by Kate Meader
“Serena, how you doin’?” Grant’s syrup drenches the entire car, and he leans in to buss her cheek. “A little birdie told me some lucky guy’s scooped you right up. Congratulations.”
Serena flashes her hand, showing off a rock the size of a planet. She’s marrying her hunky personal trainer. “Thanks, he is lucky.” Sighing for a couple of seconds at the sight of her ring, she raises her gaze and frowns at me. “What happened to your arm?”
“Nothing.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“She won’t say,” Grant offers. “I’m thinking maybe a tryout for the Hawks.”
My eye roll is epic.
“Oh, there’s a story here.” Serena narrows her eyes in suspicion. I’ll be a source of gossip, visits from senior partners, and hopefully a tray of cupcakes by five.
The elevator reaches the lobby—finally—and we all step out and stand around awkwardly like we need to discuss our next moves. Sushi or Italian, friends?
Serena divides a look between the two of us. “Should I play referee? Or maybe something else?”
I shut that nonsense down immediately. “I’ll walk back to the office with you, Rena.”
“Got a minute, Bean?”
Again with that Bean business. I can’t. Not now.
Serena mouths “Bean” at me. I want to thump her and stuff that rock on her finger into an uncomfortable place.
Instead, I say sweetly, “No—I need to get back. I’ve got a client’s financials to investigate, remember?”
“Been thinkin’ on your dilemma,” Grant says, his voice ridiculously lazy and sexy.
“My dilemma?”
“Thanksgiving, traveling with the beast, heading into the lion’s den.”
I shoot a look of not here at him, but Serena has already sniffed blood. “The lion’s den? Color me intrigued!”
He looks amused. “Think you’d prefer we discuss this in private.”
“Discuss what? How you tried to bypass discovery in Judge Jamieson’s court like a first-year associate?”
“Nah. Me driving you to Boston for Thanksgiving so you can pretend to your grandmother that we’re still married.”
I gasp, which sets off a chain of unfortunate events. Slightly panicked, I move closer to Grant instead of farther away, inhale how good he smells, become light-headed with the pleasure of it, then step back. I look like a dancing fool, and Serena definitely notices, her eyes going wide with wonder at my smoothness.
“Rena, I’ll catch you later.”
“Yeah, you will, girl.” Serena toddles off to get the rumor mill grinding at the office.
I shoot stabby eyes at Grant. “Nice going, idiot.”
“No problem. Let’s get coffee in the food court. Won’t take long to sort out the details.”
What details? This isn’t happening. Yet I turn, trancelike, toward the escalator.
I know he’s watching my ass with those dark blue eyes of his. I’m not much taller than five four, and I need heels to strike fear and envy. But I’ve always had a very well-proportioned behind that looks good in pencil skirts, and Grant has always been an ass-man.
Like the recent reawakening of my long-dormant sexuality, the sway of my hips as I walk ahead of my ex-husband fills me with power. I know it’s ridiculous to feel this way because of a male gaze, but I can’t help it. It’s his gaze that fuels me.
Coffee in hand (I paid for my own, thankyoumuch), I take a seat in the food court and wait for Grant to sit across from me. Ever the contrarian, he pulls a chair around and places it to the side, so he can stretch out his long legs when he sits. Almost like he’s presenting…oh. I can make it out, that hard, left-leaning curve of power. Even at rest, it’s impressive.
My mouth waters, and I look up to catch him catching me out. What is wrong with me?
“Freak kitchen accident?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Your injury.”
I smile sweetly to let him know my lips are sealed on that one. “You were saying…”
“Right, me taking you back east. Not such a bad idea, is it? You can’t drive with that sling, so either you have to fly, which you won’t, or take a train, which you can’t. Not if you want to bring that ball of spite. I know you won’t kennel him because you can’t bear the thought of leaving him behind, especially as he’s getting old and sick. I also know that you have to eventually tell Libby about the divorce. She’d react better if we told her together. If she thinks we’re both in a good place.”
Is that where he thinks we’ve landed? “Are we? In a good place?”
“I think we’re closer to it. First year’s the hardest. But we’ve managed to coexist at various social events and on elevators for a couple of months now.”
True, it’s getting better. I’m not sure how I feel about that. “But your own holiday plans?”
“I can visit my mom and sister on the weekend after Libby’s birthday party. We can tell her the day after so it doesn’t ruin anything for her.”
My mother would freak if I turned up with my ex-husband, though it would definitely get her off my back about this matchmaking business.
But…it’s Grant!
I can barely breathe. “You’d do this? Why?”
He straightens in the chair and leans both elbows on his knees, his face tilted to look at me. His brow crimps, and he answers my question with one of his own. “Do they know…everything?”
“Everything?”
“Why we parted?”
My heart keens. Just when I thought I could cope with breathing the same air as him, I’m thrown back to those days when the sight of him signified nothing but failure.
“No. Just the old irreconcilable differences catchall. Ever handy.”
We stare awhile, lost in the memories and the pain.
“And I’d rather they didn’t know the details,” I continue. “I’d rather keep that my—our business.”
He nods, his agreement something I can latch onto. Grant has always been more emotional than me, yet I suspect he’s never breathed a word of what happened, not even to Max, who would have said something. The dome of pain is reserved for us, and us alone.
He stands, and for a moment I think he’s going to take me in his arms. I almost welcome it, then feel my heart sink like a stone when he keeps his distance.
“If we were splitting the driving, I’d say we could do it in two days, but with just me, it’d be better in three.”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“Neither have you said no.”
I have no answer for that, probably because the thought excites more than it pains.
“Think about it, Bean.” Then he walks away, leaving me to watch his most excellent ass in pinstripes. Hey, turnabout’s fair play.
Chapter 4
Aubrey
“He shouldn’t be this upset over two years later, should he?” I squint at my cat, who is curled up on the sofa, currently not displaying any weird behavior whatsoever. Typical. “Once my ex moved out, he seemed okay for a while. Less stressed. And now he’s back to his old habits.”
“Eating clothes?”
“Destroying them.”
“Peeing in shoes?”
“The priciest ones. Somehow he knows.”
The animal behaviorist makes a note in her book, then places it in her lap. “Pica, eating nonfood items, is very common in stressed-out pets and children.”
I know this. I’ve read every book there is on the topic, enough to earn an animal psychology degree like the woman before me.
“He’s especially partial to bras. Just rips them to shreds.”
The doc nods thoughtfully, makes another note. “Interesting that his tar
gets are signifiers of femininity.” She doesn’t say what’s interesting about it, just lets it hang in the air.
Is my cat a misogynist?
“He didn’t get along with my ex,” I say in my defense, or maybe his. “Would hiss when he was around, but now…”
“Now he’s engaging in compulsive behaviors.” She makes it sound like this is much worse than hissing. Which, considering the state of my wardrobe, might be right. She looks up from her notebook. “Was your divorce amicable?”
From the Latin amicus, meaning friend. “I’m a divorce lawyer, and so is my ex. While you might hear that word thrown around indiscriminately in the realm of marriage dissolution, it’s rarely applicable. People who say their divorces are friendly are usually self-delusional.”
She smiles briefly. “So you and he don’t talk?”
“We stopped for a while, but lately we’ve been…chattier.” None of this seems relevant to my cat’s behavioral issues, yet it’s liberating to talk about it with someone neutral. “Grant—that’s my ex—is such a good guy, so different from me.” I shake my head, a touch embarrassed by that admission. “It’s amazing that it worked for so long.”
Three years of law school, a year of long-distance dating, and just over three years married. Grant, reserved yet so big-hearted and patient, mapped all the unexplored routes to my heart. He was willing to put in the work to tear down my walls, but in the end there was only so much a man, even one as generous as Grant, could take.
“Are you dating someone now?”
“No.”
“Because that kind of change might be good for Cat Damon.” She winces in clear disapproval of the name. “While you say he didn’t get along with your ex, he probably misses the sight of the two of you together. That cohesive unit gave him comfort. Now that you’re alone, he senses your stress level and is acting out.”
“I’m not stressed about being alone.” This outdated notion that everyone has to be paired off is more irksome than my actual singleton status.
“Perhaps I’m overstating it. But he’s picking up on something in you.”
“So I should screw someone to cure my cat?”
There’s no missing her grimace. At two hundred dollars an hour, I thought we’d gotten to that level of comfort. I guess not.
“I think if you’re happy, the cat’s happ…ier.”
Okay. Mission Fuck Someone to Save the Cat is a go.
* * *
—
“So, tell me about the Maldives. Bet it was gorgeous!”
Charlie grins. “Didn’t see much of it. Spent most of the time in the beach cottage getting busy on my honeymoon.” She takes a sip of the happy hour sangria we’re downing at Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba, a tapas place in Lincoln Park. “But I’d much rather hear about this road trip you’re taking with your ex.”
“It’s hardly a road trip.” It’s the definition of road trip. “Think of it more as an efficient movement of a car from Point A to Point B. Believe me, if I could drive myself, I would not be involving Grant.”
I’m still perplexed that (a) Grant has offered to do this and (b) I didn’t refuse outright. Shouldn’t he despise me after all these years? We spar like crazy in court, snipe away whenever we’re in social situations, and glare at each other across crowded elevators on a semi-regular basis. But underneath it all, I still sense Grant’s pity for poor Aubrey, who can’t even tell her favorite relative a bit of bad news.
“Still keeping mum on the arm injury?” Trinity muses.
“It’s not important,” I say quickly to hide my embarrassment at how it occurred. “And neither is it important that Grant’s doing this.”
Two sets of eyes bug out at that statement. Charlie breaks the incredulous silence. “Not important? He’s agreeing to spend three days—”
“Two.”
“With his ex-wife in an enclosed space. What are you going to talk about?”
“I’ll be working on my laptop. He’s basically a chauffeur.”
“Probably wants to make another go of it,” Trinity offers. “So is there anything there worth salvaging?”
Both of them are champing at the bit, dying to ask the why, which means I need to divert their attention.
“I’m ready to start dating again.”
“Ooh, that’s interesting,” Trinity coos. “Interesting timing, too.”
“Is it?”
“Well, you’re going on this road trip, and you’re probably thinking that if you say your girly bits are spoken for, you won’t be tempted.”
“That’s—that’s ridiculous!” And shockingly on point.
Charlie laughs knowingly.
“Oh, shut it, smug married person! So I’ve been feeling sort of”—they lean in—“horny,” I hiss. “All right. Freakin’ horny. It’s been a while since I’ve wanted to do anything other than work or sleep or”—move from the sofa to the bed and back again every weekend—“just veg out. And I’ve started feeling frisky, I suppose, and my cat’s psychologist thinks it might be good for him to see me with another man.”
Trinity rolls in her lips. “Your what now?”
“My cat psychologist. Officially she’s an animal behaviorist. Cat Damon’s been acting out a lot more than usual, and she thinks it’s because he misses…well, you know.”
“Grant?” Charlie’s mouth twists. “The cat shrink is able to tell all this?”
I gush out a long sigh. “She listens and doesn’t judge.”
Charlie looks like a light bulb has gone off. “So this is a way of getting sneaky therapy for you?”
“Yes! It’s cheaper, too.”
“And it doesn’t require any accountability or progress on your part because technically she’s treating the cat,” Charlie adds.
Technically. God, this is so messed up: I’m currently in sneak therapy with my cat’s psychologist. “And her conclusion—to help my cat—means I’m looking for a good, hard man to get me juiced up.”
Trinity raises her glass. “To good, hard men, especially ones prescribed by cat psychologists.”
I drink to that, gearing up to my next damning admission. “I’ve been dreaming about him. Grant.”
Charlie shrugs. “That’s not unusual, is it? You saw him at the wedding.”
Trinity gets there quicker. “You mean sex dreams?”
“Uh, speak louder. They didn’t hear you over on the other side of the restaurant.”
The girls are all agog. “That’s why you want to start dating again,” Charlie says. “Because you’re hot for your ex, you horny devil.”
I sigh, resigned to their conclusion. “It’s just familiarity, really. I know what that body looks like, what that cock feels like, how good the damn orgasms were. Sex was never a problem for Grant and me.”
“So what was?” Charlie flicks a quick glance at Trinity. “You were married for what…three years? Together longer than that. Did he fuck up?”
Everyone assumes Grant cheated on me, or they make this assumption to avoid asking the tacky question of whether I cheated on him. Inevitably the credit for a marriage’s breakdown is unfairly gendered. The guy couldn’t keep it in his pants, obviously.
“He didn’t fuck up. We both reached a point where being together hurt more than being apart.”
Simultaneously, they grasp my hand. While they can sympathize, neither of them can truly understand. They’re both so madly, deeply in love, and nothing can pierce that. Nothing should pierce it. I’m happy for them, and I want them to succeed.
I’m also ready to move on with my own life. Perhaps I can put some of the demons of my marriage to rest during this road trip. And if knowing my ex-husband is on the other side of the wall of a hotel room helps fuel an orgasm or two, I’ll take it as an early holiday gift.
Chapter 5
Aubrey
What does a girl pack for a road trip to see her dysfunctional family and crazy grandmother while shotgunning it with a certifiable cat and the ex who should be running in the other direction?
On the bed, I place the following items into evidence:
Thai Lime and Chili Almonds
Milk Chocolate S’mashing S’mores
Crunchy swirls (made with lentils, Your Honor, so they’re health-ier.)
Trader Joe’s snacks sorted, I consider the clothes I need. Nothing sexy, because what would be the point? As attracted as I still am to Grant—and how unfair is that?—it’s a ditch I do not want to travel.
I frown at Cat Damon, who’s eyeing a Fendi slingback pump with intent.
“Don’t even think about it. I got those at eighty percent off, which makes them more valuable to me than if they’d been full price.” A bargain remembered fondly warms the coldest heart.
My kitty opens his mouth to comment. “Arghhh.”
He sounds like a pirate, Bean. A cranky, three-packs-a-day, parrot-sporting pirate.
I pull out my carry-on from the closet, and another memory assaults me. The last time I used this suitcase—nearly two years ago—it wasn’t empty…
Like a horror movie queen creeping down to the dark, dank basement, I unzip the carry-on with trembling fingers. Buck up, Aubrey. It’s just a suitcase!
Nothing. As empty as the void behind my rib cage, ready to be filled, the potential of a trip laid out bare. But the last time, its contents signified a different potential. A life snuffed out, a fate twisted.
Back then it was closer to the Christmas holidays, and I’d just arrived home laden with shopping bags, filled with gifts I needed to wrap and send to my family for the holidays. I’d had to overnight them because I’d left it so late, and we were headed to Helen, Georgia, in the morning to spend the holiday with Grant’s family.
So much to do! Packing and wrapping and a playlist for the car, cheery holiday songs to cover the once companionable, now awkward silences. (Grant liked to pretend he hated Christmas music but there was no stopping him once Mariah warble-wormed her way into his ear.) We just needed another month to leapfrog the jagged rocks, skirt the quicksand, and land on solid ground. There’d be a pothole or two, but we’d navigate those more easily once we got through the holidays.