Page 40

40 | Just Deserts SASHA

Because life is cruel, when I wake up at six the next morning, I am awash in spectacular sunlight.

The storm they expected to hit us has passed somewhere out in the ocean, upsetting only a few fish. And yet its hypothetical has sent irreparable reverberations through my life.

I have stressed out Celeste. Pissed off Ethan. Irritated Derek. Weirded out the others. Spent a sleepless night alone. The meteorologists only shrug and aim to nail it next time. Expectations of accuracy are low. Meanwhile, I am waiting for aftershocks.

Just in case, Peter and I still meet early and knock out the video footage, which turns out to be fortuitous. This last shoot is without a human subject. I have certainly had enough of the limelight. And, whether because of the storm or the predawn hour, the birds turn out in full force as the shadows lift. We capture footage of a brown pelican diving for fish, two green herons communing on a villa rooftop and a prehistoric beast that we decide, after copious googling, is a yellow-crowned night heron perched on a pool lounger like some kind of diva. It’s peaceful and kind of lovely, working just the two of us. At least in the moments when I can ignore the nagging shame of having brawled publicly with the guy I kind of work for and sometimes want to bone.

I finally can’t bear the stress of what’s circling in my head alone. I’ve got to give it oxygen.

“That was bad last night, huh?” I say to Peter as he is kneeling down, packing up a camera in its armored black box. I am half hoping he won’t know what I mean.

He squints up at me, the sun behind my head bright. “It wasn’t great.”

Well, there you have it. I have not exaggerated the exchange. Even Peter was put off by it, and I thought he’d been busy reading. What else needs to be said?

But then, as I bend to hide my face and help pack up a tripod with my back to him, he adds: “But I had a single mother. And I think what you’re doing for your kids is really nice.”

I turn to look at him, surprised. “Thank you, Peter.”

“They’ll remember,” he says, then he goes back to work.

I hold back tears.

Then the others appear. One by one, they trudge through white sand toward us.

The others, that is, except Ethan, who is notably absent. His perfect T-shirt of the day still packed in his suitcase or worn behind closed doors. I am part relieved and part sad. This is easier, I tell myself as I tear my eyes away from our villa for the eight hundredth time.

Stephanie arrives next to me, holding out a fresh cup of coffee. I take it gratefully. “That didn’t go how I expected at all with you guys,” she says, following my gaze. “My radar is usually so on point.” Then she shakes her head and walks away.

I want to agree. I want to say, Me either . I want to ask her why she thinks Ethan didn’t text to check in last night or this morning. Why he didn’t try to make up or talk things through, even though I know I might have told him it was pointless. I want to tell her how I stared at that door separating our rooms as I lay on my side in bed the night before, a portal to a different outcome, thinking about how we could have at least made use of it for one last night. Maybe? If we hadn’t imploded.

But I don’t. Because, though I haven’t maintained my countenance at all times, I am now Professional Sasha, for real. And PS doesn’t freak out over a PT. Or, in this case, the absence of one.

I am able to oversee the entire final shoot before it’s time to leave. That’s the good news. By noon, I have hugged all those in attendance goodbye (no Martin, no Ethan). I am on that small plane again, hovering over the transparent sea with Jimmy and the head of housekeeping, who is taking a day off on Provo to celebrate her sister’s birthday.

By 3:43 p.m., I am on a flight to JFK, surrounded by strangers. I am no one special. I no longer have a villa or remote-control shades. I no longer can depend on Michael and his golf cart. I no longer have an outdoor shower—or anyone to defile me in it.

The more time passes, the bluer I feel and I can’t sort out which part is bugging me most: Am I disappointed or angry? Am I upset about my argument with Ethan or about its lack of resolution? About getting my hopes up or having them dashed? About glimpsing something I hadn’t in years or the fall from grace when it fell apart? About sleeping with someone else’s ex-husband or about caring too much what others might think? Or am I most mad at myself for trashing this career opportunity?

Last night, when Ethan and I clashed, was my rage about my stress? About the way life is unfair? About how his cavalier attitude reminded me of Cliff? About how it’s different in amicable divorces? About the fact that I—and not Ethan—have to choose between my responsibilities and my freedom?

About how I’m afraid?

Or was it about being called out in front of people? Being portrayed as overprotective and matronly? Having my worries reduced to hysterical womanhood?

I have none of the answers. What I do have is a job well-done, at least. A week or so to work with the editor to deliver the finished footage, which I think will be strong. And two kids at home, equally excited to both see me and, the following day, to count the number of Sour Skittles pouches in their stuffed jack-o’-lanterns. And that is a lot.

When I turn my keys in the door at home, they cheer. Before I even see their little faces, I have to smile. I always miss them most when I return.

Nettie swings the door wide open, almost smacking Bart in the face inadvertently.

“Mommy!” she yelps. She throws her arms around my waist and sighs. Bart is the baby. I worry about him. But, of course, as grown up as she seems, Nettie needs me too. Parroting his sister, Bart runs up a few seconds late and wraps his arms around one of my legs. The one with the jellyfish bite. There is pain involved.

I grin up through the hurt at my mom and dad, who picked the kids up from Celeste’s this afternoon and returned them home.

“Hi, guys!” I say. “I can’t walk.”

“All right, all right,” my mom says, as she holds open the door, which has come to rest against my foot. “Give the woman some space! Let her inside.”

Nettie gives me the deets on everything that happened while I was away, including the field trip she almost missed, which turned out to be so fun. When she comes up for air, I turn to Bart.

“How about you? What did you do while I was gone?”

He thinks for a minute, and then he shrugs. “I don’t know!” But then he pulls seven thousand crumpled drawings out of his backpack to show me. Mostly of spooky ghosts.

I show them pictures of the lizards and tell them about my stingray.

By the time the kids are fed and in bed, I am beyond exhausted. It’s been a transportation triathlon. I feel like I trekked home from the Caribbean instead of flew.

“We’re going to go,” my mom says as she and my father slip on their coats. She can read me like a book.

“But we never got to talk,” I say, even as I yawn.

“Next time,” she says, wrapping a gray cashmere scarf around her neck. “Get some rest.”

I feel bad. I want to help her. I want to solve what’s ailing her. But I am truly toast.

She and my dad kiss me on the cheek, pat me on the head and send me off to bed. I realize I’m happy to be home, even with the plastic game pieces scattered on the floor and the recycling that needs to go out. And I am about to put on my own pajamas and pass out when Bart calls my name from behind his closed door. I pad back into his room.

“What’s up, Bonk?” I say, the door cracked.

He pokes his head up from behind his headboard, illuminated in a slice of light. “I forgot to ask,” he says. “Did you get what you deserved?”

It takes me a minute to remember what he means. What Nettie said. That I deserved the trip.

“I think unfortunately maybe I did.” I sigh.

I am a blob of uncertainty.

I kiss him good night again on his smoosh of a cheek and then put myself to bed. And I am surely fast asleep before my parents’ taxi makes it home.

The next afternoon, on Halloween, Celeste and I meet at the corner of Sherman and Tenth Avenue. Only I’m not me. I’m a zombie in my regular clothing (a.k.a. I drew a few drops of blood dripping near my mouth). And she is not her, she is full-fledged Princess Leia. Henry is Luke Skywalker, naturally. I have never had the energy for family costumes, or sometimes costumes at all, but they always do.

“Luke,” I say in my best Darth Vader timbre, which is truly horrible. “Where is your father?”

“In the woods,” Henry says, as he corrals my kids and begins leading us all down the street toward the first brownstone stoop.

Nettie, as a gothic sorceress (really just an excuse for purple eyeshadow and black lipstick) follows close behind, clutching Bart’s fluffy pumpkin paw. It is crowded, so I’ve instructed them to stick together.

There’s something heavy about the day. Something damp and incisive in the air. I notice Redhead Mom standing a few feet to my left in mouse ears and a blackened nose, waiting for her kids. She and her dog both look cold and haunted. She barely nods to me.

Our neighborhood does not mess around on Halloween, which is part of why my kids are so obsessed. When I was growing up, we lived in a prewar apartment building in Manhattan. So we traveled from door to door and up back staircases inside, ringing bells and hoping doors might open. Too often, in those crunchy Upper Left Side days, we were rewarded with apples and raisins or just a cranky “Go away!” shouted through the deadbolted door. We weren’t allowed to eat anything unwrapped, so not only were these “treats” disappointing, they were forbidden. Any candy bars we received had to be cut in half too for fear of poisoned needles and razor blades stuffed inside. (Not a thing. Like literally ever.)

Once I hit high school and went out with my friends on Halloween, the situation didn’t improve. What had been lackluster became dangerous—and not in a fun and spooky way. Not that I have ever been one for horror movies and Ouija boards anyway. Things to avoid on All Hallows’ Eve: Gangs of teens with eggs. Gangs of teens without eggs. Drunken cabdrivers. Drunken lunatics. The park at night. The subway at all costs. Drugs laced with worse drugs. Intact candy bars and apples. (That didn’t stop just because we got older!)

Basically, as a result, I hate Halloween. I resist dressing up. But in this idyllic Brooklyn enclave, one step removed from the suburbs, I am the only one—except maybe for a few other New York City natives of my generation. Here, my kids anticipate the same decorations, resurrected outside the same row houses and brownstones every year, with unbridled excitement. Giant stuffed spiders creep down three-story webs. Candy is shot from the roof to the sidewalk down giant tubes. Images of cackling pumpkins and adorable flying ghosts are projected on building exteriors.

We have moved ten feet, and the kids have already run into school friends. So they’re distracted enough for me to turn to Celeste and say, “In the woods ?”

She sighs. “I’m afraid so.”

“That’s accurate? I was hoping it was a Star Wars reference I didn’t get. Since I don’t get Star Wars references. Or Star Wars , full stop.”

“No. No.” Celeste shakes her head, a bun on each side. “That was literal.”

“Celeste, what’s going on?” I ask with deep foreboding.

As we turn the corner, bedlam envelops us. The street is crowded like New Year’s Eve in Times Square. Minus the drunk Jersey bros.

“Hey, guys!” she says to the kids. “Stay together and, if you lose us, meet us at the bottom of this block, on the corner. Do not cross a street under any circumstances.”

They seem to have heard us. At least, they nodded at the right intervals. But we both keep an eye on them anyway as we talk, weaving past people as we inch our way downhill.

“So I only understand so much,” Celeste begins. And as she unburdens herself, her true level of exhaustion registers on her face. Her eyes are puffy. Her cheeks are drawn. She looks weathered. Celeste never looks weathered. The day she’s lost her glow is the day it’s over for us all. “Basically, Jamie started acting strange. I don’t even know how long it’s been—maybe six weeks ago? It was slow. Started small.”

“Okay? Is he sick?”

“No, nothing like that. Well”—she toggles her head, smiling faintly—“not physically, anyway.”

A tiny witch runs up and grabs my leg. Calls me “Mommy.” I am not her mommy. She looks up, realizes this, says “Oops!” and runs over to her actual mom.

She is embarrassed. We are unfazed.

“You were saying?”

“Yeah, so. He just seemed really blue. Depressed. Way less gung ho. You know how Jamie usually is. Or was. He’s always been the parent with boundless energy!”

“Did he acknowledge the change or say why?”

“Not at first. He just seemed grumpy and was grumbling about my work hours, which he’s never done before. So, I started trying to pick up more slack, cut back on client dinners and that kind of thing. But then it seemed like the more I did, the angrier and more disengaged he became. Like, by helping out, I was upsetting his system.”

I am truly surprised by this story. It doesn’t match with the Jamie I have known up until now. But then again, that’s outward-facing Jamie.

“Ugh. I’m so sorry.” My heart aches for my friend.

“Yeah.” She nods, rubbing a hand over her eyes, maybe to change the view. “Thanks. Anyway, Henry started to ask questions, so I confronted Jamie about everything, and he just exploded. He said he was ‘sick of being married to Wonder Woman.’?”

My mouth dropped open. “Wonder Woman?”

“I always thought of myself as more of a Catwoman type.”

“I totally agree.”

“He said he feels invisible! That I saddle him with all the grunt work and take him for granted, while everyone fawns over me.” Celeste weaves through the crowd toward a grandmotherly woman in a Raggedy Ann wig, holding a basket of Starburst, and sticks out her hand. “Trick-or-treat.”

The woman gives her an odd look, being that our children are nowhere nearby, but drops a few candies in her palm. My friend is beyond giving a fuck. She unwraps a red, pink and yellow and pops them all in her mouth at once. Like she is a squirrel.

“Imagine! A middle-aged man saying that to a middle-aged woman with no sense of irony!” she says around the lump of candy. “Like I’m not literally disappearing before his eyes! And so he announces that he needs time to figure out who he is. Without us. To figure out what he has to contribute.”

I knew Jamie wasn’t acting like himself, but I am in shock, though I’m trying not to register it. You never know what’s going on in other people’s houses. In other people’s heads.

“You know, I never asked for this!” Celeste is saying, her gestures growing more emphatic with each passing word. “I didn’t ask him to be a stay-at-home dad, if it didn’t feel good to him. In fact, I asked if he was sure he wanted that job about three million times! But he argued it would be good for our family.” She throws her elegant hands up in the air like an umpire calling a foul ball. “Oh, yeah? How’s that going, dude? How’s that going?”

Celeste is usually so chill. She’s careful about what she shares. I’m the one who is the basket case. So, I have literally never seen her like this. I feel terrible that she has to go through this. But I am also kind of loving this less controlled version of her.

“So, now he’s in the woods?”

“Yup! Now he has Airbnb-ed a log cabin. Apparently, he’s working the fucking land.”

“Oy.”

“Oy, indeed. And you want to know the worst part?”

“What?” I say.

She stops abruptly, turns to face me, eyes now brimming. She parts her lips twice before she speaks. “He’s right.”

A tear tracks down her cheek.

“Celeste. I’m sure he’s not—”

“No,” she rasps. “He is. I have been taking him for granted. I’ve started treating him more like my assistant than my partner. I think I was trying so hard not to turn into my mom that I turned into my dad. And now I’m scared that I can’t salvage things.”

With Celeste, I am ride-or-die. What she says goes. I will not contradict her. Instead, I take her hand and squeeze.

We are nearing the bottom of the block. I can see our kids up ahead, sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk and comparing their spoils in the middle of pedestrian traffic, oblivious to the logjam they’re causing.

“Celeste. I’m so sorry.”

“Me too,” she sighs. “I miss him. We’ve been together for so long. Why couldn’t we melt down together?”

I don’t say it, but I wonder if maybe that’s the problem. I have been on my own for long enough that I live on the other end of the spectrum. I protect my solitude. But maybe there is a point at which you need to prove that you can still function autonomously, even when you have a serviceable partner in crime. That you are someone, alone. That you exist without your appendages—your spouse or even your kids. Outside your well-behaved grown-up life. Your routine. That you can still come back to yourself.

There is nothing good to say. I want to tell Celeste they’ll work it out. That if anyone can make it, it’s them. But I know too much to know if that’s true. So I just stop Celeste and give her a giant hug. We hang on extra long. I ignore the bun in my face.

“Thanks,” she says, when we let go. Her eyes are flooded.

“Let’s get this trick-or-treating nonsense over with and get back to my house,” I say. “I’ve got a giant duty-free thank-you bottle of rum for you and a tote bag full of shit nobody needs from the Caribbean, including chocolate-covered coconut patties.”

“Rum sounds great,” she says. “I hope you have an IV.”

I have not stopped thinking about my conversation with Celeste.

When we got back to my place, I made us passable rum punch. We ate pizza, watched A Series of Unfortunate Events and pretended not to notice how much candy the kids were inhaling. I did not mention Ethan. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway.

We did not speak of her mountain man husband again, except at the very end of the night, when Bart asked if Jimmy was in the bathroom—as if he’d only just noticed that Henry’s dad was missing. Even Celeste had to laugh at that.

But what I can’t stop thinking about is the one-eighty. The fact that Jamie was the poster child for “ideal dad” until the moment he lost patience and a sense of his own autonomy. I guess I am not alone in feeling tapped out sometimes. Turns out parenting is hard. And so is being a person. I love Jamie. But it never seemed like Celeste had picked the sexiest, coolest or funniest husband. She had picked the most lovable and loving. The handiest. The best sport. She had made a smart choice. But, as it turns out, he is also a human. He needs space for an identity outside granola bars and Goldfish.

As solid as he is, he is still changing.

Maybe there is no smart choice. Maybe, as Derek said, relationships are never convenient. No one is ever one thing. There is no perfect. Except perfect T-shirts, of course.

Does this mean I need to cut everyone more slack? All the moms and the dads? Even…

It is this thought that’s passing through my head as I stare blankly into space at my makeshift desk at the kitchen table the following afternoon. I have left my probiotic soda unsipped and my sad cucumber-and-turkey sandwich untouched. I am subsisting solely on self-sabotage. I have only an hour before I need to leave for pick-up, and yet I cannot focus on completing a single email. My work remains undone.

My brain has become a land mine, filled with flashes of Ethan’s eyes, shoulders, chest, dappled in sweat. His hands on me. My hands on him. Him gazing down at me from above in my bed at Citrine Cay. I know what happens with these types of memories. We try to preserve them. Wrap them in tissue paper, careful not to crumple them. Close the cardboard box and stow them away, pulling them out with wonder about ourselves at a different time. They become a way to keep ourselves afloat. A kiss that lasted three to five minutes. A memory to return to for a lifetime.

Is that all Ethan will be to me? A memory? If so, why won’t he stop haunting my thoughts?

The buzzer blares. And I am a jack-in-the-box. Answering the door for UPS is valid procrastination.

I jump up and cross the living room to the intercom. Press the button with the key and listen to it unlock and buzz. Wait to hear a package drop in the hallway outside.

But it is oddly quiet.

Until the buzzer blares again. This time, in my ear.

“Holy shit!” I yelp, my hand to the side of my head. Then I sigh and press the key button again to let the offender in.

This time, there are footsteps. They come to a stop outside my apartment. The doorbell rings. Ah . The Fed-Ex person wants my autograph. More excuses to avoid work!

Combing my fingers through my bedhead and sweeping my hair into a quick ponytail, I swing the door open. Only it is not a delivery person. It is not a mail carrier. It is not even my upstairs neighbor, Bonnie, dropping off leftover cinnamon buns for my kids.

My polite smile drops.

Ethan is standing in front of me. And it’s like I forgot that he existed in this New York dimension and not just on repeat in my brain. For a moment, I am confused about how he can exist in both planes. In Brooklyn, he is wearing a perfect jacket over his perfect T-shirt. And, as always, he is a tall drink of water.

“It’s you,” I say. Because I am the most articulate.

He ignores my genius observation. Narrows his eyes at me. Says instead, “You just buzzed me in without asking who I am.”

“I know who you are.”

“Yes, but you didn’t when I rang the buzzer.”

“I figured it was the mailman.”

“It wasn’t. And this is New York City. Which is why you need to ask people to identify themselves before you buzz a potential murderer into your building. Especially when you live on the first floor!”

“Oh. Are you a murderer?” I put a hand on my hip.

“Would I tell you if I was?”

“No. Which is why asking you to identify yourself is null. You’d be like, ‘Amazon delivery.’ And I’d be like, ‘Cool! Come in!’ And the rest is a crime scene.”

He brings a hand to his head like he might literally pull his hair out in tufts. Only he won’t. Because he and I both know his hair is too good to waste.

“What about your neighbors? What about protecting them?”

“From you?”

“Apparently from yourself!”

I want to know what he’s doing here, but I also want to drop kick him. I can’t decide which impulse is stronger. I decide just to stare him down. He bites his lip under my gaze, rethinking his entrance. And damn if my eyes don’t linger on his mouth.

Only then do I think to wonder if my Back to the Future shirt is see-through—or rather how see-through. It’s a super-thin oldie that I don’t generally wear in public.

Oh well. Too late.

“So, um, to recap, yeah, it’s me,” he says finally. He’s a bit nervous. I can tell because his eyes keep flitting to the floor.

“You know where I live?”

“Oh, is this your house?”

I tilt my head, impatient. At least, I think I’m impatient. I have so many feelings about him being here that I can’t unscramble them. That’s it! I am scrambled.

“Yes,” he says. “By some miracle, I found a class list.”

“Go figure.”

“Go figure.”

“Found it in an old email?” I ask, calling his bluff.

“Um. Found it at the school office where they took pity on me?” He shrugs, sheepish. “Kaitlin was always in there helping with PTA mailers and stuff. I got to know the ladies.”

If I’m honest, I’m impressed. Not by the school office staff, who should not be handing out private information willy-nilly, but, by this man, who has gone out of his way to sleuth me out.

But why didn’t he just check my HR file at Escapade ? Then I realize.

“Derek said no?”

“Derek said no.”

I lean against the doorframe, thickened with countless coats of paint, the ghosts of tenants past. “And yet you’re here, against his better judgment. Stalking me.”

“Mm.” He cracks a smile, his one-sided dimple making an appearance. “This is light stalking at most. A person can only loiter in the Crispix aisle hoping to run into you for so long.”

“If you say so.”

A silence hangs between us as I wait for him to speak.

“I know I could have called,” he says finally, running a hand over his five-o’clock shadow. “But I just got back, and I wanted to find you.”

I am not sure how I feel about this. On one hand, even when I’m angry, I crush hard on this man. Just the sight of him sends something untoward rocketing through me. Am I even angry anymore? Or more ambivalent? Unsure? Afraid?

Ethan looks as good as always, his contrite expression a welcome accessory. The wall-mounted mirror behind him reflects his angles from all angles. And, I realize, he is carrying a white canvas bag from Citrine’s resort gift shop.

I take it back. Some men can wear totes.

On the other hand, this man disappeared on me. We had a disagreement, and he ghosted. He didn’t even emerge from his room to say goodbye.

“You didn’t say goodbye,” I say. Because I have no impulse control.

“Neither did you.”

“I guess that’s true. But you also didn’t show up at the shoot. I figured I’d see you there at least. And you didn’t wish me a safe flight. What if I had died in a plane crash?”

“That’s statistically unlikely. Planes rarely crash.”

“Okay. What if the person in the seat next to me was an assassin and put poison in my ginger ale? Is that likely enough for you?”

“Then I would have been very sad. And also confused about why someone would need to assassinate you. I mean, you’re frustrating, but…”

“Probably for the same reason a murderer would break into the building,” I deadpan. There’s a weighty pause. “You still haven’t explained why you disappeared.”

“I needed a minute to think.”

“About?”

“About how angry you got at me when I asked you to stay.”

My mouth drops open. This is not what I expect him to say. Nor is it the way I would have characterized what happened that night in paradise. “Asked me to stay ?”

“Yes! I realize now that what I saw as a chance for us to have one more day away together seemed to you like me putting you in a bad position with your kids—”

He thought he was asking me to stay—with him ?

I shake my head clear. “And in front of coworkers!” I blurt out.

“Yes. Although, I can’t take all the credit for ratcheting things up in front of the entire Escapade staff at dinner. You got so pissed.”

I roll my eyes. Fine. Maybe I was somewhat complicit. Not as complicit as he is.

“Anyway.” He takes a step closer to me, so, if I had the guts and the gall, I could easily reach out and touch his face, his arms, that dimple.

I restrain one hand with the other behind my back, using my shoulder to prop the door.

“After you left, I felt horrible,” he continues. “I didn’t want to call because that just seemed cheap. So, this is me, apologizing in person for not getting it. For not getting you . And also for letting my fears about the shoot failing without you guide my response. I’m just so stressed out about this story turning out well, about losing my job or losing their jobs. I let my desire to spend time with you, and capitalize on your expertise, get in the way of listening. Please forgive me.”

Wanting to spend time with me? Listening? Capitalize on my expertise? Ethan thinks I’m good at my job! I know it’s wrong, but I’m flattered. Apparently, it doesn’t take much.

So he hadn’t been questioning my choices, calling me a “helicopter parent” or doubting my work ethic? He just wanted another go in the outdoor shower? He wanted to make sure we finished the project strong?

Damn . If only I had realized instead of jumping to conclusions. If only we had communicated better. We could have had that last night. Made use of that adjoining door. I never even saw his sex den. I mean, room.

I am so lost in this reverie, at sea in his eyes, awash in memories of the shower stream, that I forget to respond.

He shifts on his feet. “So, is that a good blank stare or a bad blank stare?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were so stressed?”

He shrugs. “I tried to, but I couldn’t spell it out in front of the others. They don’t totally know what’s at stake. Derek mostly does. But the others don’t at all. And then I didn’t realize exactly what had happened until you were gone. I know. It was stupid.”

He looks truly defeated.

The truth is, I can hardly fault someone else for not knowing their mind. I’m too absorbed in the ping-pong match in my own head to even construct a basic email.

“Okay,” I say. “I accept that this was a misunderstanding. And maybe I overreacted.”

“Maybe?” He scrunches his nose.

“Yes!” I say. “Maybe.” We smile at each other for a beat.

“So,” I say.

“So,” he says. He is looking at me expectantly.

“Oh, sorry! Do you want to come in?”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

Ethan steps over the threshold, and I close the door behind him. Click. Suddenly, Demon Dad is in my house. Alone. A fresh wave of sparks shimmers through me.

I look around at the living room, seeing it through his editorial eyes. There is a basket of unfolded clean laundry by the couch. There’s a Nerf football on the rug. It could be worse. It could be better.

I look down at myself too. My threadbare T-shirt (yes, fully transparent, but it’s too late to remedy), soft gray joggers, bare feet. At least I still have my Turks and Caicos pedicure.

“Sorry,” I say, with a general sweep of my arm toward the room and myself. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“It’s perfect,” he says, but he’s looking at me, not the decor.

Heat prickles up my spine.

“What’s in the bag?” I say abruptly, changing the subject. “Scuba gear for the Harvest Festival raffle?”

“How is there already another school festival?”

“There is always another school festival.”

“No. This is for you, actually,” he says, handing me the bag. “Well, for your kids.”

“Really?” I take the package and look inside. “Tissue paper! My cat Larry will love it. So thoughtful.”

“Where is Larry anyway?”

“Downstairs. Larry doesn’t just make appearances when you drop in. You need to earn his trust.”

“Noted,” Ethan says. “Anyway, it’s conch shells. From the beach. Found already empty of creature hosts, so ecologically sound. I know you wanted your kids to have some and weren’t able to grab them the day… you got stung.”

The day I got stung. The day I got laid. The day I got mad. Big day.

This is extremely kind. I am wowed by the gesture. Touched. Because it’s for me. But it’s also for my kids. He understands how much I hate to disappoint them. This must be another thing magazine editors know how to do—gift.

“Thank you so much,” I say, meaning it, as I peer down at the tissue paper. “Truly. They’re going to be so psyched! This is really thoughtful.”

“Well, you know,” he says, kicking at the fringe on my rug, his hands in his front pockets. “I’m a thoughtful kind of guy.”

“And humble.”

“That too.”

We smile at each other.

“Anyway,” he says, “I just wanted to say, after I thought about things…”

“Things in the outdoor shower?”

“Well, definitely the outdoor shower.” His eyes flare in a way that I’m sure makes me blush. “But, no, things more globally. I realized I was partially afraid of our bubble bursting when we got home. Of losing the simplicity of that one perfect afternoon. But then I realized, it’s fine. Things will be different here. But it can be good different. Indoor showers, for example. They’re underrated.”

And that’s when it dawns on me what he’s saying. And how differently we see our reality. Looking at Ethan, I am so tempted to give in. So tempted to fall into his arms and whatever else he is offering up.

But I have been down this road before, and a good apology does not equal a good match. Saying sorry is not the same as delivering. It is not a guarantee. I don’t have the space to gamble.

“Ethan,” I say, as carefully as I can. “The trip was amazing. You’re so great. I really… like you. But there is no ‘different here’ for me.”

And I feel like I’m breaking both our hearts—but at least not as badly as they’d be shattered later on.

He tilts his head, like maybe if he changes his visual perspective, I’ll start to make sense. “What do you mean?”

“We can’t actually do this. I have kids. And work. And family. And a sad shower that needs to be retiled. And we don’t even get along.”

“We do get along!” he insists.

I raise my eyebrows and he exhales.

“When you’re making sense.”

“I’m making sense now.”

“No.” He leans in. “What you’re doing right now is throwing away something good, something rare with real potential, because change is scary.”

“I’m not afraid of change,” I say. “I just don’t have the luxury of it.”

“Luxury?!”

“You seem frustrated.”

“I am frustrated.”

Even in this moment, as we square off in my real-life living room, what I really want to do is kiss him. Ethan, Demon Dad, whatever his name is. His lips are parted, his hair is a mess—in part because I’m driving him bonkers. He is wearing those perfect work boots and an irritated expression.

But I can’t. And yet, part of me whispers… can I?

“What about Kaitlin?”

He sighs. There is true exhaustion in that sound. I get it. I really do. “The Kaitlin factor isn’t ideal,” he says. “I admit that. But you and I aren’t doing anything wrong. If you can handle the scrutiny and gossip from other parents, I think it’s worth it—for a chance to be happy.”

“Happy? Pshh. That’s way too high a bar,” I joke.

But he doesn’t smile.

I am already the subject of gossip. I know I can handle it. And I know it will eventually die down.

I feel myself waver as my conversation with Celeste comes top of mind again. Is it possible that I should also cut Ethan slack? And myself? That giving into what I want isn’t necessarily irresponsible? That he and I deserve to have our own identities beyond parenthood? That we need that or we’ll burn out? That it wasn’t bad that he wanted more time with me? That the opportunity for happiness only comes around so often and, having trashed my chance at a new job, I should at least seize this? Take the win?

I try to wrap my mind around what I just acknowledged: that Ethan may be able to offer me happiness. Long-term .

Is it possible that one woman’s Cliff is another woman’s Jamie? Is it possible that Ethan is right and I’m just scared?

It hits me then: I really, really like this guy.

My expression must soften, or at least furrow in contemplation, because he senses me coming over to his side. Takes a step toward me.

I bring a finger to my mouth, tap as I think.

“Sasha.”

My name.

The potential murderer takes another step toward me, sidestepping the football without a downward glance, like a parent pro. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Can we please at least give this a shot? Otherwise, I should probably leave. Because your shirt is see-through and it’s taken a Herculean effort not to look. Especially when you had your arms behind your back by the door.”

Maybe it’s the words coming out of his mouth. Maybe it’s what I was going to do all along. Maybe I simply appreciate the way he navigated that Nerf toy and all that implies about who he is. Maybe it’s because of the way he is unsuccessfully trying not to look at my boobs. But before my brain can fully synapse, my body is on his. And I have the fortunate realization, within seconds, that we don’t need no outdoor shower.

If he’s surprised by my attack, he hides it well. His lips catch mine, his stubble sandpapering my face as he pulls me closer—the world’s dreamiest microdermabrasion. I part my lips as he slips his tongue in my mouth, threading his fingers into my hair, cupping the back of my head with his hands. Walking me backward, he pins me against the front door with his hips. He’s good at this—and he knows it.

This isn’t island Ethan, who smells like coconuts and sunshine. This is urban Ethan, who smells crisp and smoky. Who means business. And I am all about it.

This time, there’s no pretense. Within seconds, my hands are traveling up his back, grasping at his firm muscles. His hands are up the front of my T-shirt, yanking down my bra, and we are grinding against each other.

He tugs my pony. I kiss him harder. Heat pours through me.

Behind me, through the closed door, I hear a rustle in the hall. My upstairs neighbors are collecting their mail. I pull away from Ethan, breathless.

“Just one sec,” I whisper. “Don’t go anywhere.”

I mean that literally. I don’t want him to move.

It takes everything in my power to rotate around to face the door, turn the lock. The outside world is not invited in.

But before I can turn back around, Ethan takes a step forward from behind me, pressing his body against mine, so I can feel him hard against my ass. He kisses down the nape of my neck; I sigh and arch back into him. Then, he reaches down and pulls my threadbare T-shirt over my head.

“I like this,” he says.

“Me too,” I agree.

“No, the T-shirt,” he laughs. “But this too. Way more.”

I giggle. But not for long.

Because then he unhooks my neon pink push-up bra and slips the straps off my shoulders, one by one. I let it drop to the floor with a shiver, as his warm hands take its place. I push my backside into his front.

The door is cold against my hands.

He takes the top of my pants and slides them down, so they fall to my ankles. Three cheers for elastic waistbands! I may be stripped almost bare, but he’s fully clothed and his jeans are pleasantly rough against my back as his palm drifts down past my stomach and into the front of my underwear. We both groan.

Then I yelp. Not in a good way. The door handle has stabbed me in the side.

“It’s fine,” I gasp. “It’s fine. Don’t stop!”

“Couch,” he says against my shoulder, gesturing with his chin toward the other side of the living room.

“What?” No comprende . I am not on this plane. I have taken leave.

“Couch,” he says again, his eyes hot and heavy.

“Oh! Right. Couch.” A piece of furniture for reclining. I know what that is.

I turn to face him, realizing in that moment that, this time, I get to undress him—get all up in that perfect tee. With his assistance, I wrestle his outer layer off, then ready to tear the T-shirt over his head.

It’s just as soft as I imagined.

“Ooh. So buttery,” I murmur, against his lips. “Seriously—what brand are these?”

He pulls away for a beat, raises an eyebrow. “Really? Now?”

“Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll find out. I have my ways.”

Standing on my tiptoes, I manage to pull the shirt over his head and toss it on a chair. It seems too nice for the floor.

Ethan—now with those taut abs exposed—pulls me close again, so my breasts graze his naked skin. He gazes at me with those big brown eyes, shoots me a soft smile. Brushes my hair out of my face with one hand, and tucks it dotingly behind my ear.

“You’re pretty,” he says. “And I didn’t like being in a fight with you.”

“You didn’t?” My heart squeezes.

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “I was afraid…”

His voice trails off.

“Afraid of what?”

He shrugs, unsure. “Afraid that I wouldn’t get to hang out with you anymore.”

He is clearly hedging. Which just makes me want to pry.

“And? What else?” ’Cause there is definitely something he’s not saying.

“Afraid that I’d lost you.”

“And?”

“Afraid that I’d never eat your cotton candy again.”

Now he’s just making shit up. “Mmm. Doubtful.” I purse my lips. “And?”

Ethan hesitates. Bites his lip. I wait. But I am not a patient woman.

“Out with it!” I say, shoving him lightly. “What else were you afraid of? Really this time!”

He looks down at the ground, then back up to meet my eyes. “I was afraid I’d never get to fuck you again.”

That was not what I expected. Not from well-bred Ethan. With his reading glasses and running tips. I am stunned. And delighted. And now I need to jump his bones.

We never make it to the couch.

I dive-bomb his lips, as he picks me up—his hands under my ass and my thighs wrapped around him—and carries me over to the sideboard, setting me down on top. He steps in between my legs, as I grapple with the fly of his jeans and tug them down, revealing perfect boxer briefs. I pull him in close to me, feel him strain against my thin lace underwear.

Like a promise.

We go at it again. My hands scrape down his back; his cup my chest.

“I’m still wearing my boots,” he mumbles against my neck as we make out furiously, mouths and hands everywhere.

“It’s okay.”

“This is clearly a no-shoes house.”

“We’ll make an exception.”

“I should—”

“Ethan! Forget the stupid boots!”

He does. We keep at it until I can’t take it anymore—grinding, touching, roaming. He teases my bottom lip with his teeth. Everything in my body is throbbing. I drag my hand down the front of his body to his briefs and try to tug them down.

“Condom,” I pant.

“I have one,” he says, like it’s quarters for a vending machine.

I arch an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why do you have a condom with you?”

He smiles against my lips. “Optimism.”

Fair enough.

Maybe it’s because, for a small window, I thought this would never happen again, but I’m even more impatient this time. I shimmy out of my underwear, as he rifles through his wallet and takes care of business.

Then, he stands back up, steps between my legs—and I brace myself against the sideboard, its edges sharp beneath my thighs.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Me?” I scoff. “Born ready.”

I wrap my arms around his neck as he brings his big hands under my ass, lifts and pushes inside me. Slowly first and then faster and harder, until I am dizzy with stars. Cursing, he slides one hand between us, then pulls me tighter to him with the other until there’s nowhere left to go.

I am lost to everything else.

And, in the midst of it all, I realize I will never see this side table the same way again.

Afterward, Ethan removes his boots. And we do finally make it to horizontal. He is lying behind me on the couch, under a patterned throw blanket, with an arm draped over my waist.

I have put my underwear back on. He has pulled up his boxer briefs and jeans, though they remain unbuttoned. We want to be presentable in case Larry the cat shows up.

We were chatting, but now I’m so drowsy and content that I feel like I could fall asleep.

Then, with alarm, I realize Ethan has gone quiet for too long. What is he doing? I glance back to find him eyeing my bookshelf in wonder.

“What?”

“Are those DVDs?”

“Yes.”

“You still have DVDs?”

“Apparently.”

“But why?”

I shrug. “I like to own my favorite movies.”

“You have the entire Revenge of the Nerds box set.”

I swivel to face him. A moment of truth. “You don’t like Revenge of the Nerds ?”

It’s not that liking that movie, which is admittedly deeply offensive, is a prerequisite to dating me. I mostly keep it for nostalgic reasons because I liked it as a kid. But I know what Cliff would say. He would feign disapproval, posturing to sound sophisticated, even though, in truth, he loves a guilty pleasure.

Ethan shakes his head. “No, I loved Revenge of the Nerds back in the day. It’s a classic. At least the first one. I’m just amazed that you own all four. So many dimensions to you.”

He seems more intrigued than judgmental. And I like how he nuzzles my neck. So I’ll take it.

The truth is, I am happier than I can remember feeling in eons. And, this time, I am without postcoital angst. Something about being in my own home with Ethan… it feels real. He feels real.

I think he could, just maybe, be my future.

The buzzer blares at a deafening volume. I groan but force myself to standing, catching Ethan watching me from behind as I cross the living room.

“Who is it?” I call into the box.

“Amazon delivery!” a muffled voice responds.

I buzz the person in, hear a package drop in the hall and then the building’s front door slam shut.

“Thank God you were here,” I deadpan, “when the murderer came.”

Ethan rolls his eyes at me. “It’s a standard thing to ask who’s at the door.”

“Well, I am anything but standard.”

“In this case, I’m not sure that’s a plus.”

I leap back onto the couch to give him a noogie but wind up straddling him instead, which starts us back up. Suddenly, we’re making out again, fast and furious. Until, I look up for an instant and glitch on the laundry basket nearby. And that’s when I remember: pick-up!

“Fuck!” I say, breathless.

“What?”

Damn, I don’t want to leave.

“Pick-up,” I choke, when I can find my voice.

“I don’t do pick-up,” he says.

“Yes. I know. But I do. And I’m late!”

He nods. First vaguely and then with more conviction, as reality comes crashing down on us. I try my best to pull my clothing back into place, throwing a nearby sweatshirt over the offending tee.

As Ethan gets dressed, I throw on my pants and sneakers, grab my sunglasses and keys and, in a minute, the front door of my building spits us out onto the sidewalk. The sunlight is a rude awakening.

It’s daytime?

It’s unclear how we’re meant to say goodbye. We didn’t have time to sort things out inside, and now we’re out in the open, for all to see.

“I assume you’re not coming…?” I gesture toward the school.

“No,” he says. “?’Cause… no.” He gestures to the bulge in his pants.

“Right,” I nod. “Right. Good choice. I’ll leave you to handle all that.”

“Yup.” He pulls a hand down his face.

“Well, thank you for the shells,” I say. All formal. Like I should also curtsy. Or at least shake his hand.

He smirks. “You’re welcome.”

“Pleasure doing business with you. See you at the festival!” I call as I back down the block. I salute him. ’Cause that’s my thing now.

“See you then,” he says, shaking his head because it’s odd to part ways like this when my tongue was down his throat five minutes ago. But what choice do we have?

He salutes me back, then drops his hand in front of his pants. Throws me a crooked smile. Then he pivots and walks slowly up the block, under the canopy of a dogwood tree. I have given myself permission to have this thing with him, whatever it winds up being. And, with that, comes a flood of recognition.

Is Demon Dad not a demon at all but rather the best person around? Maybe even my person?

As I watch him recede, I note his perfect jeans. On his perfect butt.

And I am on air.