The First Taste (Slip of the Tongue Book 2)

by Jessica Hawkins

  “What was it like?” Andrew asks. “When he cheated?”

  I look over my shoulder at him. The question, though out of nowhere, doesn’t feel abrupt. In fact, considering the conversation that led him there, it hits a little close to a nerve. Would Reggie have cheated if I’d been a different kind of wife? Like the daily-luncheon, charity-heading arm candy of his colleagues? “Do you have to ask? Surely you’ve been cheated on.”

  “Why do you assume that?”

  “Almost everyone I know has. Most, if not all of my friends.”

  “Not me. Shana was the only person who’s been close enough to hurt me. She didn’t cheat, though.”

  I turn, if only to hide the surprise in my expression. I can’t remember if he’d told me that before because the truth is, I wouldn’t have believed him. I’m not even sure I do now. Maybe Shana did cheat, and he just doesn’t know it.

  I lean forward and take our drinks from the counter, passing his back. I’ve talked about Reggie a lot with my girlfriends. We bond over bashing our exes. This is different, though. I’m naked with a man I’ve let get a little closer than I meant to. My past is not an easy place for me to go even when I’m dressed and sitting in my therapist’s mild, eggshell-colored office.

  After a courage-bolstering sip of whisky, I say, “It’s kind of like slaving over a lobster dinner for someone you love, and when they get home, they tell you they don’t eat crustaceans. While you watch, they dump everything in a blender and hit shred. Only, that crustacean is your heart.”

  “I see,” he says.

  “And then they don’t even drink it. They pour it down the drain. And turn on the garbage disposal, just in case there’s anything they missed.”

  He chuckles softly, which, despite my macabre disposition, makes me smile. “I think I get the idea, though your cooking analogies could use some work. Who was the woman?”

  “The wife of one of the stockbroker’s in his office. I remember when I found them, my throat just closed. It was like choking. I really thought I’d die on the spot.”

  “You found them?” he asks.

  I put my cheek on my knee and look into the bedroom. “I didn’t mention that?”

  “Definitely not.” He must follow my gaze, because he then says, “There? In your bed?”

  “I had an appointment near here, and I decided to come home for lunch. It was that stupid.” The worst part is not anticipating something like that, being caught completely off guard. At least if I’d seen a trail of clothing on the way to the bedroom or even heard them, but no. I’d just walked right in to get a sweater from my closet and nearly tripped right onto the bed with them. “He was never very creative.”

  Andrew puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes once. The simple gesture is more soothing than he probably knows. “Isn’t it hard to sleep there?”

  I shrug. “It’s just a bed. I’m not going to go through the trouble of replacing it. I got rid of the sheets, of course.”

  He snorts. “Then you’re stronger than I am.”

  “Am I?”

  “Emotionally, yes. But physically?” He leans forward as he pulls me back toward him to speak in my ear. “I’d love the opportunity to kick . . . his . . . ass.”

  His warm breath tickles in just the right way. “So would I.”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  I turn back as much as I can. “Is that so?”

  He tucks some loose strands behind my ear. “I’m not a boy who goes to some fancy office during the day and thinks it’s okay to dick my woman around. I’m a man, Amelia. I treat women like treasure. I treat my girlfriend like the love of my fucking life. And I treat an asshole like an asshole.”

  The intensity in his voice raises every hair on my body. I can’t resist picturing it. Andrew and Reggie face to face would be terrifying in real life, but maybe, in my fantasy, it can be a little thrilling too. “How does an asshole get treated?”

  “If he ever comes around while I’m here, he’ll leave knowing it’s his last visit.”

  It feels like the only thing I’ve ever wanted to hear, but my self-doubt is never far, and I know once Andrew leaves, he won’t come back. He won’t be around the next time Reggie shows up. “You’re sweet.”

  “I just threatened to kick some ass, and I’m sweet?” I hear the smile in his voice. “Are you trying to shred my ego?”

  I don’t believe Andrew is all talk—I think he really believes he’d do it. He seems to have temporarily forgotten about Bell, though. Devoted dads don’t go around taking risks like that. “What about Shana?” I ask. “Am I now expected to say I’ll make her pay too?”

  He grunts good-naturedly. “Nah.”

  He doesn’t offer anything else. It occurs to me I don’t know much about Shana, at least not the specifics. Is it that I haven’t asked? Or that he hasn’t offered? “How long has it been since she left?”

  “Almost four years. Right around Bell’s third birthday.”

  “That must’ve been awful.”

  “Well. You know.”

  I shift, and the tub squeaks. Andrew has no problem pressing me for information on Reggie, but he doesn’t seem as keen to share himself. I’ve given him a lot tonight, though. “What was it like? When she left? What about Bell?”

  “Come here.” I lean back against his chest, and he puts his arms around me. “It was pretty much how you’d imagine. I was clueless. Sadie helped as best she could from an hour away.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “They’re closer, about fifteen minutes from here. But they’re not that involved.”

  “By choice?”

  “It’s mutual. I mean, not so much for my mom. She wants to see Bell more. I just hated growing up there, and I don’t really want Bell to get too close to them.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs under me. “They’ll just disappoint her.”

  “Isn’t that what parents do?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I realize my mistake. “Not all parents, obviously. Not you.”

  “It’ll be a while before we know, won’t it?”

  I furrow my brows. “No,” I say. “There’s no question. Bell is so fortunate to have you as a dad.”

  “I do my best.” He clears his throat. “How’d your parents disappoint you?”

  I run my hand over his arm, admiring the fine dark hair. “It’s the other way around. I didn’t go to business school. I’ll be divorced at thirty-two. I barely talk to them or my niece and nephew because I’m so swamped with work. It’s not exactly the conservative Texan way my sister went.”

  “You’re from the South?”

  “Yep. I think they hoped I’d move home at some point and marry a nice, upstanding lawyer, doctor or banker . . . like Reggie, actually.”

  “Don’t tell me they were fans of his.”

  “My mom loved him before she’d even met him. I should’ve known then it was doomed. When I told her I was leaving him, she nearly had a heart attack.”

  “Because he cheated on you?”

  “Lord, no,” I say. “That’s not an excuse to leave. It’s an ‘opportunity.’ She thinks I should identify how I’ve neglected my husband and step up as a wife.”

  “Fuck that,” he says.

  “Yeah. Exactly. Fuck that.” I follow it up with a sip of Glenlivet. The words taste just as good as the whisky. “She would hate you.”

  He laughs. “Blue collar mechanic from New Jersey with an illegitimate child, a motorcycle, and tattoos? Can’t imagine why.”

  “That’s not what I see.”

  “No?” he asks, nuzzling my cheek. “What do you see?”

  I pause. “A loving father who takes control of his life. An artist.”

  “I’m an artist?”

  “I think you are.” He is, at least, a work of art, his inky black hair, his skin a parade of vivid imagery, his muscles as sculpted and perfected as a masterpiece. I may have called him a mechanic our first night together, but his garage
is clearly important to him, and if he treats cars like anything else he loves, I’d bet he brings a certain artistry to his craft.

  “What about your dad?” he asks.

  “My dad doesn’t care for Reggie. Thinks he’s slimy.”

  Andrew sighs deeply. “Dad knows best, young lady. You should always listen to your father.”

  I smile. “He didn’t tell me until after Reggie and I were done. I guess my mom made him bite his tongue. He’s not without his disappointment, though. Education is his thing. I was supposed to go into business.”

  “You are in business.”

  I put on my best dad voice. “‘Fashion is frivolous’ is what he always says. At least I went to college, so I haven’t totally let him down.”

  “NYU?”

  “Parsons, majoring in fashion marketing. I took a PR internship knowing I wanted to start my own firm as soon as I had the experience under my belt.”

  “I always knew I wanted to do my own thing too. I’m not cut out for the corporate world.”

  “How’d you end up with a garage?”

  “My grandpa was huge into cars. My dad is a bum, but not his dad. He worked for a guy who owned a garage, and they taught me everything they knew.”

  “Does your grandpa help out with Bell?”

  “Never met her, sadly. He died young from a heart attack, but I kept going to the garage. I skipped college to work and save money. When Gramp’s friend was ready to sell the garage, I had enough to make a serious offer.”

  I knew Andrew was smart, but I didn’t realize how ambitious he was. I never stopped to ask how he ended up with his own business. I can picture him picking up extra hours while his friends wasted time at college. “I have to admit,” I say, “I find that pretty sexy.”

  “A high school-educated mechanic does it for you?”

  “You’re doing better than a lot of people.”

  “I can’t disagree there. Love my job, and I get to spend every day with Bell. It’s a good life.”

  I glance at our tangled legs through the melting bubbles. Dark versus light. I wonder, since Andrew has worked so hard to make the life he wants on his own, if it were even possible for someone to come in and make it any better. That isn’t any way for me to think. I bend my knees and extract myself from his grip.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. I have a surprise. Close your eyes.”

  “What could you possibly give me to make this night any better?” he asks, but when I look back at him, his eyes are shut.

  I stand to reach a drawer with a box of cigars my dad left behind during his last visit. I cut one with a guillotine, light it, and put an ashtray on the edge.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asks. “Was that a lighter? Should I be worried?”

  When I get back in the water, I sit opposite him and nudge his calf with my foot. “Here.”

  He opens his eyes and takes the Cuban I’m holding between us. “Seriously?” he asks, rolling it between his fingers. “You’re the fucking best.” I smile proudly as he smells and then puffs on it several times. “Sure you want to waste this on me?” he asks, blowing a cloud of white, silky smoke between us.

  “Can you think of a better situation for one?”

  “Better than a post-fuck bubble bath? I don’t know if one exists.” He grins. “Why’re you all the way over there?”

  “I don’t need you accidentally lighting my hair on fire.”

  With his free hand, he lifts my ankle to his mouth and kisses the inside. “It’s nice to be taken care of for once.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” I tease. “I suck at putting others first.”

  “Are you crazy?” he asks, pulling a face. “I haven’t felt this relaxed in a long time. Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t cook. I hire someone else to clean. The fridge is never stocked with your—” I pause before ‘favorite foods’ comes out. I’m airing Reggie’s grievances, things my therapist and I have supposedly worked through.

  “That’s your ex talking.”

  I shake my head. “It’s all true, though.” I look him in the eye to drive home the point that we’re better off apart. “I don’t do those things. I’m not a homemaker or a housewife. After I found out about the affair, Reggie and I had a few huge fights. It was one of the things he always brought up. I didn’t take care of him the way he needed.”

  “Forcing yourself into your husband’s box is not how you take care of him.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on both sides of the tub. “You want to know how to take care of a man?”

  I bite my bottom lip at the intensity in his eyes. Whatever he needs, he’s going to tell it to me straight. “Okay.”

  “What you just gave me in there,” he points to the bedroom then gestures over the bath, bumping a little ash into the bubbles, “and now this? I feel like a king.”

  I look over at the bed, and for a moment, I’m embarrassed. I’m not sure what I expected him to say, maybe something more profound or romantic. “Sex,” I say. “That’s all it takes with you men, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he says. “I’m talking about something deeper. You didn’t withhold.”

  I don’t really register whatever excuse he just spit out. Sex isn’t enough to sustain a couple. Eventually, it becomes a chore. Not every time, but enough. Of course that’s what Andrew needs from me. Not that I should be surprised—what else have I given him?

  “Hey,” he says, calling me back to the moment. “Where are you?”

  “I’m here,” I say, drawing my knees to my chest. “We should dry off. The water’s getting cold.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” he says, nabbing my ankle again. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Not nothing. Something. I can tell.”

  I sigh. “Really, Andrew. I’m not your girlfriend. You don’t have to do all this with me.”

  “Tell me what upset you.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I’m not upset. But when you tell me sex is all a man needs to be happy, it doesn’t sit well. I’m still trying to work through my issues with Reggie, so I don’t really think it’s healthy to—”

  “Whoa,” he says. “Back up. I didn’t say that’s what I need to be happy. I’m talking about how you trusted me in the bedroom. The other night, in the hotel, when you let me blindfold you? You took care of me by letting me take care of you.”

  I shake my head and wave my palms. “Fine. I don’t know. You’re right—let’s drop it.”

  “God damn, he did a number on you, didn’t he? What are these issues you mentioned?”

  “None, nothing, not a one.” I try to pull my leg back, but he won’t release it.

  “If it has to do with sex, I need to know,” he says, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard him so determined. He’s bordering on angry. “You let yourself be vulnerable with me—that’s a lot of responsibility on my shoulders.”

  “Okay, it won’t happen again. Promise. Now, can we please—”

  “Amelia.” He levels me with a look. “What is it? He made you feel bad about your body? Is that why you have issues with your diet?”

  “It’s more . . . complicated than that. And you and I? We don’t do complicated, Andrew.”

  “I’m willing to try. I wish you would too.”

  I sigh, looking from side to side, trying to figure a way—physically and conversationally—out of this. In the end, though, he’s right. Andrew is in dangerous territory, and he doesn’t know it and that’s not fair to him. “When you and Shana were together,” I start, “and one of you didn’t want to have sex—say, maybe, she was tired from being up all night with Bell—how did you handle it?”

  He looks over my face. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “How did you handle it if you wanted sex and Shana didn’t?”

  He’s quiet for a few seconds, probably trying to put himself in that position again. Great. I’m trudging up painful memories for
both of us. “I still don’t understand,” he says. “If she didn’t want it, I guess I turned over and fell asleep. Or went to watch TV. Or I went and jerked it in the shower. What are the other options?” His face falls. “I already told you, I never cheated on her. Are you saying Reggie would leave and find it somewhere else?”

  “No.” I shift against the back of the tub. Even though the water is cooling down, it seems to be getting warmer. “I mean, eventually he did with Virginia. But a few months before the affair started, we were growing apart. We both worked a lot. I think Reggie felt me slipping away and got more controlling.”

  “How?”

  “When he wanted sex, he didn’t handle it like . . . a normal person. He would push and push. He’d try to coax or guilt me into it, saying if he’d wanted someone to tell him no, he wouldn’t have bothered getting himself a wife. Basically insinuating that I owed him.”

  “You owed him?” Andrew asks, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s utterly ridiculous.”

  “That was when he was sober. When he’d been drinking, he’d call me names, he . . .” These are only things I’ve told my therapist, and hard as it was, hell if it wasn’t a lot easier than laying it out for my new, naked lover who, so far, is too shiny and perfect to hear this kind of thing.

  “Keep going,” Andrew says, “otherwise I’ll be forced to fill in the blanks and that won’t be good.”

  Part of me wants to include Andrew. As great as Dianne has been at coaching me to get past Reggie’s sexual harassment and emotional abuse, I’ve felt alone a lot of the time, and Andrew—he asks questions. He wants to know. I take a deep breath. “He’d accuse me of getting it somewhere else and call me a whore. Or on the flip side, I was ‘too lazy to even lie there and spread my legs.’ He’d follow me around the apartment, insisting, calling me names. A few times he blacked out and cornered me,” I swallow, glancing around the bathroom, “once in here.”