Page 70

“There isn’t anything to tell. I better get going. I’m in kind of a hurry,” I said. Now I really needed that wine. Or maybe vodka.

“Bye,” the cheerleaders said in unison.

I crossed to the liquor aisle, where rows and rows of wines were displayed in front of me. White or red, chardonnay or cabernet? What did one pick for the man that she broke up her marriage for? As I picked up a bottle of merlot, I felt an arm drape around my shoulders. It was Jessica.

“It’s okay, you can talk to me. I get it. Being a single mother’s not easy,” Jessica said.

“I’m not a single mother.”

“There’s no shame in accepting it. The first time you say it out loud is so hard, but you’ll get used to it. Say it with me: I am a single mother.”

I didn’t say anything. All I wanted was for this insane woman to get her stinking arm off me and go away. We were not the same. I was not, nor would I ever be, one of those single mothers who was totally alone at dinner parties or their daughter’s wedding. If Jim and I got divorced, I would be … I would be … Oh my God, I’d be one of those single mothers.

Jessica was still droning on. “We should go out for drinks together and pick up men. And don’t worry, I’d meet you somewhere so you wouldn’t run into Jim at his apartment. Especially if he had a date over. That would be very awkward, wouldn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, it would be,” I replied as I was planning my escape, although I wasn’t going anywhere without my wine.

“Unless, of course, you’re dating that cute guy I saw you with the last time I ran into you.”

“We’re just friends.” At least until after tonight.

“Okay,” she said. I said goodbye and turned to make my getaway when she called after me, “If you’re not dating him, can I have his phone number?”

CHAPTER 22

Ihad a habit of always being early, so at 7:22 I was sitting in my car in front of Le Petit Chateau. I was nervous, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off the clock as the numbers turned from 7:22 to 7:23 to 7:24. If Jim hadn’t left me, I wouldn’t be about to go on a date with Michael. I was more than willing to work things out with Jim, but he wasn’t. So if Michael and I had sex, it would be Jim’s fault.

I was wearing a silk shirt, with the buttons open perfectly at my cleavage. This was my go-to shirt when I wanted to feel sexy without trying too hard, even though I was trying hard. I pulled down the sun visor and admired myself in the mirror. My heart was beating into my throat. Oh no, what if I had a heart attack and died right now? Would the paramedics think,Wow, she looked sexy?

I cracked my knuckles and twirled my wedding ring around and around on my finger. I needed to give up these bad habits. I admired my ring; I did love it. What would it be like not to wear it anymore? Jim had surprised me on our fifteenth anniversary by trading in my original diamond and getting me this bigger one. It was beautiful. I slipped it off my finger and dropped it into the side pocket in my purse. Being without my ring felt weird and naked and like a neon sign screaming, “Stop pretending you’re not married.” My fingers started rubbing together incessantly. Why were they tormenting me? I put my ring back on as I spied Michael walking from his car toward the restaurant.

He was in black jeans and a black sport coat over a white T-shirt. Jessica would’ve eaten her heart out. I was eating my heart out. I waited another minute before getting out of my car and going inside. Michael was talking to the hostess, who was flirting with him, but when he saw me, he whistled under his breath. The hostess shot me a look. She looked as though she was wondering how someone like me could get a man like him. Or maybe she was admiring my shirt. I wasn’t sure which.

“You look amazing,” he said.

I leaned in for a hug, and he kissed my cheek. I was lucky that my first official date after separating was with a man like him. My friend Monica had told me horror stories about the men she went out with after her divorce. Men who shaved ten years off their age, men who lied about what they did for a living, and men who said they were too busy to ever text during the week. Michael told me all the time how much he liked being with me. He laughed at my jokes and empathized when I talked about my dad’s dementia. He was sensitive and caring to my needs.

The hostess took us to a table at the outside patio under a heater. It was like being in a café in the French countryside. There were white linens, red chairs, and chandeliers hanging from potted trees. There was also an outdoor fireplace in the corner, and our table looked out on Long Island Sound. The moon lit up the waves as they silently broke. It couldn’t have been more romantic if it were a movie set.

“What a beautiful view,” I said. “The hostess must like you.”

“Or maybe she likes you,” he said, taking my hand in his. “I know I do.” He gazed into my eyes, and my nerves did belly flops. I was so jumpy.

“Can I get a mojito?” I called out to a busboy who was walking by.

“I’ll tell your waiter,” he said, barely stopping.

“I’ll have one too,” Michael called after him. The hand he was holding began to sweat, and I worried that he would think I had a glandular problem. I casually let go. He put his hand back in his lap, probably to wipe my sweat off.

“So, where did Jim and Gia go?” he asked.

“New York City to seeHamilton.”

“And you didn’t go with them?”

“I’ve already seen it,” I lied.

“Well, New York’s loss is my gain.”