Page 26 of Infidelity Rules

I hurl the axe towards the wooden target and WHAMMO, bullseye on my very first try.

I bust out a little bullseye dance and turn to my brother, Alex. “Take that!” I say. “I love this game.”

Alex grins and hands me a beer.

“Axes and beer? Does it get any better?”

“I thought you might like this,” he says, picking up his own axe. “Once you get past the initial shock of it all, it’s actually very safe. And weirdly soothing.”

I’m visiting Alex in Baltimore and he surprised me by taking me axe throwing.

Apparently it’s a thing now. People drink alcohol and toss axes for sport, akin to bowling, I suppose.

Except instead of huge, heavy balls and disgusting rental shoes, there are dull hand-held axes and you get to wear your own footwear, albeit no open toes.

“So, how did you even hear about this place?” I ask, gesturing around the old warehouse, now outfitted with multiple throwing lanes, picnic tables and a bar. Groups of all sizes are milling about the different lanes, all in various stages of gameplay and imbibing.

“A friend of mine threw a party here a couple of months ago,” he says, nailing a bullseye with a satisfying thwack. “Been coming here about once a week ever since.”

“I can see why.” I line myself up for another throw. “What a great stress reliever.”

“Yup,” he says, taking a swig of his beer. “I sometimes come from work, right after I make deadline.”

Alex picks up his axe and boom, boom, boom. He hits three in a row, dead center.

A high, sing-songy, female voice comes from behind me. “I see somebody’s been practicing. Wow Alex, you are getting really good at this,” says the voice, practically cooing.

I turn to see a woman wearing short, fraying jean shorts and black cowboy boots. Her blonde hair is in two braids, fanning down her shoulders and she’s tied the ends of her pink and purple flannel shirt into a cutesy little bow.

I raise my eyebrows at Alex. Oh man, I’m going to have so much fun with this.

“Hey Fantasia,” he says, nodding in her direction. “What’s up?”

Fantasia? Fantasia? Who is this 20-something making googly eyes at my brother? And taking this whole lumberjack thing just a tad too far?

Fantasia practically prances over, flipping one ribboned braid over her shoulder. It looks like she’s about to launch herself into Alex’s arms when she notices me.

“Oh, hey,” she says, stopping mid-prance and just short of Alex. She looks me up and down and it’s clear she’s trying to work out who I am and whether I’m competition. She bites her lower lip and hops from one foot to the other, twirling a braid.

Seriously? Who is this child?

Alex puts her out of her misery.

“Fantasia, this is my sister, Quinn,” he says. “Quinn. Fantasia.”

“Oooooh, I love your name,” she squeals. “Quinn! I just love it!”

“Fantasia works in the bar area, so she keeps me supplied in my post work beer,” Alex says to me.

Ah. I suppose that explains the outfit and pigtails. Sort of.

I bite back the urge to ask if she’s even old enough to drink.

“Nice,” I say. “Seems like a fun place to work. And I imagine you’re now pretty good at the axe throwing.”

“Nah. I don’t throw. I spend way too much time at the salon to ruin my nails,” she says, displaying a hand for us to admire her watermelon taffy-hued manicure.

“But working the bar is pretty fun. And I get to meet handsome men like your brother here,” she says, touching his arm and flicking her eyes toward him.

I smirk at Alex, who shrugs his shoulders at me as if to say, what am I supposed to do about this? It’s not as if I encourage it.

“Can I get anything for either of you?” asks Fantasia, smiling stupidly at my brother.

“I think we’re good at the moment,” he says. “But I know where to find you if we need anything.”

Fantasia scurries back to the bar and I start singing.

“Fantasia and Alex sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g …”

“Real mature, Quinn. Real mature,” Alex says, rolling his eyes.

“No kidding,” I say, full on laughing now.

Alex just shakes his head, but I can see him trying to hide a smile.

“You know I love you little brother,” I say, as I watch Fantasia sneaking looks at Alex from the bar.

“I do,” he says. “Now quit yacking,” he hands me my axe. “You’re up.”

.....

A couple of hours later we are strolling along the Baltimore waterfront, working off those beers and a rather large lunch — a crab cake sandwich for me and a fried oyster po’ boy for Alex.

I am crisscrossing my arms in front of my chest, trying to stretch out my sore shoulder muscles.

I’m not used to all that axe throwing, apparently.

“Quick. Name three people you would absolutely NOT want with you on a desert island,” I say as we walk.

“George-the-pharmacist. My OCD editor Donald Mann. And Fantasia,” Alex says.

“What, no Fantasia?” I ask, laughing. “Why on earth not?”

Alex just rolls his eyes at me.

“Please, please tell me you are not dating her, little brother.”

“Of course not. She’s much too young and she’s not my type.”

“Well, she most certainly has her eye on you.”

“I know. It’s starting to be a bit much. I may have to find a different axe place. Or at least try to avoid the hours she works.”

“Or you could bring an actual date. You know, somebody you might be interested in. That might discourage her.”

Alex ignores me entirely and instead fires the desert island question back at me.

“Hmmm. I agree with you about George-the-pharmacist. And maybe this guy Tim I met at a wine seminar who keeps showing up at the restaurant. Can I also say Fantasia?”

“No. You cannot. What about Chris, your ex-husband?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t ban Chris. We got along beautifully. That was never our problem.”

I think for a moment. “Okay, I’ve got it. Zack’s wife.”

Alex’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Did you just say Zack’s wife? Isn’t he one of the husbands you’re currently dating?”

“Yes. And no. I’m not dating him anymore, for obvious reasons.”

“What happened? Spill it Quinn.”

I fill Alex in on the whole saga of Zack’s wife and her recent second appearance at Persimmon.

“That’s weird Quinn. Very weird. But I suppose it could be worse.”

“Like what? She slashes my tires and boils my pet bunny rabbit?”

“Well, yeah,” says Alex. “Something like that. Do you think she would get dangerous if you say no?”

“No. I don’t think so. She genuinely seems kind and sweet. And smart, even. I sort of feel like we could be friends. Under different circumstances.”

Alex and I keep walking in silence. I’m always reminded of how much I love Baltimore whenever I visit.

It’s not as frantic and busy as D.C. It’s not as crowded.

And people look you in the eye and say hello.

It’s like the favorite, comfy sofa of cities.

The more glamorous ones are lovely to look at, but you never want to sit in them.

And you always wind up wondering how you got suckered into the purchase in the first place.

We wind our way along the waterfront, passing joggers, walkers and families with strollers.

“So, what are you going to do?” Alex asks.

“Do? Nothing. I’m certainly not giving her lessons of any sort. I don’t even know what that means.”

Alex just nods, quiet.

“You think I should do it,” I say, astounded.

He shrugs and sticks his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. But it seems harmless enough. And it’s a way for you to even out the bad karma. Maybe make up a little bit for stealing her husband.”

“I was not the one who took vows,” I remind him. “He came on to me . He was clearly looking .”

“I know. I know. You have your rules and your playbook. But you had a role in this too, Quinn.”

“So you think I should agree to her demands to earn myself some good juju?”

Alex starts laughing at that. “You are ridiculous sometimes, big sister,” he says. “But sure. Yes. If that’s how you want to look at it. Maybe you should consider it.”

I frown. I really hadn’t even considered the possibility.

“It’s absurd,” I say. “What would I even teach?”

Alex shrugs. “I don’t know, exactly, but you’ve been dating married men now for years. You seem to know who’s open to an affair.”

We keep walking.

“Whether you like it or not, you are the other woman, Quinn. And clearly you have some insight she thinks is valuable. Honestly, she’s probably right.”

I nod, grumbling. “I suppose, but I’m still not doing it. Good juju my ass.”

.....

We end our walk at the entrance to my parent’s condo. I have time for a quick visit, so we head on up to say hello. I’m not about to sneak into Charm City without stopping by. My mother would never forgive me and I’d be cut off from her homemade ricotta forever. Not a risk I am willing to take.

“Hey,” Alex and I say in unison as we tumble into the foyer. “We’re home!”

We find them playing Scrabble at the breakfast table, which has a spectacular view of the harbor through floor-to-ceiling windows. I can see the waterfront pathway Alex and I were just walking on ten stories below.

“I thought I saw you kids down there,” says my mother, jumping up to give us both hugs. “Your father said it was impossible to tell, but I just knew it.”

My dad peers at my mother over his wire-rimmed glasses. “That, and Alex did call this morning saying they would stop by,” he says. “Right around this time.”

My mother ignores my dad and says, like clockwork, “Who’s hungry? What can I get you two to eat?”

She jumps up and starts pulling things out of the refrigerator. There’s an endless parade of containers and cartons and Tupperware.

“Stop. We ate. We aren’t hungry,” I say, helping her put everything back.

She, of course, wants to know exactly what we had for lunch. And where.

“We ate fried seafood sandwiches at that axe throwing place I was telling you about,” says Alex. “I’ll be hungry in about an hour.”

“Ugh. Not me,” I say. “I’m stuffed. But happy to take anything home you might have lying around. Preferably homemade.”

With that, out comes the parade of food again — ravioli, thick slices of porchetta, lemon ricotta cheesecake, eggplant parmigiana, a square of taleggio and leftover linguine with clam sauce, one of my favorites.

“How’s this?” My mother gestures to the array of food on the counter.

“Absolutely perfect, thank you,” I say, kissing her on the cheek and envisioning the delicious picnic Marcus and I will enjoy. On my bed.

“So,” says my mother as she starts packing up all the food for its journey with me to D.C. “I hear you have yourself a boyfriend.”

“What?” I say, then shoot eyeball daggers at Alex.

He just shrugs and silently mouths, “Not me.”

“When were you planning to tell us?” asks my mom again.

“Gemma, leave the poor girl alone. These are all rumors,” says my father. He looks at me. “Apparently, George was at Persimmon and saw you at some point. With a man.”

“Canoodling with a man,” my mother interrupts. “He says you were at the bar, practically sitting in a man’s lap.”

George. Son of a bitch.

“First of all, it’s none of George’s business. And second of all, I do not have a boyfriend,” I say firmly.

“So you don’t know who he’s talking about, Quinn?” my mother asks, one eyebrow raised.

“I don’t. I work at a restaurant. Clients come in to say hi all the time. It could have been any one of them.”

“Are you suggesting that you make it a habit of sitting on the laps of your dining patrons? At your restaurant?” my mother asks, aghast.

“Of course not, mom. That would be absurd.” I throw my hands up in the air. “God only knows what George thought he saw. You’ve met him. Can you trust a man who doesn’t eat meat? Or drink wine?”

My mother considers this.

“I suppose you make a good point,” she says, eyeing me sideways. “But you would tell us if you had a boyfriend, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” I say, relieved. “You know I would.”

But Marcus is not my boyfriend. He’s my married lover. I’m pretty sure my mother’s head would explode. She would never recover. It would be worse than offering her a can of Chef Boyardee beefaroni for lunch.

I see Alex looking at me from across the room.

Positive juju , I think to myself. Maybe I do need some.