Never Have I Ever

by Blakely, Lauren

  “Let’s speak in English accents the rest of the day,” Lucy announces as we stroll down the cobblestone street.

  “Proper accents, and we must pretend we are royalty,” I add.

  “I want to be a prince,” Henry says.

  “In your accent,” Lucy chides.

  Taking direction well, Henry repeats in his best rendition of a little English boy as we wander down the street from centuries ago: “I want to be a prince.”

  “And now I declare we shall visit all the bookstores,” Lucy says grandly.

  Henry chuckles, chiming in as best he can. “I declare we shall read all the books.”

  Ah, is there anything as wonderful as a kid who’s embraced the written word? They are both voracious readers, and that warms every inch of my soul.

  “And I declare we shall sniff all the books too,” I add as we amble past a store peddling antique maps. I make a note to return there after we reach our main destination.

  “Smell them?” Henry asks in his regular voice. “Why would you smell a book, Piper? That’s weird!”

  “Have you ever smelled a book, Sir Henry?”

  He crinkles his nose. “No.”

  “Lucy, your royal highness. Have you ever sniffed a book?”

  Lucy twisted her lips, her forehead furrowing. “I think so . . . maybe in the library.”

  “‘I think so’ and ‘maybe’ aren’t sufficient! We’re taking a detour.”

  With an abrupt right turn, I guide them into one of the Victorian era shops with rare books. A man in a tweed vest and horn-rimmed glasses, who couldn’t be anything but the proprietor of such a shop, greets us with a chipper, “Hello. How can I help you today?”

  “Dear sir, my charges and I would be eminently grateful if you would let us sniff a few books. Would that be at all possible?”

  He chuckles. “As you wish.”

  He directs us to the ones that smell the best—a shelf of first edition Agatha Christie hardcovers. Gently, like he’s tending to a delicate bauble, he opens a book, holding it for us.

  Henry goes first, taking a deep inhale.

  Lucy’s next.

  When it’s my turn, I draw a deep breath, savoring the smell of the pages, the delicious scent of paper and time.

  When I straighten, the man says he has another one for us.

  He totters over to a different section, locates a Virginia Woolf, and opens it for us.

  “This one smells the best. Like words and ideas,” he whispers as if sharing a secret, and I think I’m a little bit in love with him.

  The kids bend forward, sniffing together. The image is so precious that my first instinct is to capture it. To remember this always. I grab my phone and snap a picture, knowing I’ll cherish it—the looks on their faces, their sheer delight at the first time they’ve truly experienced the wondrous scent of an old book.

  Figuring I should probably buy the thing as a thanks, I sneak a glance at the price, and my eyes bug out. With my heart beating fast, I scan the store. There has to be something cheaper than a thousand pounds as a way to show my gratitude.

  My gaze lands on a pack of postcards by the register—Victorian era illustrations. Ah, that’ll do.

  I thank him profusely, and so do the kids.

  “You’re very polite,” he says to Henry and Lucy with a bow of his head.

  Henry lifts his chin. “Thank you, sir. My daddy says being polite is really important.”

  I smile despite my ire at Henry’s father.

  “It absolutely is,” the man adds, then lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Also, my brother owns the children’s bookshop just across the lane. You should make sure to pop in.”

  “We will,” Lucy adds, ever the little lady today.

  I stuff the postcards in my purse as we exit, and when the kids scan the street and catch a glimpse of an Alice in Wonderland book next to a stuffed bunny in the window, they take off running.

  “Slow down in the store!” I shout.

  Sheesh. I sound like their . . .

  I stop myself.

  I sound like an aunt.

  That’s who I am. I’m an aunt, a friend, that person you trust to watch your kids.

  And yet, as I watch them disappear into the store, I feel like a bit of a trollop, and heavy shame takes over from anger to clobber me. I’m good enough to watch the kids, but not to text? I remember the panic and remorse in his eyes this morning. Is he ashamed of what we did? Does he feel guilty for sleeping with me?

  My stomach roils when I realize the possible reason.

  Is it because of Anna? Since I’m his first after her, does he feel like he’s cheating?

  But I catch hold of bits and pieces of things he’s said—that he’s moved on, that he’s no longer in love with her. And then other things, like how he told me he’s been wanting me for months.

  My belly has the audacity to stop churning and instead . . . flip. It freaking flips with the memory of his dirty words, his ode to my body, his lust for me.

  His avoidance today can’t be guilt over her.

  Is it guilt over the kids?

  Is that why he’s gone radio silent?

  But maybe I’m being ridiculous. Maybe I’m expecting something when there’s no real call for it.

  And really, what’s in a text anyway? Would Virginia Woolf have required a text?

  I think not.

  I raise my chin. Who cares about texts?

  I’m a strong, independent woman. I don’t need anything from a man. I certainly don’t require a note waxing on and on about the epic bang.

  Last night was last night. It was a moment in time, and it ended when it needed to end. Hell, maybe it ended at precisely the right moment, saving us from the awkwardness of Where do we go from here?

  Clearly, we go down the road to Nowhere.

  The man has made it clear he’s not dating.

  Like a blaze of sunshine illuminating a shadowed corner, I see what last night was.

  I see it so damn clearly.

  I time travel again to a month ago, to Charlie’s “I have news” party, when Dina tapped Zach’s hand and asked, Are you on the dating circuit again?

  His answer was as clear as a four-carat diamond.

  No.

  The man didn’t hedge; he didn’t hesitate with his answer.

  Holy smokes.

  I’ve been foolishly clutching the notion that we might become a little something. Maybe see each other again. Maybe even, gasp, date.

  Because . . . how the hell did this happen . . . I like Zach Nolan. Like a woman likes a man she doesn’t just want to bang but wants to see.

  Except he’s not on the dating circuit.

  And that means I need to let go of these blooming feelings.

  I choose to. As I head into the store and watch his children tuck into books and scurry around shelves, I am opting to let go of that want.

  To forget I had any wish for more.

  It’s best that I remain where I am. The one-time enemy, the maybe-now-and-then friend, the aunt character in this story.

  I’m better off like this.

  I’m happier this way.

  Raising my chin, I declare myself resolved.

  I hang last night in the closet like a coat I’ve put away. I tuck this morning and the afternoon onto a shelf.

  I join Henry and Lucy, who’ve found a giant stuffed bunny to use as a chair. I settle in next to them and read paragraphs from Roald Dahl books they thrust at me, then Lewis Carroll and Brian Jacques. I read until Lucy gets up, pointing at a shelf on the other side of the store.

  “Be right back.” A minute later, she announces that she found a Nancy Drew.

  “I didn’t know you liked Nancy Drew.”

  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she carries the book back to me. “I don’t know if I like Nancy Drew either. But she’s a girl detective, and I decided I should get to know her better. She’s really one of the first heroines in modern liter
ature for young girls.”

  Smiling, I lift a brow. “Someone knows her women’s lit. Did you read that somewhere?”

  A knowing grin spreads on her face, and for a split second, I see her father in that smile, that same wink and a nod that says, I’m going to share something with you. I feel a tug somewhere in my chest, tugging me toward him.

  Another feeling to shake off.

  All the way off.

  “I was talking to Louise last night. She was telling me all about Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë and the heroines they wrote.”

  “Then why aren’t we getting Austen for you?”

  Lucy rolls her blue eyes, and it happens again. That flash of her father. Have Lucy’s eyes always been this blue? This cool?

  “You have your father’s eyes,” I blurt out.

  She runs a hand over her hair. “And my mom’s hair and nose. She was really pretty.”

  “She was gorgeous,” I say reflexively, because she was. Chestnut hair, big brown eyes, and a face that you couldn’t look away from.

  And maybe that’s a thought I ought to shake away too.

  Lucy flips open the hardcover. “Anyway, Louise read some Jane Austen to me, and I don’t think I’m ready for that, but I think I’m ready for Nancy Drew. I want to read about girls doing cool things, like solving crimes and running countries and battling dragons.”

  I gesture to the books. “Then let’s get you some. After all, you need to know all your predecessors so you’re completely ready when you’re cast in Girl Power and you win your Oscar.”

  “What’s ‘predecessor’ mean?”

  “Those who came before.”

  “Yes, I need to know my predecessors,” she says.

  I scoop up the books from her, ready to head to the counter, but she grabs my arm. “You don’t have to buy them for me. I can bring my dad back here.”

  Their dad raised them to be polite. She knows it would be impolite if she didn’t offer to have her father buy them.

  But the thought of not purchasing these books for her feels terribly wrong. The thought of leaving it to Zach feels worse. I’m getting her these books, because this isn’t about Zach.

  This moment is about this girl. This outspoken, curious, creative, wide-eyed girl who’s trying to discover who she is.

  I’m not her mother, and I don’t want to play house and pretend to be one for her. What I am is her friend, and I’m not going to miss this chance to lead her down the path to becoming a strong woman someday.

  “I insist. Girl power, right?” I bring them to the counter as Henry skips over, offering up Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile.

  As I prepare to pay, I spot a book of letters written by kids. Lucy will love that. She’s in another section of the store now, so I add it to the pile, along with a journal that has a saying on the front that I know she will love.

  Afterward, we stroll to the other shops on Cecil Court, where I stop in the one with antique maps, picking up one of Tahiti for my friend Sloane since that’s where she and her husband went on their honeymoon, and at another store, I buy a Winnie the Pooh antique print that I’ll give to Paige for the baby’s room once that little peanut is safely in her arms.

  Then I take Lucy and Henry to the London Transport Museum where they clamber onto buses, trains, trams, and subway cars. Henry is a speed demon, climbing up and down everything as I snap photos.

  Soon enough, Henry is exhausted, yawning like he simply can’t stop. It makes sense. It’s three in the afternoon and we’ve been going nonstop since eight.

  On the way back to the hotel, my phone lights up with a text from Zach.

  For a sliver of a moment, I want it to be full of sweet words and invitations and offers to see me again. I want him to tell me he can’t get me out of his mind and that he’s ready to be on the dating circuit again, with me, only with me.

  But Virginia Woolf wouldn’t require that, nor do I.

  I slide it open.

  Zach: We’re on time and on our way back. I promise I won’t be late. I promise I’ll be back exactly when I said I would. Also, I can’t thank you enough for today . . .

  My heart softens, turning to pudding. The poor man. I can read between the lines, and he clearly feels awful over what happened this morning. He’s probably been beating himself up all day long. He likely still feels terrible for having slept in my room and missed whatever was going on with his kids—they probably sent him texts asking where he was. He has obligations, and he screwed them up this morning.

  And yet, I’m not going to let myself become one of those obligations.

  I can’t ask him to take on any more. His plate is full. It would be rude. It would be wrong.

  Once we’re inside, I carry a tired Henry through the lobby and to the elevator, heading for my room. Zach should be here in five minutes to pick them up.

  Lucy scampers down the hall ahead of me, then spins around, a curious glint in her eyes. “Do you wander the halls at night when you can’t sleep?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “That’s what my daddy did last night. He couldn’t sleep, so he wandered the halls.”

  I raise a brow. “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Isn’t that silly?”

  She turns and runs the rest of the way to my room.

  I’m not insulted he made up a tale for the kids. But I am several more degrees of resolute. That story underscores what last night was—a one-time thing. An incredible interlude of an evening that required a lie to return to reality in the morning.

  And I will keep doing the same, letting it exist as a sidebar rather than a scene that needs an encore. Because an encore would require another lie, and Zach Nolan is not a liar.

  Nor am I.

  As soon as I set Henry down to open the door, the seven-year-old perks up, darting into my room as if he’s discovered an underground cave full of wonders.

  “Wow. Your room is different. Your couch is over there.” He points, and my gaze swings to the couch.

  To where it all began.

  Never have I ever started to fall for your father on that couch.

  But I don’t let myself take an imaginary drink, because I refuse to fall for him.

  * * *

  Zach swings by at four on the dot to pick them up.

  I don’t let on that my emotions rode the roller coaster two dozen times today.

  Nor do I reveal that I’m thinking of him naked.

  Because I’m not. I’m not thinking of how he looked when he shed those lounge pants, or when he climbed over me, and definitely not when he spread my legs and entered me.

  But hell . . .

  I am.

  Tingles spread down my chest, and I do my best to ignore them, especially when the kids throw themselves at him in a fit of hugs and Hi, Daddy’s.

  Yes, that’s who he is. Not my lover. Just their father.

  I fasten on a professional smile like I would with a client who needed my calm, centered side.

  “How was golf?”

  “Charlie won.”

  I shoot a knowing grin.

  See? I can do this. I can play the last-night-didn’t-exist game. “Did he really win, or did you let him?”

  “I never let people win. I was . . . tired.” He says that last word like we have a secret.

  But I’m not sure we do.

  He crouches down and looks Lucy in the eye. “Can you take Henry back to the room? I’ll be there in five minutes, I swear.”

  “Of course.” She turns to me and offers a salute. “Girl power.”

  I salute her back. “Girl power. But don’t forget your books.” I add in a stage whisper, “There might be extras in there for you too. A few goodies.”

  Her face lights up as she grabs the bag then takes off, little brother in tow, big sister handling the task as capably as Nancy Drew.

  Zach stands, raking one hand through his hair. That thick hair I had my hands in.

  Shake it off.

  “Thank you
again, Piper. That was so helpful.”

  “It was my pleasure,” I say, keeping it cool.

  He’s quiet, as if he’s thinking. “Listen, about last night . . .”

  Tension speeds through my bones at a lightning pace. Tension mixed with fear. Fear of rejection. Because nothing delightful has ever started with that word: Listen.

  “I don’t think I handled any of it well. I don’t know how to do this. I need to figure out what—”

  Oh, hell no.

  I won’t let him have the last word. Not after I therapied the ever-loving heck out of myself today. Not after I sorted out my messy stew of emotions all while watching his kids like Piper Freaking Poppins.

  I lift a stop-sign hand. “Yes, about last night. It was a one-time thing. You’re not dating. I get it. It’s probably best that it shouldn’t happen again, don’t you think? After all, I don’t want you to have to make up tales like wandering the halls and whatnot.” My tone is bright with cheer. I am the queen of lighthearted, letting him off easy.

  He blinks, like I’ve splashed water on him. “What?”

  “Well, that’s what you were going to say, right?”

  He shakes his head. “I was coming here to talk to you. I figured talking was better than texting.”

  “It generally is,” I say, as if I hadn’t longed for a text. Because really, who longs for texts? Not this girl. I can rewrite the story of my feelings, edit out any hankering for a text.

  “I just wanted to apologize for how I left this morning,” he says. “That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

  Ah, the apology. He came to offer one, like the polite man he is.

  I wave it off. “We are all good.” I affect a yawn. “Listen, I’m exhausted. I need to take a nap before I catch my flight.”

  His eyes fill with surprise. “Are you leaving tonight?”

  “Yes. I have brides to tend to in New York. Katya and I need to finalize her dress, and Sierra wants to look at venues, and Aisha is insisting I join her for a cake tasting. And I’m not about to turn that down.”

  “So we’ll talk in New York, then? I’m staying another day.”

  “Oh, sure. Naturally.”

  Easy breezy.