baseball was over, and he told me that he'd gone to see a movie in Seattle at a theater where the seats reclined, and he'd fallen asleep and woken in the middle of the next movie.

  I never realized how lonely my father was. All those girlfriends, all that cheating, all those years with Candy, who couldn't get over him the same way he couldn't get over my mother.

  "Are you and Candy really getting a divorce?" I asked.

  "What? Oh, that," he said. "No. She just likes to go through the motions once in a while to get my attention."

  A man dressed in chef whites came over to our table. "How was everything today? I'm Matthew, the chef and owner."

  "Fantastic," Dad said, shaking his hand. "Best pasta I've had in years."

  "And Dad eats out a lot," I said. "All over the country. He's an umpire for Major League Baseball."

  "Oh, man! What an awesome job! You ever meet Derek Jeter?"

  "Sure have. He's a great guy."

  The men talked baseball for a few minutes, then the chef shook both our hands, thanked us for coming in.

  "Hey," I said, suddenly remembering my job. "I'm the features editor at Hudson Lifestyle. I don't think we've covered you." That in itself was weird; we did a story on a bead store opening last year. There was nothing too inconsequential for us, so long as it was in the area. We always covered new restaurants.

  "Yeah," he said. "Um..."

  Dad's phone chimed, and he looked down at his phone. "Oh! Clancy canceled for tonight's game. I have to get to Camden Yards. Can you get back to the office on your own, Burger-baby?"

  "Sure, Dad. I'll walk. It's beautiful out."

  He kissed me on the cheek, shook the chef's hand again and left, once again buoyed by our national pastime.

  "Do you know our magazine?" I asked Matthew. "We do lots of restaurant features, and this is a lovely spot."

  He sat down in Dad's vacated seat. "I do know the magazine. I'm Matthew Kent."

  My mouth fell open, and a rush of heat rose up my chest.

  Jonathan's brother. Jonathan's brother, who slept with his wife.

  "Oh," I managed. "You."

  "Yeah."

  Now I could see a resemblance. Matt's hair was lighter, and his eyes lacked the odd beauty of Jonathan's, but he had high cheekbones and beautiful hands.

  "Have you worked there a long time?" he asked.

  "Two years."

  "So you know my brother well?"

  I know him biblically. "Mmm-hmm."

  "And based on the hate shining from your eyes, I guess you know about me."

  "Yep."

  He sighed. "Yeah." His fingers drummed on the table. "Well, I'm not proud of the way it happened, but I do care about my brother."

  "Funny way of showing it."

  "There's no excuse, I realize that," he said, staring down at the table. "For what it's worth, I really do love Laine and the girls."

  "Of course you do. They're your nieces."

  His gaze snapped up to me. "Look. I was in love with her years before Jonathan even noticed her, okay? And when our father had the stroke, Jonathan just closed up. There was no room for me, no shared grieving or whatever, and Laine was alone all day long with two little toddlers. All he did was work."

  "So you thought you'd help by shtupping his wife."

  He looked away. "As I said, I'm not proud of it. And I didn't just shtup her. Long before it got to that point, I was buying the groceries, cooking dinner, playing with the girls, fixing the furnace."

  "Wow. You should get a sticker."

  "I know what a shitty thing I did, Miss..."

  "O'Leary."

  "Miss O'Leary. But if you work for my brother, you probably know he's not the easiest person in the world. I'd like to make things right with him, or at least try." He looked out the window again. "I miss him."

  "Sounds like someone needs to buy a well-worded card," I said, standing up. My hand hit my father's water glass, which tumbled into Matthew's lap. "Whoops."

  With that, I left, my head buzzing with the feels.

  Quite a lunch. In an hour, I understood my father better than I ever had. I learned that my mother had somehow known she would
n't always be there for me and tried to provide for me before I was even born.

  And I'd met the man who'd ruined Jonathan's life.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Kate

  "Booty tooch!" the mother yelled. "Come on, Brittannee! Make it high fashion!"

  "High fashion?" Max muttered. "Or porn?"

  It was Thursday afternoon, a beautiful July afternoon, and we were doing a high school senior shoot for a very nice girl whose mother clearly wanted her to model, rather than go to Vanderbilt on a basketball scholarship, as she was planning.

  "She's wasting her looks!" the mother said, throwing up her hands.

  "Ma," Brittannee said. "I want to be a doctor. I don't need looks."

  "Well, you have them. You should take advantage. Can't you just work with me? I know I could get you in at Elle."

  We were at Bixby Park, and while the eighteen-year-old seemed content with the look at the camera and smile approach that usually worked best, the mother had a different concept. She stomped over in front of the cinder block wall of the public restrooms, which she had deemed "editorial."

  "Like this," she said, thrusting out her rump so hard I heard a joint pop. "Booty tooch. Bing, bang, boom. Tick, tick, tick. And now, swivel your arms forward. Gucci tooch!"

  "Are you speaking in tongues?" Brit asked. She rolled her eyes at me, and I gave her a sympathetic smile.

  "This picture is for me," the mom said. "It's how I want to remember you when you're gone."

  "Okay, first of all, I'm not dying. I'm going to college. And second, you want to remember me with my ass out? Can't I just smile like a normal person?"

  Speaking of modeling, Daniel's youngest sister, Lizzie, had texted me. She'd signed with Ford Models, and I was thrilled for her. I told her to let me know if she needed anything, since I knew a few people in the fashion world. Lizzie had talent. I thought so, anyway. And she wanted to be a model.

  Brittannee of the difficult spelling did not.

  I focused on the mother, who had that gaunt, stringy look of a body-obsessed middle-aged woman.

  "Lori," I said to her. "You have fabulous cheekbones. Do you mind if I take a few shots of just you?"

  "Me? Well, if you want to," she said, immediately pursing her lips at me. She tootched and gooched and did whatever else it was Tyra Banks said on TV. Thank you, mouthed Brittannee, then smiled at her mom.

  "Fantastic, Lori. Love that! Hold that pose, long neck!" Hey, I didn't live in a cave.

  A half hour later, when Lori was done dangling from a tree branch and squinting at me, I focused on the child. "Brit, why don't you take a seat on the grass there and make yourself comfortable?"