Seeking Mr. Wrong

by Natalie Charles

  His pace quickened and he bit my shoulder, groaning at the force of his own orgasm. When it was all over, we lay entwined. Sweaty. Panting. Still high. And then the reality settled like dust, and I saw his hands over mine. The same hands that had helped me to cut apples out of construction paper a few days ago. The hands of my boss.

  “Oh shit,” I whispered.

  What had I done?

  CHAPTER 13

  I SPENT the following morning in bed, hiding under my green plaid comforter, only getting up to let Odin out after he started barking at some falling leaves. I stood by the window watching him chase them to the ground and paw at his kill, and for a fleeting moment, I laughed. Then I remembered the night before, and the vague nausea returned.

  There were a few ways I could justify what I’d done. One: Eric was only the acting vice principal at Noah Webster, so it wasn’t like sleeping with a real boss, just my acting boss. Two: No one saw us, so if asked we could pretend it never happened. Three: We were compatible ages, and we had a lot in common, and we’d had a few drinks and forgotten the rules. It was bound to happen. But no matter the justification I ultimately settled on, one thing was for sure: it could never, ever happen again.

  It didn’t matter how many times I looked at my phone. He wasn’t texting me. Did he even have my number? It was just as well, because it would be inappropriate for an administrator to text a member of the faculty and ask how her day was going, or if she wanted to hang out later, maybe grab lunch. Thanks for the pounding. My stomach heaved.

  I crawled back to bed and flung the covers over my head. Brunhilda would find out and fire us both. It was fine; I didn’t need my salary. If I finished another book I could have half of an advance coming, and that would pay part of my mortgage for a month. I’d figure something else out, maybe fish soda bottles out of trash cans and bring them in for recycling. Or maybe I could ramp up the writing and produce even more erotica. Coco Claiborne was full of stories!

  Armed with a mug of hot chai, I sat in front of my laptop and stared at the screen. Think sexy, think sexy! You wouldn’t think it would be so difficult, considering I’d had the best sex of my life the night before. Dipped into hell and tossed into heaven? Check and check. I finally understood. But my thoughts weren’t very sexy. Write whatever, I told myself. So I did.

  They lay on the bed, their limbs still entangled. She licked her lips and found the salt of their sweat and the lingering taste of his skin. She breathed. He breathed above her, his weight pressing her hips into the mattress. Then he shifted back onto his knees. “I need to go.”

  The announcement darted straight through her. She sat upright without clutching a sheet to cover her breasts. He’d seen every part of her. There was no reason for modesty.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  He slid his boxers up his legs and set about gathering his clothes. The tie was coiled in the corner like a snake about to jump. The shirt had caught on the silver knob to the closet, where it hung loosely by one sleeve. His pants . . . he couldn’t find his pants. It was likely they were still in the hall. She watched him collect the clothing, piece by piece, and roll it all into a ball in his arms. He vanished into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. There was the whir of the fan, the snap of the lock, and less than two minutes later he emerged, disheveled but dressed, his tie hanging around his open collar.

  Every moment came down to that one. Every whisper, kiss, and touch thrown together and melted down to the essence of whatever was happening between them. He could tell her good-bye. He wouldn’t be the first. Or he could invent an excuse that amounted to the same thing, maybe save her dignity while adding to her paranoia. He could tell her that he’d like to see her again sometime, that he’d like to get to know her mind the way he’d gotten to know her body. Or he could rate her performance and leave it at that. You were okay. I’ve had better.

  Now she pulled the sheet over her chest like it could protect her from the arrow he was about to shoot her way. She could strike first, tell him to leave. She could invent her own excuses and drive the train wreck of her life for once. She gripped the sheets until her knuckles ached. She made observations about her surroundings. The headboard of the bed was chipped by her nightstand. The curtains on her window were more of an ivory than a white, and in this sunlight they looked dirty. The room smelled like sex.

  He paused in the doorway, his car keys in hand, his jacket draped over his other arm. He stood for an interminable length of time, watching her until she grew impatient and snapped, “What?”

  “I’m sorry.” He turned and left. She didn’t know what it meant.

  I sat back from the computer. It was the same thing Eric had said to me. I didn’t know what it meant, either.

  FAYE CAME over midafternoon. Portia and Blaise were with Dad and Grammie Sadie.

  “And Win?” I asked.

  She tucked her feet beneath her on the couch and pulled a throw pillow into her lap. The fabric was sepia-colored, and it read “Heart” in black scroll letters. “Win has been staying at a hotel.”

  Faye had been vague about their problems, but I knew instinctively that he’d cheated on her, that he was the type. Snaky. Too smooth for his own good. But I wasn’t going to judge. My role was to be supportive and loving, the little sister she could count on. I could be your Oprah, I thought. I clutched my tea mug in my hands, put on my best listening ears, and softened my voice. “I’m sorry to hear it. Is it anything you want to talk about?”

  Faye didn’t crumble, but then she’d always been stoic. She massaged her forehead with her fingertips and squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s a little bit embarrassing.”

  My heart ached for her, but my thoughts immediately flew to my own relationship history, and the shame I felt that I’d not only fallen in love with James but that he’d recovered from me so quickly. But I was too fixated on myself. I couldn’t be her Oprah while thinking about my own problems. Focus, Lettie. I swallowed my tears, which threatened to bubble up, and reached for her hand. “It’s not your fault. Whatever he did to you—that’s on him. You have to know that. It’s his shortcoming. If you want to talk to someone professionally, I saw a great therapist over the summer.”

  Faye sighed and leaned her head back against the couch. Her fingers were limp in mine, almost as if she didn’t remember I was there at all. “It’s my fault.”

  “No. It’s not. I promise you it’s not.”

  She started laughing this dry, humorless laugh. “Trust me; it’s my fault.” She lifted her head again and said matter-of-factly, “I think I may have feelings for someone else.”

  “Wait . . . what?”

  I blinked a few times and squinted at her as if that would help me to understand. Odin yawned and rolled onto his back to warm his belly in a sunbeam. Dogs were so uncomplicated. People made everything difficult.

  “I’ve really screwed some things up,” Faye said. But she didn’t sound devastated or anything. She sounded numb.

  Oh, to be Oprah, I thought. She would know how to handle this situation. She would ask the right questions, hold out the box of tissues, and give away a car. Everyone would feel a little better at the end because Oprah had illuminated something in the human condition. Faye would be forgiven, and we could all go back to normal life—such as it was. But I was not Oprah.

  “What happened?” I winced as the ramifications of Faye’s confession played out in my mind. “Do Portia and Blaise know anything?”

  “What? No, not a thing.” Faye shifted to face me and brought her elbow to rest on the back of the couch. “I just . . . Win works these long hours, and I guess I got bored at some point.”

  Just like that. I got bored. I couldn’t believe I was hearing my sister say all of this so casually. Be Oprah, be Oprah. The last thing I wanted to do was rush to judgment, but it didn’t make any sense. “You both seemed so happ
y,” I managed, even though it was a bit of a lie. What I meant was that they’d pulled off the appearance of happiness, what with their posh lifestyle and their two cute kids. They looked so Copper Hill. It was not the same thing as happiness.

  “Ugh. I can’t stand it sometimes.” Faye curled her legs up higher against the throw pillow. “The constant competition. Who’s got the bigger caseload. Whose billing rate is higher. Who’s got the better table at the partnership dinner.”

  “We’re talking about Win?”

  “Constant,” she said, plowing right over my question. “But he never asks how my day was, or how the hospital restructuring is affecting my department. I feel invisible sometimes. To him, I’m the woman who takes care of his children. Do you know how many times he’s given the twins their bath?” She made a circle with her hand. “Zero. I make dinner, I give baths, and I put them to bed. Then when he comes home, I listen to him patiently as he tells me how much pressure he’s under.”

  “Have you told him how you’re feeling?”

  “Plenty of times. He tells me to go shopping for some new clothes. That I’ll feel better. Prettier, I guess. He says he can’t be the person I need when he’s got so many deals to close.” She stared down at her lap. “Anyway, about a year ago we decided we’d explore a more open relationship.” She slid her fingers though her long blond hair as she spoke. “I could sleep with anyone I wanted to, and so could Win. But we’d always come home and we’d never get emotionally involved.”

  This was about the point I realized my jaw was hanging open. An open relationship? I thought that kind of thing only existed in, well, erotica. “What happened?”

  “Win doesn’t want to do it anymore. He says I’ve violated his trust.”

  My tea was cooling. I’d barely had any, but lukewarm tea made me gag. “So . . . you’re developing feelings. Do you love this guy?”

  She took a breath. “It wasn’t just one guy.”

  “Sorry?”

  “There was a doctor. A hand surgeon. That was only a couple of times. We had an overnight shift together.”

  I nodded, like, Sure, that makes sense.

  “Then there was this nurse practitioner. Male,” she added. She’d started counting on her fingers. “That was just once, but then he decided to propose to his girlfriend. We’re still friendly. Then there was a patient’s brother—”

  She kept going on, listing all of the men she’d had sex with, and where. In a closet. In a car. In a break room. In an examining room, on a gurney. God help me, I tried to keep my patient, open Oprah face on, but as she kept going, I gave up. It was all totally unexpected, kind of fascinating, and really icky.

  “Then Chris Lewiston. That’s been going on for a while, actually. That’s why it bothers Win.” To her credit, she appeared a bit sheepish.

  It took a moment for that one to click. I frowned. “Lewiston. Dr. Lewiston? The dentist? Your neighbor?” The serial killer?

  Faye nodded. “Yes. He’s really a lovely man, Lettie. Every time we talk I think you’d like him.”

  “Hold on.” I set my tea on the coffee table because I could feel my energy levels rising, and I didn’t want to slosh it all over myself. “You mean that every time you’re bumping uglies with your neighbor, Dr. Lewiston, you think that he and I would get along? Faye. I don’t even know where to begin with that one.”

  Her mouth tightened. “This sounds like judgment. Are you judging me?”

  “No. I just . . .” I filed my fingers through my hair. “Kind of? But I’m trying not to. I’m trying to understand what’s happened here. I mean, you know how I feel about Dr. Lewiston and his collection of body parts.”

  “Which he doesn’t have,” she said with a slight lift of her chin. “I’ve been in his basement. It’s a laundry room and storage.”

  “And there’s a deep freezer, I’ll bet. It’s still an open question.”

  I sat back against the couch, but my brain had gone blank. Deep down, I noted a spark of disappointment. All my life I’d admired Faye, my beautiful, poised older sister. Finding out that she was sleeping with every man who showed her attention made me feel so sad. Then I remembered. “That day I took the kids for ice cream, when you said you had an open house, did you meet with him?”

  She shook her head. “No. Well, yes. But only because we agreed it was time to end it.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “I’m not asking you to say anything or do anything. Win found out about Chris and me, and things have been a little awkward.”

  Yeah, I could imagine that being difficult territory to navigate. I stared at a spot on the rug where Odin had pulled at some threads, and thought about Win coming home with his pile of papers and his fancy car, only to learn that his beautiful wife had been shagging the neighbor. How humiliating. I’d never been his biggest fan, but I understood humiliation, and I was actually feeling bad for my brother-in-law. You win, universe.

  “Win doesn’t want to get divorced. He wants to go to couples counseling. I don’t know if that will do anything.” Faye released a long sigh. “He keeps asking me why. Why did you do that? How could you? But we never set geographical boundaries. We never said that neighbors were off-limits.”

  “Wow.” It was all I could think to say.

  “I sort of wonder if it’s in my DNA. There’s no good reason for it. I mean, I can say that it’s because Win is too preoccupied with his job or I’m bored, but I also like the thrill of it.” She eyed me sidelong. “You know. Like Dad.”

  She was only being honest. So why was it so painful to hear? Maybe because I’d considered Dad’s serial cheating to be a character flaw, not a genetic predisposition. A character flaw was something to acknowledge and learn from. If something was encoded in his DNA, then it could be in mine, too. And in Faye’s. We could both be predisposed to be terrible spouses. There was something to chew on.

  “But Dad seems happy with Sadie,” I said.

  Faye snorted.

  “He is! He’s grown up. Either that or the fourth time is the charm.”

  “I’m not getting married four times to find out.”

  I couldn’t blame her. I’d been almost married just once, and that was enough to make me never want to go through with it for real. I’d been so burned that I was convinced true love couldn’t exist, not even in books. My mind wandered to Lord Sterling and the duchess boning away happily in the pantry during the Christmas fete, half hoping a servant was watching. Yes, he’d gotten down on one knee at the end of the book, but would that last forever? He had his magical member—what were the odds he never dipped his quill in another pot of ink?

  Then there was real life, and my own genes. My dad: married four times. My mom: married once, actively dating, and closed off to marriage. Sending me penis books from her trip to Italy. My sister: married once, but actively dating. Me: almost married once to a man who prefers men. Now writing erotica and sleeping with my boss. Actively avoiding real commitment. Wow, we were quite a family tree, weren’t we?

  “It’s a feminist issue when you think about it,” Faye continued. “I keep explaining it to Win. He wants to control who I have sex with. Just because we’re married, that shouldn’t mean he gets to make that decision. It’s still my body.”

  It seemed a fair enough point, I guess. Perhaps I was releasing my inner judgmental Lettie and returning to my inner open-to-possibilities Oprah. Hard to say. I stared at my mug of tea and waited for the perfect words to come to me. The words that would give insight to our discussion and leave us both feeling hopeful. I had nothing, except, “Do you want your marriage to work out?”

  She nodded after a moment’s thought. “Yes. I do. But I want Win to be the man I married, not this workaholic partner in a law firm.”

  “Of course. But, Faye.” I took her hand. “All this talk about your neighbor and all of these other men—it sounds like yo
u’ve given up on Win. Maybe you both need to reinvest yourselves in the relationship.”

  It was a great line, and when Faye allowed it to settle and then gave me a thoughtful nod, I was pleased I’d spent so many hours over the summer watching talk shows.

  “You’re right, I need to make more of an effort, too. We’ve both made some bad choices. Thanks for listening.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem. If you need me to watch the kids—”

  “Thanks. I may take you up on that. So Win and I can, you know—”

  “Go to counseling or something.”

  “Or dinner.”

  “Yes. Or dinner.”

  I MULLED the conversation over in my mind later that night while lying in bed. It was so typical of me to think of all the things I should’ve said hours after the right moment had passed. I should’ve told her that I believed in love and second chances, and that of course there was no such thing as an infidelity gene. I should’ve told her that Win loved her, and so did Portia and Blaise, and me and Dad. (Who knows about Sadie?) Because I think that what Faye needed to hear was that she was not only desired but loved. So I texted her late that night: I love you no matter what.

  And while I was on the subject of things that needed to be said, I thought about Eric and how I’d cursed and he’d apologized, and neither of us had talked about what had happened directly. I should’ve left him with certainty. The cool girl would’ve flipped her hair and said something breezy, like, “I won’t tell if you won’t,” or “That was fun.” I’d gone into that back office with him as Coco Claiborne, erotica star, and I’d come out Aletta Osbourne: timid, damaged, and unsure of herself. When I’d said, “Oh shit,” he knew I cared, and that it wasn’t just sex to me.