One Last Time: A Second Chance Romance

by Roxie Noir

  “I shudder to think what she’d want now,” Delilah says without looking at me. She picks up the knife again, considers the cantaloupe.

  Underwear. It had to be black, lacy underwear. Fuck.

  “Go sit down, I’ll get that,” I tell her, rescuing the last of the bacon from the pan. “Don’t cut yourself again.”

  “Fine,” she says, teasing and tense all at once. “You want orange juice?”

  “Thanks,” I say, and she pours.

  We have breakfast and don’t mention the brush, or the bag, or the panties, and I tell myself: clean slate. It doesn’t matter.

  Those were just crumbs of the past, and they don’t matter.

  I hold my phone out in front of me, the flashlight shining into the narrow darkness, cobwebs sticking in my arm hairs. My nose tickles.

  I have to clean under my bed more often.

  Just as I’ve found a questionable pile of fabric on the far side, my phone rings in my hand. It’s Caleb.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Why do you sound so weird?”

  “Why do you sound so weird?”

  He laughs.

  “Seriously, though.”

  “I’m cleaning my house,” I tell him, which is technically true. My phone flashlight is still one, illuminating the under-bed-space to my right and something that looks like a huge knot of computer cables.

  “Are you cleaning your house from an iron lung?” he asks.

  “Can I help you in some way, or did you just call to harass me?” I ask, scooting backward from under the bed.

  “I called to see if you wanted me to pick you up on the way to Mom’s,” he says.

  Right. I’m supposed to be there in an hour or so, but I’ve still got most of my house to scour.

  “No thanks,” I say, sitting on the floor and leaning against my bed. “I’m gonna be a little late.”

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

  “Because of cleaning?”

  “Yes.”

  There’s a longer pause.

  “What are you cleaning?”

  “My house.”

  My little brother sighs.

  “You need help?”

  When I answer the door, Caleb’s standing there, alone.

  “No Thalia?” I ask.

  “She’s visiting her brother,” he says, coming inside, taking his coat off.

  “Which one?”

  “Rehab.”

  We walk into my townhouse, and I point at the fridge in case he wants anything.

  “How’s that going?”

  Caleb just shrugs and looks around, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m cleaning.

  “Fine, I guess,” he says. “He hasn’t left it or anything, but Thalia was telling me how long it takes before an addict can really be considered recovered, so we won’t actually know for a couple of years.”

  We. The way he says we about Thalia and her family, so casually. There’s a longing inside me I didn’t know I had.

  “Shit,” I say.

  “Pretty much,” he agrees. “What exactly are we cleaning?”

  I rub my hands over my face and pull a cobweb from my hair.

  “We’re finding every single item that a woman has ever left in this house,” I say.

  Caleb just waits, his face very carefully neutral.

  “Please,” I add.

  “Not what I was waiting for, though thank you for being polite,” he says.

  “Delilah found someone else’s underwear this morning,” I finally admit.

  Caleb’s face changes instantly, from neutral to alarm and horror and more than anything, concern.

  “Oh, fuck,” he says. “God, I’m sorry —"

  “We didn’t break up,” I say, cutting him off.

  Caleb blinks.

  “Right,” he says, though he’s obviously surprised. “That’s just…”

  “Exactly the kind of thing we’d have gotten into a screaming match about before?”

  “Something like that,” he says, very carefully.

  He’s not wrong. Caleb is a lot of things — very smart, not a fan of Delilah, an outdoor enthusiast — but he’s sure not wrong.

  “We didn’t,” I say. “Everything is fine, I’d just like to find anything else that I’ve forgotten about and get it out of here.”

  “But you’re fine and everything is fine,” he says, still clearly not quite believing me.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He looks around, like he’s taking stock of the job ahead of us, surveying the living room.

  “When they run search and rescue operations, the first thing they do is make a grid and then search each square meticulously,” he says. “That seems like it might be a useful way to think about this mission.”

  I grin and ruffle his hair, which he hates.

  “See? This is exactly why I called you,” I say.

  “What? I called you and somehow got suckered into a panty search,” he says, already pacing the room. “I’ll start over here. Do you have any rubber gloves?”

  Despite our thoroughness, we don’t find that much: a tube of chapstick in a side table, a mystery sock in a drawer, a powder compact hiding behind a can of shaving cream in the bathroom vanity.

  We’re in my bedroom — the last room to search — when Caleb grunts from the floor.

  “Is that something?” he says, pointing. He’s lying face-down on the carpet, his arm under my dresser, pointing. “It looks like fabric.”

  “Move, I’ll get it,” I say, and I don’t have to tell him twice.

  I cross my fingers that it’s not underwear, reach under the dresser, and pull it out.

  It’s not underwear. It’s too big to be underwear, the folds covered in dust and stuck together with cobwebs since I don’t exactly clean the baseboards behind my dresser that often. When I shake it out, we both back up.

  “Bingo,” Caleb says, as we both look at the skirt.

  It’s short, pleated, plaid. A classic schoolgirl skirt, and just as soon as I’ve held it out to see what it is, I’m crumpling it in my hands, looking for the trash.

  Caleb’s just watching me and laughing.

  “What?” I say, shoving it into the bin.

  “Good thing she didn’t find that,” he says. “Looks like you had a good time, though.”

  I shoot him a glare, but it’s not very effective. Possibly because I’m pretty sure I’ve also turned red at the fact that my little brother just found someone’s sex costume under my dresser. Why did I ask him to help, again?

  “It was a while ago,” I tell him, as if that helps.

  “Into that whole Catholic schoolgirl —”

  “You really want to talk about who’s into Catholic schoolgirls?” I ask.

  Caleb shuts up instantly, then clears his throat.

  “The outfit wasn’t my idea,” I tell him, and he wisely says nothing.

  Each of the things we found today, I could tell you whose they were except for the chapstick, which might even be mine. The panties belonged to a woman named Susan who was in town for a week and who I saw twice. Every so often, she still texts me to ask how I’m doing.

  The hairbrush was Theresa’s. The makeup bag was Lindsey’s. The powder compact belonged to a woman named Gina, with whom I had an extremely casual relationship for several months.

  And the skirt belonged to Gwen, a very enthusiastic woman who initially said she wanted the exact same things I did — no commitments, no strings, casual, physical — but who ended things when she wanted more than I could give her. She called once to ask if I knew where the skirt was, and I guess I could tell her now, but it’s been so long that I’m sure she’s gotten a new skirt.

  I remember everyone I’ve been with. Names, faces, what we talked about afterward. If that’s not enough I wrote everything down in a spreadsheet, afraid of being the soulless asshole who can’t keep his lovers straight. It was never about notches on my bedpost. It was about doing something I wa
s good at: making women like me.

  The early women I wasn’t kind to. Back then I didn’t give a fuck beyond not knocking anyone up or getting a disease, so I fucked around and dated three or four girls at the same time, letting them each think they were the only one until I got caught. Someone spray-painted the word MANWHORE on my car, and I’m still not sure who.

  I deserved it. I was the asshole who let them think I might be in love with them, then took what I wanted until I was done. They’d call me their boyfriend. Occasionally they’d talk marriage or kids, or would want me to meet their families, and I’d string them along until I got bored.

  Once I stood a girl up who I’d been seeing for a month because Delilah called and asked me to meet her, and in the feverish rush I forgot to cancel my date.

  I learned to be better. I learned to be honest, upfront, to find women who wanted the same thing I did: a sexual companion who could hold a conversation and who didn’t want one whit more, who didn’t care if I was doing the same thing with someone else. I learned to avoid women who wanted something I didn’t have to give. Like Bernadette, the biologist who studies forest shrimp. Our relationship was pleasant, enjoyable, and when it was over, it was fine.

  In short, I learned to be a waystation, a stopover for people looking for something better. A roadside attraction. An amusement park: a fun place to be for a while, but not a place anyone calls home.

  That’s all over now.

  “Is that the whole grid?” I ask, glancing at a clock. We’re an hour late to my mom’s house, but it’s not a big deal.

  “Assuming that you didn’t let women stash their underwear behind your pots and pans in the kitchen, yes,” he says.

  I lift the bag with the items in it, tie the handle in a knot, and swing it over my shoulder. Already I feel lighter, more buoyant, like my ballast has been lifted. It’s done. They’re erased, like they never existed.

  The past is gone and the slate is clean again.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Delilah

  I lean over Mindy’s butt, pulling my million-watt lamp to and fro, making sure I’ve been as thorough as possible spotting tattoo problems.

  The only thing looking back at me is a tangle of wildflowers, purple and spiky. Even I can’t find Seth’s name anymore, and I’m the one who traced over it a few weeks ago.

  I know it doesn’t matter, but I feel lighter somehow, knowing it’s gone.

  “I think that’s it, honestly,” I say. “You did an amazing job of letting this heal.”

  “I really love lying around,” Mindy jokes, and then laughs at her own joke. “Just kidding, I told my boss I had a back condition and had to stand for most of the day and he believed me. Didn’t even ask for a doctor’s note.”

  Unsurprisingly, sitting down is the biggest enemy of the butt tattoo.

  “Well, it worked,” I tell her, and stand. “I didn’t even have to do much touching up. Let me wrap you up and you’re officially on your way.”

  I have to fight the urge to smack her ass as I turn away. I always have to fight the urge to ass-smack when I see an unclothed one in my vicinity, which I know is weird, but asses are just so… smackable. It’s not even a sex thing. It’s just very satisfying.

  Did Seth ever smack the tattoo? Seems like the kind of thing he’d be into. I bet he came on it.

  NOPE. That is a rabbit hole that I, Delilah Radcliffe, am not going down right now because rabbit holes are stupid, pointless, and filled with rabbits. It doesn’t matter where Seth came six years ago, it only matters that now, it’s on me.

  Then I take a deep breath and exhale, because this train of thought got a little weird and kind of sexual and I’m still at work.

  “You okay?” Mindy asks from the table.

  “Just got a little dizzy when I stood up,” I tell her. “You remember the instructions, right?”

  “Right,” she says.

  “You’re gonna want loose-fitting clothes and no underwear for a few days,” I remind her. “Long, flowing skirts can be your friend, if it’s not too cold.”

  “Too bad I can’t just be naked,” she muses as I bandage her butt. “I bet my boss would require a doctor’s note for that, though.”

  “Worth a shot,” I say, and she laughs.

  After she leaves, while I’m cleaning the back room before going home, Seth texts me.

  Seth: Do I need to bring my tuxedo?

  Me: Do you own a tuxedo?

  Seth: Technically, no.

  Me: I can’t imagine you’ll need anything better than business casual. A jacket, maybe.

  I click my phone off, feeling guilty. I never told Mindy that I even know Seth, let alone that we’re dating and I think it’s serious. We weren’t when she first came in, and even then it seemed pretty awkward to see someone’s name tattooed on a butt and say, hey, I also banged that guy!

  I mean, what’s the etiquette there? Did I do it right? What would Emily Post say? If Vera and I had a very different relationship, I’d have asked her, but… no.

  * * *

  Seth: Still coming over?

  Me: Of course.

  Seth: Good, I need help deciding which cufflinks to bring.

  Me: Just wear something besides t-shirts you got for free in high school and you’ll be fine, I promise.

  Seth: Don’t insult my wardrobe like that.

  Me: See you in thirty?

  Seth: Perfect.

  * * *

  I put my phone back and finish cleaning up, locking all the doors, and leave through the back. It’s been a week and a half since I slept over at Seth’s house, a week and a half since I found the panties under his sink, and it’s been fine except for every moment that I get some reminder of his popularity.

  Mindy’s tattoo. The fact that Stacey Hepp, who once sent him naked photos, is in my morning yoga class sometimes. The way women I don’t even know look at him when we’re together, like I’m invisible and they’re remembering something nice.

  It bothers me, and I hate that it bothers me. I hate that I can’t do what I said I would and give us a clean slate, but I’m trying. I swear I’m trying.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Seth

  “Is there anything else, Miss Radcliffe?”

  The concierge smiles attentively at Delilah, who’s pulling her purse back onto her shoulder.

  “Can you remind me when the happy hour is?”

  “From five until eight.”

  “Perfect, thank you so much!” she says, and grabs her glass of champagne from the counter. “Ready?” she asks me, taking a sip.

  I, too, am holding a glass of champagne, which was offered to me upon checkin at the Allegheny Crest Mountaintop Resort. It goes nicely with the massive stone fireplace, the leather sofas and armchairs, the carefully curated bowls of fruit, and the huge landscape paintings that adorn the walls.

  “At your service, Miss Radcliffe,” I say, following her down a plushly-carpeted hallway. Someone met us at the car and whisked away our luggage, and I presume that it’s been taken to the condo and not stolen.

  “Don’t you dare start,” she says, and takes my hand in hers as we walk.

  “You did say condo, not condos. It’s an important S.”

  “Slip of the tongue?” she says, making a face.

  “I thought we were gonna be sleeping in a bedroom next door to Ava and Thad,” I say, still drinking the champagne. “I packed for sleeping in a bedroom next door to Ava and Thad.”

  “Technically, they’re still kind of next door,” Delilah says.

  We turn a corner, walk past a windowed nook with leather armchairs and a bowl of fruit. How much must this place spend on fruit that no one eats?

  “In a separate condominium isn’t next door,” I say. “I thought I was sharing a bathroom with these people.”

  Delilah laughs out loud at that.

  “Vera would never,” she says, taking another drink. “Can you imagine if someone left an unused tampon where a ma
n could see it? My God. Perish the thought.”

  Then she glances over at me.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I probably should’ve warned you. Though I also kind of forgot you didn’t know.”

  I wonder, briefly, what else I don’t know, and then I push the thought away.

  I know Delilah’s family is beyond rich and into the realm of wealthy, and I also know she feels weird about it even though it obviously benefits her. The vast majority of people can’t drop out of college once and art school twice, then open their own business debt-free and she knows it.

  Anyway, she owns a condo, as do all three of her sisters. Her parents own the penthouse upstairs. There’s a whole Radcliffe wing of this place.

  As someone whose family vacations almost always involved tents, I feel a little out of my element.

  “You forgot I didn’t know you owned a condo in a ski resort?” I ask, still walking. This place is huge. “Tell me now if you’ve got a private island somewhere.”

  “I don’t think so,” she muses. Pauses. Then: “The condo was a gift, actually.”

  Hell of a gift.

  “From your parents?”

  Delilah drinks the last sip of her champagne, then stops at a door near the end of the hall.

  “It was a wedding present,” she says, pulling out the key. “It sort of became a tradition, because then Winona and Olivia and Ava also got condos when they got married and now there’s a whole compound up here.”

  She pushes the door open, walks in, looks at me over her shoulder.

  “Voila!”

  This was his. This place belonged to him. He stayed here, he slept here. He sat on that couch. He ate in this kitchen and all this was his and now I’m here, in the place he’s already possessed and left.

  “I know it’s kind of a lot,” Delilah is saying as she tosses the keys on the counter, hangs her coat on a row of hooks near the door. “But I actually don’t come here much and we mostly rent it out, and there’s a certain look that people really want in their slope side ski condo.”