by Mina Hardy
“My favorite,” she says.
“You had one the last time we were here.”
“The day we met,” Diana says.
“Yeah,” I tell her, the words so smooth they don’t even seem like a lie. “The day we met.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Valerie
LAST SUMMER
There had to be rules to the game Diana asked me to play. The first was that she was never allowed to ask me anything about what her husband and I did together. The second, the one we never actually said aloud, was that I was not supposed to fall in love with him. Yet here I was, in bed with Jonathan Richmond, and all I could think about was how much he made me laugh.
If it wasn’t love, it was as close to it as I’d ever been.
“I have something to ask you,” he said.
For one incredibly foolish minute I thought he was going to pull out a ring. I rolled onto my side to face him, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. He smoothed my hair over my shoulder and kept his hand moving down my bare arm until he settled it on my naked hip. Our legs tangled beneath the edge of the sheet we’d kicked off in the August heat.
“I want to take you away somewhere,” he said, “for a week.”
The tap of his toes on mine should have irritated me, but it only made me shift closer. Belly to belly. “A week’s a long time.”
“A few nights here and there aren’t enough. Is it enough for you?” He sounded anxious, his brow furrowed with the question.
I had to be honest. “No.”
“So you’ll go away with me?”
“What will you tell her?”
The rule with Diana was that she and I didn’t discuss her husband. The rule with Jonathan was that we didn’t discuss his wife. But I had to ask.
“I’ll tell her it’s business. She never goes along with me on business trips,” he said.
I knew that was true, just as I knew that even if she did, she would have declined whatever trip he was talking about now. That was the plan, wasn’t it? Give him the rope to hang himself with?
“Where will we go?” I kissed him.
“Someplace warm,” he told me. “With sands and beaches and fruity drinks with umbrellas.”
I laughed and kissed him again, soft and sweet and slow, and then, suddenly, hot and full of yearning. I had to gasp out my next question. “When?”
“October,” Jonathan said.
Months away. What more proof could there be that this was something more permanent? It was all we needed … no. It was all Diana needed.
I’d discovered I needed so much more, and I wasn’t going to let her stop me from getting it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Diana
Time moves in minutes, days, hours, weeks, months. It’s only been six weeks since the first time I met Cole. Time bites itself into pieces you can chew, but that doesn’t always make it a meal. Sometimes you end up still hungry.
We’ve just finished our last class and head outside to the parking lot.
“You’d think I’d have gotten better at it by the end. Plus the fact I’ve taken the class before.” I wave my damp paper around in front of Cole’s face and step back before he can grab it.
He wears his hair loose today, red-gold strands hanging from beneath the dark gray and black beanie cap. He holds up his paper. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
We both laugh.
“It’s colder than a witch’s icebox out here. February is the worst.” My teeth chatter for a moment, and I dance in place.
“Yeah, but you get Valentine’s Day right in the middle. That counts for something, doesn’t it?” Cole says, then pauses with an arched brow.
How did this become so easy between us?
I started taking this class because I hoped it would help me remember something, anything about last summer. It had become immediately clear in the first couple sessions that it never would. Why, then had I kept going? One reason.
Cole.
“Coffee?” I look toward the coffee shop.
For a split second, I hope he says no, but why should he? We’ve been meeting for coffee after every class. This will be the last time, I tell myself.
“Sure. Coffee.” The way Cole says it makes it sound like more than coffee, and I shiver again, but this time not from the cold.
It’s just coffee.
“They should have an entrance that connects directly from the rec center to the coffee shop,” I grumble as I step back to let Cole open the door for me, “so we don’t have to go outside into this frozen hellscape first.”
He laughs again. “No shit. Grab a table. I’ll get us some coffee. Brownie?”
“Oh man. I want one, but”—I pat my stomach through the heavy winter coat—“I’d better not.”
“What are you talking about? You look great.” He scoffs, his eyes meeting mine.
I was so cold my teeth were chattering, but now I am warm. I settle into the table at the back, the one that by default, without discussing it, has become “ours.” Of course that’s ridiculous. Cole and I have no “us” or “ours.” We barely know each other … except that every week for the past month, we’ve had that watercolors class together and coffee and pastries after. Six weeks. Six meetings. That’s all it’s been.
Moments later, he slides a plate with a fudge-iced brownie on top of it in front of me. Then, while I’m still half-heartedly protesting, he fills our mugs with coffee from the self-serve tankards on the counter behind him. He puts one in front of each of us and takes his seat with a look of feigned innocence.
“What?”
“You’re a bad influence.” But I’m not going to turn down the brownie. I do cut it in half, though, and push the plate between us. When I look up, I catch Cole’s gaze. Neither of us looks away.
Finally, he reaches for the brownie and bites into it. I sip coffee. We don’t say anything for a minute or so, and the silence is not awkward or strange. It’s the comfort of not needing to fill every space with noise that happens between friends, and I think, Is that what we’ve become? Just like that?
“So,” Cole says, “last class today. Are you signing up for another one?”
I’ve already told myself I won’t be, but I shrug like I haven’t decided. “I don’t know. I’m not very good at it.”
“Let me see.” He takes my painting and looks it over with a frown. Hands it back. “Yeah. You suck.”
Our laughter turns heads, and I don’t even care. I make a show of crumpling up my painting and tossing it in the garbage pail next to the coffee station. Cole, laughing, tries to stop me, but it’s truly no loss. I have others, and Cole’s right. I do suck.
“Don’t do that,” he tells me, laughter fading but his smile still broad. “Think of how much better you make the rest of us look.”
I groan. “Ugh. Mean.”
“Sorry. But … are you going to take another class?”
“I don’t think so. What about you?”
“Not sure. I might look into pottery.” He sounds serious, but I can’t be sure he’s not setting me up for some kind of joke.
I tilt my head, looking him over. “Interesting. Clay pots?”
“Something like that. Who can’t use a nice, lumpy clay pot?”
“You might really be good at pottery, Cole.”
“Well, not to brag, but I am pretty damned good with my hands.”
He holds them up. Long fingers, broad palms. One of his hands could engulf both of mine, and I am suddenly greedy, looking at them. I want those hands on me. Desire sends a shiver through me I try to cover up by shifting in my chair. I can’t look him in the eyes, or I’ll give myself away. I’m not ashamed of this wanting, but I don’t want to offer anything I’m not prepared to give.
“Maybe calligraphy,” I say to cover up the sudden silence between us that is no longer so comfortable. “Write fancy greeting cards. Stuff like that. It’s like a lost art. I mean, who handwrites anything anymore? We all use o
ur phones.”
Like I summoned it, his phone hums in his pocket, and he pulls it out, stares with a frown at the screen, and puts it back. I am desperate to know if that text was from a girlfriend or, worse, a wife. He doesn’t wear a ring. That doesn’t mean anything, I think. I do, and I’m still here. He could have someone calling him home the way my husband no longer ever calls me.
“Oh, before I forget.” I pull my purse onto my lap to dig for my wallet. “Let me get you some cash for the—”
“No way.” Cole shakes his head. “Forget it. My treat.”
I shake my own head, keeping my gaze averted.
“No. I invited you,” I tell him stubbornly.
I dig without luck through my bag, setting items on the table. A small leather-bound daily planner Jonathan gave me that I always forget to use. A lipstick. Some loose change. At the bottom of the bag, three prescription pill bottles, labeled identically with the name of my old pain meds. They don’t even rattle—all empty. And at the bottom, finally, my wallet.
Cole helps me gather up the junk from my purse. When he grabs the pill bottles, I flood with heat, rising up my throat and into my face at what he must be thinking. More, a tingling rush of it, when he looks at the labels before handing them to me.
“From the accident,” I tell him. “I don’t actually take them anymore. I guess it shows you how long it’s been since I cleaned out my purse. I didn’t even know they were in there. Anyway, I told you, I got this. You can pay the next time.”
“So long as that means there will be a next time,” Cole says.
Another long silence. My face is still hot, but the warmth is trickling through every other part of me. I know it’s wrong to want this. I’m not sure I care, really. But I do know.
Time moves in heartbeats, in sighs. It moves from one breath to the next. It moves in the breaking of friendships and hearts. It moves in letting go.
I want there to be a next time, but really, I don’t want this time to be over. With Jonathan in Kansas City, I don’t even need an excuse to rush home. “I’m just going to use the restroom real quick. Be right back?”
“Sure,” Cole says. “I’ll be here.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Cole
I’m the guy you go to when you want something done that you don’t want to do yourself. It wouldn’t make my mama proud, but it pays the bills. I like the freedom of being my own boss and making my own schedule. I like the ability to just bug out whenever I want, spend a month driving cross-country. Pick up a job or two along the way to cover beers and burgers. Before I met Diana, I’d never spent more than a couple weeks at home base before heading out again.
After I met her, everything was different.
The past few weeks have been a glimpse into what it might have been like if we’d met in a conventional way, but today was the last class, and so that means an end to these weekly coffee dates. I should let it go, right? I should be the good guy, not the bad one.
The people who pay me to find out if their husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, or whoever is cheating on them don’t want to know how I attained the information they’re paying for. They just want proof. Because I’m the guy who does the things you don’t want to, I have a number of resources at my disposal. Most of them are shady. Pretending to be interested in your wife so you can see if she’s willing to cheat. Adding key loggers to computers. Adding GPS tracking to phones. And of course, figuring out passcodes on devices.
Like phones left on a table while the owner uses the bathroom.
I know how to find out where people are going, when, and with whom. I know how to blend into a crowd so they don’t figure out they’re being watched. Like Liam Neeson says in Taken, I have a particular set of skills, and I don’t always need to be paid to use them.
Sometimes I do it for myself.
By the time Diana is back from the bathroom. I’ve cleared the table of our trash and made sure everything that she took out of her purse is back inside it, including her phone. I stand when she returns.
We walk together to the parking lot. We stand by her car. I shove my hands into my pockets. Her teeth chatter, but I can’t be sure if she’s shaking because of the frigid air blasting us, or because of what I hope might be nerves. Maybe desire.
We haven’t had nearly enough time together, but I can’t think of any more excuses to linger here. I hold out my hand to take her cold fingers in mine. I don’t want to let go. “Well, Diana, it’s been great getting to know you. I hope I see you around.”
“Same. Yes. Maybe pottery.” She shakes my hand and lets it go quickly.
Before I can do something really fucking stupid, I pivot on my heel to stalk off toward my car, parked on the opposite side of the lot. I drive a battered black Mustang with rust on the bumpers and patches of gray primer on the back panel. It’s no showpiece, but it purrs like a dream. I listen to the engine rumble while the car warms up, and I watch her boring silver sedan exit the parking lot. In my hand, my phone app shows a small blue dot, moving away from me. It doesn’t matter whether or not she takes another class.
I will always know where to find her, wherever she goes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Diana
By the time I get home, I’m ready to put on comfy clothes and veg out on the couch. The buzz I got from the coffee shop treats is wearing off. Well, who am I kidding? The buzz is from being around Cole.
I’m tired, and the house is too hot again, set at nearly ninety degrees. This is ridiculous. I reset the temperature to something reasonable, pull out my phone, and place a call to the local HVAC company we use. I get the voicemail, so I leave a message. I also make a quick phone call to the number of another lawyer, trying to track down who’s got the files I need.
I need more coffee. I’m not too proud to microwave the dregs leftover from this morning, but putting on another half a pot seems like a good idea. The maker doesn’t turn on, even though I’ve filled it with fresh water and changed the filter. I mutter a string of curses. It’s been acting up for some time, but I think it’s possible the damned thing has finally died. I almost want to stroke it like an old, faithful dog that has at last passed away in its sleep.
The microwave beeps, and I turn to fetch my reheated coffee. I drink half of it while I mess around with the recalcitrant coffeemaker, which I can’t seem to bring back from the dead. At a sound behind me, I turn and scream at the sight of the figure standing there. “Oh my God!”
Harriett shakes her head. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Trying to make coffee.” Also, now, trying not to wince in pain at the way I yanked my arms around, making my shoulders ache. I am not surprised that she’s here, although I am startled by her presence. She must have come in through the front door. I really need to remember to turn on the motion alert notifications on my phone again. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you yesterday I’d be by this afternoon to make dinner, since you’d be coming late from your class,” she says.
“You didn’t,” I tell her. I know she didn’t. Yesterday afternoon I binge-watched half a season of some BBC show and fell asleep on the couch. I finish the rest of the coffee and rinse the mug, putting it back on the counter.
Harriett purses her lips. “I came over to check on you. You were watching that show about those two young men solving mysteries. I told you I’d be over. You said it would fine.”
I’d been watching something else entirely, but still, I wrack my memory to recall any kind of conversation with her. She’s staring at me expectantly. I gesture with frustration at the coffeemaker. I feel on the verge of tears and woozy, tired despite the mug of coffee I just finished.
“Thank you. But I really don’t need you to cook for me. I’m just going to maybe take a nap and make a sandwich later.”
“Well,” Harriett says, “if you don’t want me …”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I u
nderstand. I’ll just go. I just thought with Jonathan out of town this week, you might want some company. But if you’d rather be alone, that’s fine. I’ll make myself a nice grilled cheese sandwich in my own apartment and eat it all by myself. That will be fine.”
Now I’ve gone and done it. Harriett does make an amazing grilled cheese sandwich. And although I’m nowhere close to lonely with Jonathan out of town, it’s very clear that my mother-in-law is.
“Harriett, no, please. You’re here. Stay. It’s nice to have company.” I grit out that last bit through a smile she doesn’t seem to know is fake.
“Why don’t you go up and have a nice shower. Change into something comfy. Wash your face,” Harriett adds.
The idea of a hot shower and comfy clothes is appealing, but something in how she mentions washing my face gives me pause. “What do you mean?”
She looks surprised. “About what?”
This is not the first time I’ve sensed a less than subtle reproach from my mother-in-law, but I can’t put my finger on what exactly is annoying me about it. “Is my face dirty?”
“Oh my goodness. It’s not dirty. But you are wearing an awful lot of makeup. Aren’t you?”
I’d spent too long this morning second-guessing my mascara, shadow, the shade of my lipstick. Heat floods my face now. I’m self-conscious.
“Am I?”
“You look more like you were out standing on a street corner than taking a watercolors class,” Harriett says. “But what do I know about fashion these days? Maybe that heavy-handed look is ‘in,’ as they say. What’s wrong? You look upset.”
“I’m not upset.” This is sort of a lie. My coffeepot is broken, the thermostat isn’t working right, and I’ve just been vaguely called a whore. I’m not upset only because I’m too tired to be. Too lazy to make much of a fuss about anything.
“You go on upstairs,” Harriett says gently. “I’ll make us some dinner. All right?”