Never Have I Ever

by Blakely, Lauren

  Look how it’s done.

  He takes a deep breath. “Listen,” he says, and there’s that word again. That word that signals backpedaling, apologies, the beginning of what you don’t want to hear. “I felt terrible this morning. I was irresponsible. It was a careless thing to do. Just to fall asleep with the volume off on my phone.”

  “So we won’t do it again. We won’t spend the night together. That’s the easiest way to avoid irresponsibility.”

  His brow creases. “Wait. Is that what you want?”

  What do I want?

  What I want is so much more than I can ever get from him. He’s a magnet, pulling me to him. That’s what he’s been doing these last weeks—luring me in, making me want him.

  And when I want him like this, I feel vulnerable, too vulnerable. Especially with a man I don’t think can give as much of himself as I know I’ll eventually want.

  Hell, I don’t think he can give me any of what I want.

  Because I don’t want just sex.

  I don’t want to bang him again for fun.

  I want more of him, and he’s simply not available. He’s off the dating circuit, and I don’t want to hop on the booty-call merry-go-round.

  He’s not equipped to handle more, and I’m not prepared to be hurt when I don’t get it. But for better or worse, we’re in each other’s lives, and I’d rather we be civil. Keeping my voice light and even, I answer, “What I want is a great experience for our friends. I want Charlie and Jessica to have the best wedding possible. I want it to go off without a hitch.”

  He nods, absorbing my comments, digesting them, it seems. “And it’ll go off without a hitch if that”—he waves to the room, the scene of the crime—“doesn’t happen again.”

  I plaster on another smile. “Don’t you think?”

  His eyes lock on mine, as if he’s trying to find the perfect answer in them. He takes his time, a long time. Then he nods. “Sure.”

  “Why don’t we focus on our friends? And on us being friends?”

  “Okay.” His voice is flat.

  Mine is upbeat as I make my case. “Since it seems we're finally starting to get along. Besides, what else would we be now but friends?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know,” he says, sounding thoroughly confused.

  That’s the issue. He doesn’t know what we’d be.

  And I do.

  Because something became painfully clear to me this morning when I was out with his daughter and son.

  If he’d been there, I’d have fallen harder for him. I’d have craved even more of him. And I can’t let that happen, because I’m not going to be able to have him that way.

  One more yawn for show, and I shut the door on everything I want.

  * * *

  Later that night, when I’m safely buckled into my seat on the plane next to a harried businessman barking last-minute orders to an underling on the phone, I send the photo of the kids to Zach.

  Piper: Took this today. Thought you’d like it.

  He replies instantly.

  Zach: I love it.

  I power down as the plane takes off, flying far away from him and that one night when, for a moment, everything fell into place.

  22

  Zach

  A few nights later, Lucy is wide awake at midnight.

  I stop by her room in our apartment. Her nightstand light illuminates her hair, tucked into a braid. She’s on her stomach, propped on her elbows, furiously writing in one of her journals.

  Like father, like daughter. I’ve been up late since we returned from London, tackling unfinished work and briefs once the kids go to bed.

  I lean against the doorframe. “Can’t sleep?”

  She flips over and slams the journal shut. On the front of the silver notebook are the words She wasn’t looking for a knight. She was looking for a sword.

  “I’m still on London time,” she remarks.

  I point to the notebook. “Secret letters?”

  She clutches it to her chest, whispering, “Yes.”

  “Pumpkin, I’m not going to look at your secret letters,” I say, stepping into her room and sitting at the foot of the bed.

  “I know. I just . . .”

  I pat her leg. “It’s private. I get it.”

  “But I want to show you one someday soon, like I told you, like I put on my list,” she adds quickly.

  “Whenever you’re ready.” My eyes drift to her notebook. “New journal?”

  She smiles brightly. “Piper got it for me in London. In the same bookshop where I got the Nancy Drew book. She bought me a book of letters too. I sent her a thank-you note, like you taught me to do.”

  A pang sharpens in my chest. I haven’t seen Piper since I returned. She’s mostly been out of the office, I suspect, and I’ve been busy.

  Correction: I’ve been keeping myself busy. Because I am genuinely buried in work, and also because I don’t know what to say if I see her.

  So I’ve packed my nine-to-five schedule with meetings, lunches, appointments, and work, work, work.

  It’s easier this way.

  “That was nice of her,” I say, my throat tightening. “And good of you to send her a thanks. That’s important.”

  “She’s really into girl power too.”

  “Why does that not surprise me?” I say with a sliver of a smile.

  Lucy sighs dramatically. “Fine. Since you asked, I was writing a letter to myself.”

  I didn’t ask, but I love that she offered. “I bet the recipient will enjoy it.”

  She sits up higher, clasping the notebook tighter. “I wrote about the trip. I wrote a letter to myself so I don’t forget how much fun it was and all the cool things we did.”

  God, I love this kid. I love her so damn much. My heart grows three sizes as she tells me more about her letter.

  “I wrote about the crown jewels and afternoon tea. Also, Dad, tea tastes gross. Why do adults like tea?”

  “Probably because we’re always tired and need the caffeine hit.”

  “I don’t like tea. It tastes boring. But I wrote about Louise. She’s super cool too, and I bet she’ll be in Girl Power.”

  “Wait. I thought you were into girl power. Now you’re saying someone’s going to be in it?” I furrow my brow.

  “Girl Power is the movie I’m going to star in someday.” She taps her pen against her lip. “Or maybe I’ll direct it.” Her eyes turn the size of pizza pies. “Wait! What if I produce it? I could be the executive producer.”

  “Any or all of those would be fantastic. But is this your way of telling me you want to be an actress?”

  She laughs, shaking her head. “No. I like being me. But sometimes, I like to imagine all the things I might do when I’m older. Anyway, I wrote about the bookstores and the old books and how good they smelled.”

  The pang deepens, digging sharply into my chest. To think I was stupidly jealous that Piper was going to tour bookshops with Graham, and instead she took my children and sent me a photo. More proof that I’m not ready to date again. I don’t know what the hell to do with that kind of gesture. Since she sent the picture, hell, since I stood in the doorway of her hotel room, I’ve been wondering where I’d gone wrong.

  The answer? I likely went wrong everywhere.

  I shove the thought aside as Lucy continues, “Have you ever smelled an old book?”

  An image of the law school library comes to mind. “Definitely, but I don’t think I was as enamored of the scent of torts and statutes as you are of old books.”

  “What are those?”

  “Boring law stuff,” I say dramatically. “Sort of like tea. Go on.”

  “Anyway, the point of the letter is I felt like I was having all these new experiences. That’s what I like to do. I like trying new things and doing new things. Like mini golf and reading about detectives, and maybe I can try to learn French. That’s how I can figure out what I want to do someday.”

  I tap the notebook. “Then you
need to keep all your letters safe and sound. Because someday, you’ll be looking at them again, reading them. Someday, your older self will look back and embrace the advice and the memories.”

  “I will. And don’t be offended that I don’t let you read them. Someday I will. They’re just personal.”

  I hold up my hands. “They’re yours, pumpkin. I don’t want to invade your privacy. But I do have one question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you ever going to try to go to sleep tonight?”

  She laughs. “It’s five in the morning in London. Also, check this out.” She grabs her Dream Big notebook and flips it open to her summer list. “I marked off three items.”

  She flips open the page titled Things I Want to Do This Summer.

  “We went to London, I ate a sundae with all the toppings, and I stayed up past midnight.”

  I scan the three remaining items. “Now, you just need to share something hard, swim with turtles, and snorkel. I sense a water theme.”

  “That’s because I might want to be a marine biologist. That’s another thing I want to try. But I don’t think I can do those in New York though.”

  “Unless you want to snorkel in the Hudson?”

  Her nose crinkles. “Gross.”

  “I can think of few things grosser than snorkeling in the Hudson.”

  “Maybe we can go someplace where snorkeling is better . . .?” She gives me puppy-dog eyes.

  “Are you angling for me to take you on another trip?”

  She smiles like she’s oh so innocent. “What a great idea, Dad! Look at all the pages left to fill. That’s a lot of experiences. That’s what life is all about.” She takes a beat, like she’s prepping herself. “That’s what Mom said to me: ‘Do everything. Try everything. Be unafraid.’”

  A lump knots in my throat.

  But it’s not from missing Anna. I’ve learned how to move on. Hour by hour, day by day, week by week. Time is the greatest friend grief could ever ask for. The months and the years ably do their job, lessening it, then lovingly untying the hold it has on you.

  This feeling strangling me? It’s because Lucy is following this great advice. Following it to the letter. She’s bold and unafraid. I’m so damn proud of my daughter.

  And, admittedly, a little jealous.

  I open my arms for a hug. “Have I ever told you how amazing you are?”

  She snuggles into my arms. “Every day, but I like hearing it because I think you’re awesome too.”

  When she lets go, scooting back on her bed, she shoots me a serious gaze. “You should write a letter. If there’s anything you want to tell yourself, write it down.” She beckons me closer once again, like she wants to share a secret. “Sometimes, letters are even better than lists.”

  I gasp in an exaggerated fashion. “There’s something better than a list? Blasphemy.”

  “What’s ‘blasphemy’?”

  “It’s when you say or do something that goes against the core of what you believe.”

  Her eyes narrow quizzically. “I believe in lists and letters.”

  “Of course you do. I’m just teasing. Now try to go to bed. You have a full day of ridiculous, insane, awesome fun at summer camp tomorrow. Miranda is going to pick you and Henry up at the end of the day, and then take you to Emmy’s house. I’ll get you from there because I have a late appointment with a client.”

  “Be a shark, Daddy.”

  I make a snapping sound like a great white’s teeth. “I promise.”

  She yawns and tells her Haven smart home device to “Turn off Agatha Christie.”

  “Agatha Christie?” I ask as the light dims. “You named your lamp Agatha Christie?”

  “It’s one of the books we checked out in the rare bookshop. It was cool.”

  “Of course.”

  I leave, feeling Piper’s presence.

  She’s everywhere.

  Notebooks and names of smart home devices. Girl power and lists.

  It’s not even intentional. It’s not like she left a pair of gloves behind on a date so I’d have to call her.

  She’s left imprints on my kid just by being herself.

  I retreat to my bedroom, scrub a hand across the back of my neck, then grab clothes for bed.

  After I brush my teeth and flop down on the mattress, I park my hands behind my head and follow my daughter’s advice.

  Dear Zach from a couple days ago in London,

  You should have done a lot of things differently.

  Me

  * * *

  The next day I mumble a hello to Piper when I walk past her office, but she’s on the phone, talking coolly and calmly to someone about an arrangement of cabbage and chrysanthemums.

  She shoots me a smile, then rolls her eyes as she points at the phone, as if to say she’s stuck on a call.

  But what would I say if she wasn’t?

  How about them cabbages?

  How the fuck does anyone attempt dating anymore? I can’t even manage a conversation with a woman I slept with.

  I spend the afternoon burying myself in Taylor’s case, the perfect way to occupy my brain with something that’s not Piper, especially when I meet up with my client at a coffee shop to review the status of her divorce filing.

  Taylor drags a hand through her hair. “So this is what it comes down to? Six years of marriage and he’s trying to pull this?” Her eyes are hard, her jaw tight. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take another late-night call or early morning text where he tells me what he’s going to try to take from me.”

  I draw a deep inhale. She needs to make the next choice on her own, free from my desire—my goddamn natural instinct—to knock her ex down to his knees. “What do you want to do? It’s up to you.”

  She purses her lips, breathes through her nose, then answers like she’s underlining each word. “I want him to leave me alone. I want him to stop calling me. I want him out of my life. And I don’t want him to touch my restaurant ever.”

  A small grin tugs at my lips. “Say the word.”

  Her eyes darken. “Play hardball, Zach. Can you play hardball with him? I can’t risk losing my business.”

  I rub my palms together. “That’s my sport.” I’m fully fueled, ready for battle.

  When I leave, I call her soon-to-be ex-husband’s lawyer and let him know exactly what he can do with his client’s requests and precisely what will happen if his client sends so much as a text message asking what’s on the menu at her restaurant ever again. “Do you understand me?”

  “I had no idea he was still doing that,” the man says, sounding as if he’s been caught off guard.

  “The other week, I called politely and asked it to stop. Now I don’t feel such a need to be polite. Get a leash on your client. Tell him this is being settled between you and me, or we will go to court, and I will not back down.”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Yes, you do that. Do that when I hang up. Is that clear?”

  “I-I will.”

  “Do not ever have him call her with these spurious threats again. He’s not touching her business, he’s not touching a single dime from her restaurant, and I only want to hear from you. I do not want him to call her again till this is done, and even then, I see no reason why he ever should. Is that absolutely, completely, without question clear?”

  He takes a long, nervous beat before he says again that he’ll talk to his client.

  I remind him how it will end up if he doesn’t sort this out.

  When I hang up, a wave of satisfaction rolls over me. At times like this, I’m the warrior. I’m the dragon slayer. I’m righting the wrongs.

  I can handle anything, anyone, any argument. Bring it on. I only wish I knew one-tenth as well how to handle this uncharted territory of falling for a woman.

  * * *

  The scent of well-seasoned vegetables greets me when Emmy answers the door.

  “Mmm. Smells incredible.”

  She
waves me in. “Tastes even better. I made a spicy dish for us, and a totally bland, boring one for the kids.”

  I look around her spacious pad on the Upper West Side. “Speaking of the kids, where are they?”

  “Jamie took them to the park,” she says, naming her oldest, who’s sixteen.

  “Where’s Jenna?” That’s her fourteen-year-old.

  “Piano lesson. And Greg is on his way home.” Her husband.

  My stomach rumbles. “How far away is he?”

  She rolls her eyes and grabs some plates. “He’s on Wall Street. It’ll be a while. I’ll feed you first.”

  “Best sister ever.”

  “Only sister ever.”

  “True. Caught me on a technicality,” I say, rolling up my sleeves and washing my hands.

  She nods to an open bottle of wine. “Want a glass?”

  “Sure. I’m not driving tonight,” I joke, since I rarely drive, seeing as we live in the city.

  She pours, then serves us both, and we sit at the island counter. My sister has always been a good cook, so I groan in pleasure at the first bite. “This is amazing.”

  “Tell me about Piper.”

  I choke on a forkful of rice. A hard cough racks my body. “What?” The question comes out strangled.

  Emmy sighs heavily, shaking her head as she takes a bite. “Serve it up. Give me the deets.”

  “Hello? Give me the Heimlich,” I say roughly, since I’m still choking on surprise.

  She waves me off. “You’ll be fine.”

  My coughing settles, and I take another drink of the wine. “Good wine. What’s the vintage?” Maybe the distraction ploy will work.

  Her eyes are vipers, her fangs out. “Seriously? Just tell me. I know I’m onto something.”

  I dodge to the right. “Why are you asking?”

  “The kids can’t stop talking about her. Piper this, Piper that.”

  I shrug it off. “We’re part of the same group from college. It makes sense we’d spend time together. Plus, the kids know her from after school at the office. So when she offered to look after them on golf day on the trip, I jumped at the chance for some tee time with the guys.”